And how was Leah ever to manage her rampant curiosity when the clues only became more and more tantalizing?
Despite her silent vow, she longed to return to the letters in the south wing, lifting them out one by one, drinking in their contents. Similarly, she supposed, to Fox’s behavior with a sixth of fine cognac from the cellar yesterday afternoon.
In short, like a drunkard to the bottle, Leah struggled to resist the letters’ siren call.
It was not a flattering comparison and underscored why she should feel more compassion toward Fox and his drinking habit.
Perhaps, if she became better friends with him, she could—
A soft scuff of noise caught her attention.
Leah jumped and whirled toward the sound, Fox’s shirt still bunched in her fists as if it could ward off an intruder . . . or, more likely, a rat.
The faint rustle appeared to be coming from the corner between the large chest of drawers and the fireplace, but a quick survey showed nothing to be there.
Unless . . . it was as Leah suspected.
Creeping closer, she finally saw it. The faintest outline of a door in the paneling, cleverly hidden but noticeable as it was currently slightly ajar.
Found ye.
Leah carefully opened the door, peering inside.
Just as she had surmised, a series of steep steps led downward, cut into the stone wall that bordered the great hall. At the bottom, a hole in the wall—the hollow underneath the plaster that she had seen from the hall—let in sunlight from the enormous room below.
The weak light illuminated the form of Madeline, tucked onto her side and sound asleep, gentle snores wafting upward. Mr. Dandy lay curled into a ball at the girl’s back. Evidence that the cat could be marginally congenial on occasion.
“What thedevil?!” a voice whispered in Leah’s ear.
Leah let out a muffled screech, pressing the balled shirt to her chest. Jolting upright, she narrowly missed clocking her head on the jamb of the hidden door, and in the process, plastered the entirety of her back against Fox’s chest behind her.
His hands came around her upper arms, steadying her against him, as he leaned forward to peer over her shoulder down to Madeline and Mr. Dandy below.
“Careful now,” he murmured, his breath ruffling the hair at her nape. “We don’t want to wake them.”
Leah’s thoughts scattered. The steel strength of him, the press of his firm chest against her back, the branding heat of his fingers seeping through the fabric of her dress.
“What on earth is this hideaway doing off my bedchamber?” he asked, straightening. Still holding her. Lips all but pressed against her ear.
He didn’t smell of whisky or brandy or any sort of liquor. Just soap and clean male skin.
Leah swallowed a whimper.
“’Tis the Laird’s Lug,” she whispered in return.
“The . . . what?”
“The Laird’s Lug—or the Lord’s Ear, in English. Most Scottish castles have them. ’Tis a wee hidey-hole that allowed the laird tae overhear what was being said in the great hall.”
“A spy chamber of sorts.”
“Aye. Precisely.”
Without asking for permission—hersorhis—Leah’s body relaxed back into him. As if the very matter that comprised her was ravenous, starved for touch.Histouch, in particular, she feared.
“The Laird’s Lug,” he snorted under his breath, his hands easily supporting her weight against him. “It seems like the sort of thing a penny-dreadful novelist would concoct—a convenient spy hole to uncover secrets and further the plot.”
Leah smiled. “Aye. With Madeline disappearing every day and us unable tae find her, I finally thought tae come looking for the Laird’s Lug. I guessed that the castle had one.”
