by Lauren Royal
And Chrystabel wouldn’t want him any other way.
His decency was one of the many reasons she loved him.
More needles were poking into her, and the chocolate she’d enjoyed earlier was threatening to come back up.
Joseph apparently gave up waiting for her to answer. Chrystabel heard a rustling noise.
“Creath, do you feel that?” Joseph’s voice still sounded dead. “It’s my surcoat—have you got it? I don’t want you freezing on the ride to Bristol. Put it on now. Once we make a run for the stables, we won’t have time to do anything but jump on two horses. We’ll need to be well gone before they realize what’s happened and try to follow us.”
“All right.” Creath sounded petrified, but she obeyed. Chrystabel heard more rustling as she donned the surcoat. “It’s too big on me.”
“It will keep you warm.”
“Won’t you be cold?”
“Don’t worry about me,” Joseph said. “Are you ready?”
“I suppose so.”
“Then let’s go. Grosmont, close the bookcase door very slowly behind us. Hopefully that will make less noise.”
“No,” came Matthew’s voice.
“What? You don’t think it will make less noise?”
“I don’t think you should go with her. I will go with her, and you can close the blasted bookcase.”
A stunned silence filled the dark room.
“Creath,” Joseph finally whispered, “when I asked you—”
“I must go,” she returned fiercely, suddenly sounding more determined than frightened. “Come on, Matthew—you lead.”
And with that, they were gone.
TWENTY-ONE
IN THE PITCH-BLACK, standing who-knew-how-many feet away from him, Chrystabel would swear she could feel Joseph’s shock.
She waited for him to say something. Instead she heard him close the bookcase door very, very slowly. The protracted screech it made wasn’t as loud as when he’d opened it, but it was still noisy enough that they both stood rooted in place, not daring to even breathe until it was certain they remained undiscovered.
And then he still didn’t say anything for a long while.
“She wanted him to go with her,” he finally whispered, sounding shaky. “After she’d just told me she wanted to marry me. Why would she say she wanted to marry me if she wanted to marry him?”
It was doubtless a rhetorical question, but Chrystabel thought she knew the answer. “She’s young and scared. She was probably unsure of her feelings until the decision was upon her. And she wouldn’t want to risk offending you or seeming ungrateful. She’s far too conscientious for that.”
It was the same reason Joseph hadn’t been honest with Creath, either. This whole muddle could have been cleared up ages ago had they not both been such decent people.
Oh, well. It was cleared up now—and that was all Chrystabel cared about at the moment.
“In any case,” she began, moving in the direction she thought his voice had come from, “it appears I was right.”
“It does appear so.” She heard no sounds of him moving toward her, making her think he was still in shock. “I guess they’re in love,” he added. “I guess she’ll be marrying him, after all.”
Chrystabel wanted to scream with joy. But that didn’t seem wise, as they were all still in danger. So instead she said, “I hope they won’t be too cold out there,” and waited to hear him whisper again so she could find him.
“Don’t worry, they’ll be all right. Unlike me, your brother still has his surcoat. The ride isn’t too long—only twelve miles to Bristol. It’s not so very cold today, and they can keep each other warm in the tunnel until it’s time to make a run for it.”
“Will you keep me warm in here, Joseph? I’m scared.”
She wasn’t, not really—or at least not too much. How bad could it be to be found in a priest hole with Christmas decorations? They didn’t hang people for that. She’d usually managed to talk her way out of tough spots in the past, and she expected that would also be the case here.
But that didn’t mean she couldn’t use a bit of comfort. Especially from Joseph, who was exactly the sort of fellow a girl could depend upon. His composure and ingenuity down here had impressed her again. He’d taken charge, come up with a plan quickly, and would have carried it out had her brother not intervened. She knew Joseph would never let her down.
Though he was taking a long time to answer her. “Joseph?”
“I will gladly keep you warm,” he said at last, sounding less than glad.
Why was that? She wished she could see his face. Still, at least he hadn’t refused outright. Moving toward his voice, she stepped forward and nearly stumbled over a chair.
“Stop,” he said. “I’ll come to you. I think I know where you are now.”
A moment later she felt him reach out and touch her, and then he gathered her into his arms. For a long while they just stood there in the dark, pressed together. He felt warm and smelled of greenery and spicy wood smoke again—that amazing scent she wanted to bottle. She wished she could stay in his arms forever.
Even more than that, she wished he would finally kiss her. But he still seemed too shocked. It seemed too soon.
“So what’s a priest-hunter?” she asked softly to break the silence.
“A man who hunts priests.”
She reached up to playfully hit his shoulder with a fist. “I want to know. You said something about Queen Elizabeth?”
He tightened his hold on her. “Elizabeth wanted to wipe out Catholicism, fearing she might be overthrown in favor of her Catholic cousin, Mary Queen of Scots. During her reign, it was considered high treason for a priest to even enter England, and anyone found aiding and abetting one would be severely punished. Priest-hunters were hired to find hidden priests in homes like this one.”
Against her ear pressed to his shirtfront, his words seemed to rumble around in his chest. She smiled in the darkness. “What do you mean by homes like this one?”
“Homes built by wealthy Catholics. The duke who built Tremayne secretly belonged to the old church, so he planned this room to hide his priest—and their candles, crucifixes, and other Popish things—in case a priest-hunter came around. This priest hole is part of the cellars, actually. We were beside it when we made the mulled wine. But it’s inaccessible from down there. The opening below the wardrobe cabinet is the only way in. Well, that and the tunnel.”
His voice calmed her in the darkness. She wanted him to keep talking. “How did the priest-hunters hunt?”
“They would knock on walls to see if they were hollow, or measure the outside of the house and the rooms inside, to see if the measurements matched. They would count the windows inside and out, to see if any windows weren’t included in accessible rooms. They would pull up floors and look underneath. Or they might stake out a home for days or weeks, just waiting for a Catholic priest to emerge. Sometimes priests died in the holes for lack of food and water while waiting for the priest-hunters to leave.”
“That’s terrible. But surely no one died here. You have the tunnel.”
“I doubt a priest was ever hidden here. Tremayne’s original owner was beheaded for treason before he finished building this castle. The Crown confiscated the property and eventually sold it to my great-great-grandfather. It’s been ours ever since, useless priest hole and all.”
“It’s turned out not to be useless,” Chrystabel pointed out. “Here we are in it, with a priest-hunter looking for us.”
“Looking for Creath, really. But it’s a wonder there are still priest-hunters around. Elizabeth’s been dead for forty-eight years.”
“Arabel said the priest-hunter was ancient. Perhaps she wasn’t exaggerating.”
“I’d guess she wasn’t.” She felt him tense. “Do you hear that?” he asked.
“What?”
“Someone’s in the cellar next door.”
Listening hard, she thought she might be hearing
footsteps, barely audible through the stone wall. Then a distinct bang. She jumped, and Joseph’s arms tightened around her.
“Is he knocking on the wall to see if there’s a room on the other side?” she asked in her smallest whisper.
“Probably. But he won’t be able to tell. These stone walls are too thick.”
To her embarrassment, she was trembling. Her knees threatened to give out. “Can we sit down?” she whispered right into his ear, so quietly she could barely hear herself.
Still holding on to her, he began shuffling them toward the table.
“No,” she breathed. “The bed, not the table. I want to sit beside you, not across from you.”
“I don’t think we should be on a bed together.”
“You’re sounding like your father.”
“I am not an old fust-cudgel.” The words sounded like they came from between clenched teeth, and she felt him take a deep breath before he continued. “It’s just that…I’m not sure I can trust myself with you.”
“Why would you say that?”
“Because it’s true. I’ve never felt anything like the way I feel with you, Chrysanthemum. Whenever I’m near you, I just…lose control.”
Liking the sound of that, she became even more determined to get him to the bed. Picturing where it was in her mind, she began moving them toward it. And recognized the moment he gave in. He knew the room better than she did, and he had them on that bed in a flash.
Not wanting to alarm him, she sat primly beside him and slipped her hand into his. “Are you still worried?” she asked, staring straight ahead into the blackness.
“Of course I’m still worried. Are you not?”
“Just a little.” Mostly she was worrying about how to get him to kiss her. “Maybe we can help each other feel better. What are you worrying about?”
His hand squeezed hers as he considered. “I’m worried for Creath. I’m worried your brother might not know the way to Bristol.”
“We went through Bristol on our way here. You said yourself that it’s just twelve miles away. I’m sure Creath knows the way, too—she’s lived here all her life, has she not? Trust Matthew. He’ll get her to Bristol.”
“Once they’re there, he’ll need to bribe a Justice of the Peace to marry them without her guardian’s permission. To marry them without asking her age. I didn’t tell him that.”
“Matthew is clever. Besides, does Creath not know that?”
“I did mention it a few days ago.”
“Then they will do fine. Trust Matthew,” she repeated.
She felt him shift around, perhaps trying to get comfortable on the lumpy straw pallet. “What are you worried about?” he asked. “If not the two of them?”
“Your parents,” she admitted.
“Really? What about them worries you?”
“I’m worried they’ll be in trouble if we’re found down here with these holiday things. They’ll get blamed for breaking the law—all because I insisted on celebrating Christmas. What if they lose Tremayne to confiscation, like Matthew lost Grosmont Grange? It would be all my fault.”
He squeezed her hand again. “That’s not going to happen. For all his bluster, Sir Leonard is a petty troublemaker. He won’t dare to go up against the Earl of Trentingham. At least, not over something as minor as Christmas decorations.”
She did remember the earl standing up to Sir Leonard. Still… “That’s not what your father said.”
She felt rather than saw him wave that off. “My father can be a bit of a fust-cudgel.”
When she giggled, his hand squeezed hers again. “Is there anything else you’re worried about?” he asked.
“I don’t think so.”
“I thought you were going to say you’re worried my parents won’t approve of our betrothal.”
“No!” she exclaimed in a whisper. “Your mother loves me. Although you haven’t proposed, so there’s no betrothal for them to approve or disapprove of, is there?”
“Holy Hades.” He promptly slipped from the bed. She guessed he had gone down to a knee. He took both her hands in his, fumbling a little till he found the second one. “Chrystabel Trevor, will you make me the happiest fellow alive by agreeing to be my wife?”
“Sweet heaven!” She wished she could see his face. But she couldn’t, so she needed to touch it. She pulled her hands from his to cradle his cheeks, thrilling at the feel of his slight roughness against her palms. “Is this truly happening? I love you so much. Will you kiss me now?”
“You haven’t said yes yet.”
“Yes! For goodness’ sake, yes!”
TWENTY-TWO
SHE’D SAID YES. He was going to marry Chrystabel.
Chrystabel would be his wife, and he would be her husband—assuming they made it out of this priest hole unscathed.
And assuming Creath married Matthew.
Because if something did go wrong on their journey…
Holy Hades.
“I love you,” Chrystabel whispered.
“I know,” Joseph returned, his own whisper filled with wonder. He could scarcely believe he hadn’t known her four days ago. “I love you, too. But—”
“We’re betrothed. We’re betrothed!” Her whisper was pure glee. She was adorable. Even when he couldn’t see her, she was adorable. “You said you would kiss me if I said yes.”
He hadn’t, not really. But he could see how she might think he had, so he came up off his knee and sat again beside her. Peering into the pitch-black, he reached for her—then pulled back.
It didn’t feel right kissing her in a dark priest hole. For one thing, until Creath was safely wed, their betrothal was on tenuous footing. He had to keep that in mind.
And for another thing, he wasn’t sure he could find Chrystabel’s face. “When shall we be married?” he finally asked to fill the expectant silence. “Tomorrow?”
“Not tomorrow.” He heard rustling a moment before something grazed his arm. He felt her scoot closer, until her right leg and his left were pressed together from knee to hip. When she spoke, her breath warmed his ear. “I want a church wedding. We’ll have to wait three Sundays for the banns to be called.”
“Three Sundays? Three weeks?” That seemed a lifetime. “Are you sure you want to wait that long? Church weddings aren’t legal anymore, anyway.”
“They’re not illegal, either. They’re allowed—they just don’t count as far as the government is concerned. We can be wed by a Justice of the Peace in the morning to satisfy the law and then have a church wedding in the afternoon. Our marriage won’t feel real if it’s not blessed by the church.”
“Very well,” he relented. He certainly wanted their marriage to feel real.
But three weeks seemed a long, long time.
Not a lifetime—a lifetime and a half.
“Joseph?”
“Hmm?”
“Don’t you want to kiss me now?”
He swallowed hard. “I’m not sure my parents would approve. We don’t even know if Creath and Matthew will marry. What if—”
“I’m certain they’ll marry. And I think your mother might approve of us kissing.” Groping in the dark, her hand found his knee.
He sucked in a breath. “Beg pardon?”
“What did she say your family motto was?”
“Interroga Conformationem.” He took her wandering hand in his and sighed. “Question Convention.”
“Exactly. This is unconventional, perhaps, yet not particularly dangerous. And I think she’s rather hoping you and I will fall in love. Kissing is part of being in love, is it not?”
He couldn’t argue with that.
Especially because he really did want to kiss her.
And what was the worst that could happen? Even if he had to marry Creath in the end, at least they would both have the memory of this kiss to cherish.
“And you are not going to have to marry Creath,” she added.
That settled it.
Possibly bec
ause he simply couldn’t resist.
“I wish I could see you.” Carefully, he slid his fingers up her arm and over her shoulder to meet her smooth cheek. “There you are,” he whispered, bringing both hands to cup her face. His thumbs slid along her jaw until they found her quivering lower lip. “You’re shaking, Chrysanthemum.”
“Am I? That’s probably because I’ve never been kissed before.”
That gave him pause. “Never?” How had a girl as pretty as Chrystabel nearly reached her seventeenth birthday without being kissed?
“Never,” she confirmed. “I was hoping you’d be so good as to rectify that.”
He hesitated. “Are you certain this is how you want to get your first kiss?” Creath aside, the circumstances seemed all wrong. For pity’s sake, he hadn’t even looked Chrystabel in the eye when he’d asked her to marry him. What sort of a proposal was that?
“I’m certain I want to get my first kiss right now, from you. The first of many.”
Her sweetness was disarming, but not enough to erase his misgivings. It struck him that if everything worked out, he’d be the only man she would ever kiss, and that seemed a big responsibility. He didn’t want to disappoint her. He wanted her first kiss to be everything she’d dreamed of, and more.
But he also really, really wanted to kiss her right now.
Feeling torn, he pulled away with a groan of frustration. “It’s just that we’re, you know, in a musty cellar. In the dark. In a bed. Is this really how you pictured your first kiss?”
“Our first kiss. And we’re not in a bed—we’re on a bed. And it’s not even a bed, really.”
“Even so,” was his feeble protest, since she did have a point. The “bed” was just a thin, straw-filled pallet on top of a low wooden box that someone had probably built in the last century.
“Besides, the dark has its advantages,” she went on, scooting closer again. “I find it rather freeing, don’t you?”
He chuckled low. “I fear that’s exactly why my parents wouldn’t approve.”
”Perhaps they wouldn’t. But they’re not here.” She shifted, and he felt as if she were looking him over from top to toe, reading his emotions, measuring his intentions. Which was impossible, of course. It was pitch-black. ”And I’m glad for it,” she added. “I like being alone in the dark with you.”