Hot Earl Summer, page 6
“One of the interior sections must be false,” she murmured.
It’s what a Wynchester would do. What the Wynchesters had done, on any number of occasions. At the Puss & Goose in London, they kept a secret room that was only accessible through the back of a wardrobe.
Not that there were any wardrobes in here. Just a spiderweb of rope and wires, with a staggering number of strange objects attached to or suspended from the peculiar net.
She took a step forward.
The stone beneath her feet immediately gave way, falling two inches without warning.
Elizabeth gasped and flailed her arms, which was difficult to do when carrying a battle-axe in each hand. A strange clicking sound echoed throughout the stone room as she windmilled for balance. Her back gave a vicious twinge of warning and slipped from a healthy seventy percent down to sixty-five.
“To the devil with you, Densmore,” she shouted. “You can’t keep me out.”
All at once, the clicking sound stopped—and several gallons of ice-cold water dropped over her from the ceiling.
She gasped as the unexpected wave coursed down her back and between her breasts. The brim of her bonnet had protected her face but was now so sodden it hung limply, blocking her vision altogether.
With an axe protruding from each fist, she fumbled to untie the wet bow beneath her chin, then flung the waterlogged bonnet aside.
It slapped wetly against the bottom edge of the embrasure window—and sent a tall series of interlocking gears into motion. Elizabeth watched in fascination as the movement climbed up the stone wall, then activated an odd pulley, which tilted a metal pipe… which began shooting marbles directly at her face.
“Aaugh!” She leapt out of the way just in time, then wobbled for purchase on the uneven floor. This time, the stones hadn’t moved beneath her boots. The danger was the old castle, worn in irregular patches from centuries of feet.
Elizabeth restored her equilibrium, arms outstretched, her blades like wings—or the talons of a raptor. But she did not feel like a bird of prey. She felt like a popinjay trapped in a birdcage.
Puffs of smoke shot out from the walls at either side of her head. No, not smoke—clouds of colored chalk, coloring her blond hair pink on one side and blue on the other. The suffocating dust filled her lungs, and she let out an involuntary hacking cough.
“You will not best me!” she rasped.
This was the most dangerous terrain she’d ever attempted to cross. Not only was the gray stone floor uneven and rigged against her, it was also now wet and littered with marbles. Carefully, she took another step, adjusting her weight in slow increments.
She fervently wished one of the battle-axes was her cane.
Elizabeth inched forward despite the increasing risks to her person. What else could she do? No one was coming to rescue her. She was the one meant to do the rescuing. Miss Oak had legally inherited this godforsaken pile, and by all that was holy, Elizabeth was determined not to leave without clutching the will and deed in her hand.
A Wynchester didn’t give up. A Wynchester won the fight.
“Densmore, you blackguard!” she called out. “Afraid of a girl, are you? Show yourself!”
Her voice echoed against the stones. No earl appeared, recalcitrant or otherwise.
“I’m not afraid of your puzzle room,” she shouted. “But you’d better be scared of me!”
Nothing.
She glanced over her shoulder at the external door she’d come through. It was still shut tight. Perhaps it was locked, and perhaps it wasn’t. But she didn’t want out. She wanted in. She was going to force a meeting with that court jester of an earl if it was the last thing she—
A tiny breeze whispered across the base of her cold, wet neck.
She spun back around.
There were still no other visible entrances or exits. The room was a solid mass of stone from floor to ceiling.
But there, before her, stood… the strangest man she’d ever seen in her life.
The Earl of Densmore’s clothes were ordinary enough, if abominably wrinkled. He appeared to be of average height and average build. His chin was freshly shaved, as was the fashion. But atop his head was a strange leather helmet. It completely hid his hair from view, as well as most of his face. His left eye appeared thrice as large as it ought to be, due to a large monocle attachment that magnified the blinking orb threefold. His right eye was hidden altogether behind some sort miniature telescoping lens that appeared to move and whir of its own accord.
“Shoddy hospitality,” Elizabeth informed him. “I am cold and wet and those marbles could have killed me.”
“Improbable. Those particular traps are calculated merely to bruise skin and break limbs,” Densmore responded, his voice smooth as fresh cream and his words absolutely infuriating.
“Is that right?” Elizabeth lashed out with her axe. “See how you like being under attack!”
In one quick stroke, she sliced open all three layers of his plum coat, jade waistcoat, and white cambric shirt—without breaking the skin below. A piece of chalk fell from a cut pocket and shattered on the stone floor. Only his cravat remained untouched.
The earl’s tattered garments fell away to reveal… a surprisingly chiseled chest and abdomen.
Elizabeth tried not to look.
All right, so she looked. How could she not? She rarely saw muscles that defined outside of a marble statue in a museum.
“Quite the introduction,” he said dryly. “How do you do?”
“Charmed, I’m sure,” she managed, forcing her gaze back to that enormous light-gray eye with its long curling eyelashes. “Take off your helmet. It’s ridiculous.”
The earl considered her for a moment, then removed the helmet.
Had she thought his abdomen chiseled? Good God, that face. Densmore could cut glass with that jaw and those cheekbones. A mass of soft, wavy brown hair only called more attention to the angular beauty of his absurdly handsome visage.
“I changed my mind,” she said hoarsely. “Put the helmet back on.”
He did not.
“Look,” she said. “I’m sorry about the door. I’m supposed to avoid unnecessary property damage, because I promised my siblings I’d only use my weapons to kill people.”
He took a hasty step back. “What?”
“Listen closely.” She edged toward him. “This is your final opportunity.”
The earl retreated another step. “Final? I’ve never seen you before.”
“And if you play your cards right this time, you’ll never see me again. Just hand over that deed.”
He held up his palms. “I haven’t any deed.”
“Don’t waste my time.” She angled her deadly battle-axes toward each side of his neck. “You saw me cut down that door. Do not annoy me any further, Densmore, or I shall cut you down, too.”
8
Stephen cleared his throat. The one boxed in by sharp blades.
“Just one small detail,” he said politely. “I’m not the Earl of Densmore.”
It was not what he was supposed to say. Stephen would do almost anything for his cousin, but he drew the line at decapitation.
Beth the Berserker scoffed at his claim. Hers was not a coquettish scoff—more of an I hold you in eternal disdain sort of scoff—but Stephen could not help but notice how much more attractive she was in front of his face than the pretty picture she’d made through his telescope. Taking off his helmet to see her clearly was the best decision he’d made all day.
It did not hurt that the trough of water had drenched her ample bosom, plastering her wet bodice to the contours of her chest. Since the berserker’s blades were at his throat and she obviously knew how to use them, Stephen did his best to keep his eyes on her suspicious green gaze and not on her enticing décolletage.
There was also the chopped door to consider, and the fact that the shirt, coat, and waistcoat he’d donned that morning were now rent in two, and hanging from his shoulders in tatters.
“Not the earl? A likely story,” sneered the berserker, with a curl of one of her plump, pink lips. “Am I supposed to believe you to be a butler?”
“If you know anything at all about the Earl of Densmore,” Stephen replied calmly, “then I needn’t convince you that his lordship is not the sort of person to answer his own door. Or care why it is that you have come to call.”
The berserker considered this, then inclined her head. “He’s about to care. Take me to him.”
“I cannot.”
“Why not?”
“He’s not here.”
“Where is he?”
“I don’t know,” Stephen admitted.
She harrumphed. “When will he return?”
“I don’t know.”
Her green eyes flashed. “Do you know anything?”
Stephen knew he had to get this lady off his property and attend to shoring up the castle’s defenses. Already, the water had drained from the floor. The marbles had followed each other down specially designed cracks between the stones to a neat queue against the wall, for ease of restocking the traps.
Easier to do, when one wasn’t being held at sword-point.
Stephen sighed. “I know that there’s a 0.000152 probability of you finding the earl before he intends to be found. Indeed, I am three hundred and eighty-nine percent more likely than you to divine his whereabouts. Yet despite my having collated and analyzed all the—”
She nudged a battle-axe into his cravat. “Stop flirting with me.”
His eyes widened with interest. “You interpret my use of logical reasoning as… flirtation?”
“Everyone shows off when they’re flirting. If you don’t mean for it to be arousing, then cease doing so.”
He closed his mouth obediently. Arousing, did she say? A torrent of theorems and equations was suddenly bursting to pour out.
“If you’re not the earl,” said the berserker, “then who are you? And why do you have such a phenomenal physique?”
“I… What?”
“Your abdomen. Why does it have so many muscles?”
“I possess the same quantity of muscles as everyone else.”
“I don’t think you do,” she muttered. “Stop it. It’s distracting.”
“It’s my anxiety,” he admitted. “When the world presses down on me, I drop to the floor and press up instead. It’s my solution to stressful situations.”
Her gaze lowered, and she licked her lips. “I shall endeavor to be more stressful.”
“You’re doing a wonderful job,” he assured her. “If it weren’t for the razor-edged blades at my throat, I’d be doing press-ups at this very moment.”
She looked tempted to lower the battle-axes. “I shall take that into consideration, Mr….”
The berserker trailed off and looked at him expectantly.
He smiled without responding. It was one thing to avoid an inconvenient beheading, and another to take a berserker into one’s confidence. Then again, her blades were still at Stephen’s throat.
Which was perhaps her idea of flirting.
“I’m waiting for your name,” she said.
“I know,” he answered.
He also now knew several facts about her. She was clever and determined and dotty as a ladybug. She had also come closer to breaching the castle in the space of an hour than anyone else had managed since his arrival. Perhaps even centuries.
Other traits he observed were less important at the moment. Such as the soft smoothness of her skin, and the fetching curl to her blond hair. Or the wet flower petal from her bonnet that now clung becomingly to her round cheek, just begging to be plucked by Stephen’s fingers.
He was not going to touch her, he reminded himself firmly. He was not the sort to touch anyone. He was a turtle who liked his shell. There was safety in solitude and science. Interaction with others led to confusion and risk. He was better off alone than accompanied.
Yet here he found himself.
With her.
“I’m still waiting,” she reminded him.
“I know,” he answered.
He had always liked taking time to think things out. Preferred being methodical, deliberate, careful. None of his inventions would work properly if Stephen comported himself willy-nilly. His life had always been a constant, and he was unprepared for this new variable.
There. That was where he could start.
“Before I answer any more questions,” he said politely, “might I inquire who you are?”
“Elizabeth Wynchester,” she answered without hesitation.
“Oh, for the love of…” He winced and closed his eyes. “Anything but a Wynchester!”
The battle-axes scraped at his throat. By now, his poor cravat was in ribbons.
“How is being a member of my family possibly worse than whatever you thought was happening?” the berserker demanded. “What’s wrong with Wynchesters?”
“Rumor has it, you’re a pack of relentless madmen with no scruples about operating outside the law.” He opened his eyes and tilted his gaze toward the closest blade. “The gossip seems credible.”
“Take note: We’re the pack of lawless madmen you want working on your side, not against you. I will ask you one last time. If you’re not the Earl of Densmore, who are you?”
“Stephen Lenox,” he said with a sigh. “Scientist, mathematician, inventor… and first cousin to the earl.”
“Cousin as in…” She tilted her head, as if mentally scanning Debrett’s Peerage. “You’re heir presumptive to the earldom?”
“To my eternal consternation. Come to think of it, perhaps you should impale me with your blades. I’d rather die an honorable death than present myself in the House of Lords.”
Miss Wynchester leaned forward and glared deep into Stephen’s eyes, as though determining the veracity of his introduction by staring into his soul. Her lips were almost close enough to kiss. Temptingly close.
With a sigh of frustration, she yanked the battle-axes down to her sides. “I no longer wish to impale you.”
Stephen’s inexplicably aroused body wouldn’t be opposed to having a thrust or two.
“Are we finished here, then?” he asked, instead of pursuing a flirtation. “I have a pot of tea I ought to get back to.”
“Good idea. I’ll take mine with brandy.” She passed both axes to one hand and curved the other about his arm. “Whilst you explain the whole tale from the beginning.”
9
Elizabeth had not sliced open the sleeves covering Mr. Lenox’s arms—a lack of forethought she was highly tempted to correct—but the taut bicep currently flexing beneath the curve of her fingers felt every bit as toned as the muscular chest and abdomen constantly winking at her in the gap between the cut edges of his clothing.
“One moment, if you please.” Mr. Lenox was exceedingly polite for a hostage. “I ought to bring along our bonnets.”
He stepped away from her… Leapt away from her… Did some strange, twisting dance, clearly meant to avoid placing his boot down on several specific stones in the floor, despite there being no difference between them to Elizabeth’s eye. She memorized each step anyway.
Mr. Lenox caught her gaze and gave her a winning smile. “Best to avoid the blanket of needles, wouldn’t you say?”
Blanket of needles. She now wished she had brought more supplies than her trusty battle-axes. She needed her chain mail and a proper helmet. One considerably hardier than the gear-and-monocle-adorned leather hat in Mr. Lenox’s hand.
He scooped up her soaking bonnet gingerly, then made his hopping, twisting way back to her side. “Shall we?”
Elizabeth realized she had no idea how they were going to go anywhere. The room was still devoid of exits, save for the exterior door through which she’d entered.
Mr. Lenox slid on his leather helmet and adjusted the pair of lenses before his eye.
“The spot to press is only visible when viewed through glass of a specific hue and polarity,” he explained, as though such an explanation made any sense at all.
He was flirting again, she was sure of it.
“Ah, here we are.” Mr. Lenox reached out and tapped lightly on a small section of uneven gray stone that looked exactly like all the other uneven gray stones. A rectangular section of the wall swiveled ninety degrees on a center hinge, leaving an opening on either side just big enough for someone Elizabeth’s size to squeeze through.
Mr. Lenox did not wait to see if she followed, but ducked through the doorway with the hurried air of a man hoping to find his teapot was still warm. Elizabeth placed each foot exactly where Mr. Lenox’s boots had fallen, turning to her side to slip through the opening after him.
The rotating door swung closed behind them. They were now standing in a long corridor made of the same large gray stones as the rest of the castle. From this side, there was likewise no indication of how to turn a solid wall back into a doorway.
“Am I going to need to borrow one of those bonnets in order to leave the castle?”
“Bothersome, isn’t it,” droned a voice behind her.
She spun, axes at the ready, to discover an older man with white hair, thick jowls, and impeccable, if simple, dark blue attire. He raised his eyebrows at her stance and sighed heavily, as if she were the least alarming disturbance in a long succession of vexing inconveniences.
Mr. Lenox handed the disgruntled man her wet headpiece. “McCarthy, I need you to dry Miss Wynchester’s bonnet, if you would, please.”
“You’re the butler?” Elizabeth guessed.
McCarthy glared at Mr. Lenox. “See? Our guests would not suffer this unnecessary confusion if you allowed me to assume my proper station at the front door.”
“We’ve not admitted any guests until now,” Mr. Lenox reminded him. “The entryway is designed to repel them.”
Elizabeth nodded in approval. “By killing them, sight unseen.”
“A disgraceful practice.” McCarthy held his nose in the air and Elizabeth’s dripping bonnet pinched between two outstretched fingers. He spun on his heels and stalked off down the corridor, muttering all the while. “Unseemly lack of manners. The indignity!”
