Antonia followed, but immediately halted, her way blocked by rubble. Sebastian had halted, too.
The chapel had been a simple one. A single room with a stone altar raised on a shallow stone dais that ran across the other end of the room. Formed from a large rectangular block, the altar was still there, but any lectern or pulpit would most likely have been wooden and was long gone.
What they could see of the central aisle was paved in a herringbone pattern, with more-simply paved areas to either side that must once have played host to pews. But the pews, too, were gone, and stone blocks from various places on the walls had tumbled down and now littered the chapel’s floor, creating an obstacle course between the front door and the altar.
Sebastian stepped onto and over the first large block.
Antonia raised her skirts and shifted her feet, trying to work out how to follow; the block was sizeable, and her legs weren’t as long as Sebastian’s.
He turned, saw her difficulty, and offered his hand.
Hiding a grin, she placed her fingers in his and felt a sharp jolt of sensation—and more, of recognition of a sort—as his hand closed about hers. She tensed to step up onto the block—
A furtive rustling reached her ears, and she froze.
Eyes widening, she glanced at Sebastian. His hold on her hand had tightened as he’d readied to pull her onto the block; he’d heard the noise, too, and his grip hadn’t eased.
He held up his other hand, gesturing her to silence.
They both glanced around, straining their ears.
The noise came again. This time, they both placed it—outside and close to the chapel’s rear wall.
Was someone following them—perhaps spying on them?
She turned back to the front archway as Sebastian stepped silently back over the block and joined her. With him still holding her hand, she leaned into him and whispered, “Could it be rats?” She hated all rodents.
He bent his head and breathed in her ear, “Rats look for food—there’s no food here.”
So it might be a person.
They crept back under the archway. She stuck close to Sebastian’s side—and he seemed in no hurry to release her hand—as he led the way, stealthily stalking around the outside of the chapel’s ancient walls.
For a large man, he moved silently, but she knew he hunted in Scotland with his cousins and was considered an expert deerstalker. She was a fair hand at stealthy creeping herself. They made very little sound as they steadily progressed along the side wall.
Sebastian slowed even more as they neared the rear corner. Even with his senses open wide, he couldn’t detect any hint of another person, yet there was something there—hunkered at the rear of the chapel.
Carefully, he released Antonia’s hand.
Tensed to react, to defend against any attack, he stepped past the corner and looked.
A vixen stood over the entrance to a den and bared her teeth at him.
In stepping forward, he’d left a gap between him and the wall. Antonia filled it, leaning forward to look—startling the fox.
Sebastian swore. Without taking his eyes from the now-snarling and darting fox, he put out a hand and pushed Antonia back.
Entirely unintentionally, his hand pressed fully over one firm breast.
The jolt that racked him almost made his eyes cross and nearly made him forget the fox.
Still, his action had the desired effect—Antonia uttered a strangled squeak and leapt back.
His eyes still locked on the fox, he waved his now-burning palm, signaling Antonia to retreat, and for once, she obeyed without argument, although he heard her mutter something.
Smoothly, he stepped back. He continued to watch the fox as, step by step, he steadily retreated; the farther he went, the more the vixen stood down.
He wished he could say the same of his own anatomy. But the sensation of firm, distinctly feminine flesh pressing into his palm…more than anything else, the recognition that it had been Antonia’s flesh had been galvanizing. His now-empty palm itched. A large part of his awareness had followed Antonia, utterly diverted.
When he’d retreated halfway along the chapel’s side, he turned and strode the rest of the way to the front of the ruins.
Antonia was standing outside the chapel’s entrance. Arms crossed, she’d been staring toward the path that had brought them there.
The instant he appeared, she turned her gaze on him, meeting his eyes with a steely, stormy warning, as if daring him to comment on their recent contact.
He clamped down ruthlessly on the ridiculously dangerous impulse to ignore that warning.
When, with an assiduously impassive expression in place, he held her gaze steadily, halted beside her, and said nothing at all, she lowered her arms and waved into the chapel. “If we’re checking cellars and hidden storerooms, then in a chapel of this age, there’s likely to be a crypt.”
He glanced through the archway. “A ruined chapel most likely with a crypt in an area rife with smuggling. Yes, we need to check.”
“In a chapel of this size, the entrance to any crypt is likely to be somewhere around the altar.”
He walked back under the archway, climbed over the first block, then turned and offered her his hand—exactly as if the entire incident with the fox hadn’t occurred.
She cast him one swift, assessing glance, then she took his hand and allowed him to steady her over and around the blocks. As they progressed up the aisle, the sensation of her delicate fingers in his grip was another little prick to his libido, but by dint of telling that side of himself that the right time would come soon enough, he managed to keep a reasonable focus on what they were supposed to be doing.
Antonia struggled to cope with the new and even more potently distracting plane of awareness of Sebastian onto which the unexpected contact at the rear of the chapel had catapulted her senses. Thank the heavens she’d had a moment to gather her wits before he’d rejoined her. As she’d fled back around the chapel, her breasts had positively ached.
But he’d elected to play the gentleman and had kept his mouth shut and his thoughts shielded behind that impassive mask of his, and she’d managed to bludgeon her witless senses into submission—only to have them flaring again. Not, this time, at the sensation of his hand gripping her fingers—it seemed she was finally growing accustomed to that—but at the unwitting demonstration of the innate power in his body, of its steely strength as he effortlessly supported her weight here, there, as she clambered over the stones in his wake.
She had never, ever, been as aware of a man’s body as she now was of his.
Purely on the grounds of self-preservation, she was going to have to bring their ever-intensifying interactions to a head, but sadly, not now, and definitely not there.
By the time they’d gained the clearer space about the altar, the light was almost gone.
“We’ll need to search quickly.” She slipped her fingers free of Sebastian’s and started walking slowly around the altar, peering closely at the floor as she went; this area was largely free of rubble.
He paced in the opposite direction, his gaze trained on the worn flagstones.
Several times, she kicked aside leaves and twigs to examine one of the flags. She’d reached the rear left corner of the altar when a darker piece of what looked like iron among the detritus closer to the side wall caught her eye.
She crossed to it, with her boot swept the litter aside—to reveal a heavy iron ring set in the floor. “Sebastian! This must be it—the entrance.”
He strode over, looked at the ring, then at the litter she’d swept to the side. “If it was covered by that, I doubt this slab has been lifted recently.”
“Never mind that. There might be another way in.” She all but jigged with impatience. “The light’s almost gone. We need to go down and check, regardless.”
Sebastian grimaced, but obediently reached for the ring, braced himself, then hauled—he was rather shocked when, albeit with a de
ep groan and the expected scraping noises, the slab pulled up relatively smoothly. As it swung and settled in place, he leaned around it and studied the mechanism. “Very neat. It’s perfectly balanced and pivots.”
“Yes, well—excellent.” Antonia waved him to precede her.
The trapdoor had revealed a steep set of stone steps leading into darkness. Now as eager as she, he went down the first steps, bent, and peered inside, but the shaft of weak light provided little illumination. Antonia prodded his back. “Wait a minute,” he said. He searched in his pockets and found the candle stub and his matchbox. He crouched, set the candle on the step, and quickly lit the wick.
There was virtually no breeze; the candle flame flared, then settled. Slipping the matchbox back into his pocket, he picked up the candle, straightened, then holding the candle before him, he went down the rest of the steps.
Antonia peered down, then quickly followed.
As she joined him on the dusty floor, he held the candle high—almost brushing the low ceiling—and turned slowly, taking in all he could see. It was a typical small crypt with stone tombs lining the walls, with burial niches above them. “There’s nowhere I can see where any tunnel might come in—the niches are in every wall, and the tombs block anything lower.”
“Look!” Antonia gripped his arm. “There are barrels in that corner.” She pointed, then released him and hurried forward—only to recoil and bat her hands in the air before her face. “Ugh! Cobwebs!”
He hid a grin and followed her, holding up the candle. The faint light fell on four barrels, dark with age and covered in dust and cobwebs, stacked two by two in front of the tombs in the far corner.
Somewhat gingerly peeling aside cobwebs, Antonia bent over the barrels. She brushed down the end of one. “I can’t see any writing.”
“It might have faded with age.” He studied the barrels, then held out the candle. “Here—hold this.”
She took the candle.
He bent, gripped the upper edge at each end of one barrel, and lifted it. He swung the barrel slightly and felt the weight of liquid shifting inside. They both heard the faint sloshing. He set the barrel down. “Brandy at a guess. It might well be over a hundred years old.”
She glanced around. “I suppose this crypt must have been used by smugglers once upon a time.”
“On this coast, that’s a certainty. A gang must have delivered this, most likely for whoever was living at Pressingstoke Hall at the time, and then whoever was to retrieve it either forgot or perhaps died.”
She held the candle high and looked back along the crypt toward the steps.
He followed her gaze; from this spot, they could just make out the far wall of the crypt. “Regardless, there’s no gunpowder here, and given the cobwebs and the dust, no one’s been down here recently.”
She sighed. She reached for her skirts and was about to start back for the steps when a faint skittering scurrying noise reached his ears.
Then she screeched, and the candle went flying—plunging them into darkness. Before he could blink, she turned and flung herself into his arms.
Full body-to-body contact in the dark.
For a moment, his inner self gloried and gloated, imagining the time had finally come.
After all, she was clutching him frantically, and his arms had locked around her.
But he could sense her heart beating wildly, could hear her suddenly quickened breaths. “It’s all right,” he soothed. “It’s nothing.”
“It’s not nothing!” she wailed. “Some horrible beast ran over my foot!” He felt her lift her face—even through the darkness, felt her accusing glare. “I thought you said there wouldn’t be any rats if there wasn’t any food.”
He could hardly point out that there had been food, but by now the rats would be long gone. “Trust me, there aren’t any rats down here.”
“What was it, then?”
She had him there. Tentatively, he offered, “It might have been a mouse.”
“A mouse?”
Apparently mice were worse than rats. “Or maybe a vole. Or a mole. Or even a bat.”
“Bats?”
He pressed his lips tight against a laugh. He’d forgotten about her aversion to rodents, but he was definitely enjoying the result. She was still pressed against him, still holding onto him, a warm bundle of distinctly feminine curves with her arms looped around his neck.
For several long moments, he simply stood there with her held fast against him, telling himself he was merely waiting for his eyes to adjust well enough to guide her toward the lighter oblong that was the opening above the steps.
Even as temptation welled, he remembered his sane and undoubtedly wise resolution. This—and all that flowed from it—would be best left until later.
He bent his head and murmured, “I’m going to let you go, then I’ll take your hand and lead you back to the steps and up. All right?”
“Are there any more bats—or whatever that was?”
“I think you probably scared them away.”
After a second, he felt her nod, then her arms eased from about his neck.
She stepped back.
He felt the loss keenly, but he’d expected that. He ran one palm down her arm to her hand and laced his fingers with hers. “Come on.”
Without further incident, he led her back along the crypt, up the steps, and helped her through the trapdoor and back into the chapel.
She stood and watched as he lowered the trapdoor back into place. “We should tell Blanchard about that brandy.”
He nodded and reached for her hand. She surrendered it without a word. Her fingers clutched his as he helped her over the shattered blocks and up the aisle.
By the time they reached the arched entrance, night was closing in.
“What time is it?” she asked.
Still holding her hand, with his other hand, he fished out his watch and checked. “It’s after half past five.” Tucking the watch back, he started for the path. “We’d better get back to the house.”
She fell in beside him, striding freely. With her long legs, she could cover distance nearly as fast as he.
She made no move to extract her fingers from his clasp.
But they couldn’t be seen by other guests openly holding hands.
The trees thinned. As they neared the end of the short path, he started to ease his grip.
Abruptly, she tripped.
Instantly, he tightened his hold and held her up until she caught her balance.
She glanced back along the path and sighed. “Just a tree root. I must be tired.”
After that, of course, although he released her hand, as they stepped into the open, he offered her his arm. She smiled at him gratefully and wound her arm in his.
Side by side, they walked back to the house without further accident and entered via the rear terrace and the French doors of the music room. Once inside, they went into the front hall. Hearing voices from the drawing room, they exchanged a glance, then quietly made their way upstairs. They reached the corridor outside their rooms just as the dressing gong sounded.
She drew her arm from his. “I’ll see you in the drawing room.”
He nodded, watched until she’d gone into her room and shut the door, then continued to his room.
Wilkins was waiting with a bath prepared, along with information as to how the staff and the visiting servants had reacted to being interviewed by Inspector Crawford. Sebastian stripped and bathed while Wilkins filled him in.
“And now there’s quite the excitement, what with everyone trying to predict who the murderer might be. As the inspector’s made it plain he doesn’t suspect any of the staff, they all feel free to speculate.”
Sebastian rose, water cascading down his body. Wilkins handed him a towel.
Sebastian mopped his face and chest. “Have you heard anything the inspector might not have?”
“I don’t think so.” Wilkins was vigorously brushing Sebastian’s coat, frowning
over clinging cobwebs and dust. “But the inspector had me in for a quick word this morning, and he said as he’d call me back tomorrow to compare notes, as it were.”
“Good. We need all the information we can get, and the inspector most of all.” Sebastian finished drying himself and strolled across to the bed. He pulled on fresh drawers, then reached for the clean shirt left on the coverlet.
Given he and Antonia had covered the house and grounds and seen no hint of any gunpowder, not even any indication of where barrels might recently have been stored, he was increasingly convinced that no matter where they searched, the only way they would find the gunpowder was to find Ennis’s killer. The murderer was the key to the plot.
He was standing before the mirror, tying his cravat, when, his thoughts of the plot and the murderer temporarily suspended as he concentrated on getting the linen folds just so, a sudden revelation on an entirely different subject bloomed in his brain.
Antonia had tripped on the stairs going down to the cellar—and landed in his arms.
Then in the wine room, on what was, in fact, a very weak pretext, she’d flung herself at him.
In the crypt, she’d reacted to a noise and flung herself into his arms. He had only her word that some beast had run over her foot—her booted foot.
Then, just as he’d been about to let go of her hand and create distance between them, she’d tripped on a root on the woodland path. Supposedly.
And this was Antonia, who before today, he would have described as innately surefooted, light on her feet, and never, ever clumsy.
He stared at his reflection. “Huh.”
A moment of self-examination was enough to inform him that the particular brand of tension that owed its existence to sexual frustration had escalated significantly over the day, until now it thrummed just beneath his skin.
Waiting. Just waiting.
He couldn’t be certain, but he had to wonder.