She moaned again. Thankfully, the sound was a douse of cold water to his heated, throbbing body. He knew she trusted him. He’d keep that trust sacred if it killed him.
He brought his hand up to pat her cheeks. “Come on, Leona, wake up,” he said, his breathing ragged but determined.
She muttered fitfully, her hands rising to push his away.
“Good girl. Come on, wake up.” His quiet voice was edged with sharpness as he shook her, her head flopping back and forth.
Finally, she resisted his shaking. Her head steadied, and her eyes fluttered open. She blinked at him. “Deveraux?”
He relaxed and grinned, relief flooding him. “You were expecting North, maybe?” he whispered, reminding her of their situation.
She shuddered. “Please, not even in jest. How—how long have we been out?”
He found he was inordinately pleased at the levelheadedness with which she accepted their situation. She was worth ten heirloom jewelry sets! “From what I can gather, all day. And, to our favor, they expect us to stay that way until morning. Turn your head toward the window and breath in the cold air. It helps.”
Obediently she did. Finally, aware of his arm about her, she gently pulled herself free. He let her go, his hands falling to his sides.
“I must get dressed.” She walked away from him, too embarrassed to look at him.
He turned his back on her to give her a small measure of privacy.
Quickly she donned an old black mourning gown of Maria’s that had been packed away in the cupboard. It was too short, but that was an advantage to her plan. Luckily, her boots were nearly dry. She carried them over to the window.
“Perhaps it’s just as well that it's night. The night can be our ally,” she said briskly. She grabbed up her brush, pulling it swiftly through her long hair. Then she simply braided it in a thick braid down her back, tying it off with a bit of ribbon from one of Maria’s drawers.
“I propose we climb out the window then up and over the roof of the house. If we move slowly and carefully, the thatch should provide us handholds. Once over the top, we can descend to where the kitchen wing and Maria’s still room jut out as a one-story addition. Maria’s garden is right outside the stillroom door. It’s bound to prove a softer landing spot than anywhere else for a leap from the roof.”
“It’s drizzling outside. The roof is bound to be slick.” He grabbed for his jacket, relieved to see it was finally dry.
She agreed. “But we’ll just have to chance it. My pistol! Where is it?” She grinned when she saw him pull it out of a drawer in Maria’s dressing table. “You keep it. I’ll have my hands full with these blasted skirts.”
He tucked it in his pants then grabbed up his boots. “Better let me go first.” He slithered out the narrow window and dug his toes into the tightly-woven thatch. Climbing this roof would prove slow, arduous going. He didn’t know if this was a wise plan, but phlegmatically he conceded it was their only option, so wisdom bore little importance. He held his hand out to Leona, pulling her out and up beside him. Her eyes sparkled with excitement. His heart contracted, but all he did was frown.
Signaling caution, he set out carefully to discover secure finger- and toe-holds in the weathered thatch. Without a word Leona, gamely followed him, closely copying his hands and foot placements. He wished he’d thought to tie a line between them. He didn’t like her climbing after him. There was no one to catch her should she fall.
On the other hand, he doubted her hands were strong enough to pry apart the thatch to make it climbable. His own hands were rapidly acquiring little cuts and scrapes, the tips of his fingers bearing the brunt of injury. Luckily Leona had discovered a spare pair of gloves in Maria’s room. He hated to imagine what her soft hands would be like without them!
Nearly to the top of the roof, one of his booted feet slipped, sliding down to rest on Leona’s hand, which was wedged tight in a handhold. She bit back a scream of pain, blinking back the tears. Deveraux reached back to touch her, his eyes anxious. She nodded, giving him a faint smile, tendrils of wet hair plastered to her cheeks. He didn’t know any other woman who would not now be reduced to hysterics or vapors. She was amazing. Cold, wet, and risking her life with every movement, she still could smile.
At the top, he slid his feet over so he could back down the roof. He quickly discovered going up to be easier than going down. Finding handholds became the worse problem.
The thatch sliced ribbons through her thin gloves and into Leona’s hands. Her hands stung in a thousand places. She gripped her lower lip between her teeth and took deep, steadying breaths. She knew Deveraux was worried for her. After her dismal failure yesterday, she had to maintain her energies. She could not let him worry about her. Their situation was precarious enough as it was. He needed to concentrate on himself.
As she pulled herself over the apex of the roof, her braid caught sharply on the rough thatch, threatening to pull the top of her head off. She tried to dig her toes into the thatch and work herself back up a bit to release the pressure on her braid. Finally, she was able to reach up a hand to work her hair free, pulling out a painful clump in the process. She sighed thankfully, then suddenly, her toe lost its grip in the thatch. She started to slip downwards, scraping her cheek. Frantically she dug her fingers into the dense thatch, her feet scrambling. The heavy black dress pulled upward, caught for a moment, then released, tumbling her sideways down the slick roof. Her eyes, wide and frightened, stared up at Deveraux.
He pulled his feet free, allowing his body to slide feet first down the roof. He didn’t try to grab; he just slid. Quickly he came up by Leona, grabbing for her dress as he slid past. With a slamming jolt, his knees buckled as his feet came in contact with the ground floor wing roof. Leona continued to slide, and he braced his arms and body against the roof, his fingers wrapped tightly in the material of her dress. She stopped with a bump, her head pointed downward, nearly off the edge of the roof.
Her breath whistled through her teeth as she sucked in air. She lay still for a moment, almost in shock that she didn’t tumble entirely off the roof.
Deveraux’s heart thumped loudly in his chest. Carefully, he eased himself down until he squatted, pinning himself securely over the ridge of the roof. Leona reached up, grasping the wrist of his hand that held her dress in a vice-like grip, and pulled herself up. He reached out to steady her with his other hand. When she was safely up, she briefly brought his hand to her cheek in silent thanks, then pushed herself forward.
“This way!” she whispered.
Stunned, Deveraux followed.
To their left, the ground sloped up toward the cottage, the dirt mounding almost to the kitchen window. She pointed it out to Deveraux. He nodded. Carefully Leona made her way toward that area. She jumped off the roof where the ground sloped the highest and landed on her hands and knees. Deveraux landed next to her. She impatiently brushed her muddied gloves against the sides of her black skirts, then waved at Deveraux to follow her. He pulled the pistol from his waistband and came up beside her, laying a warning hand on her arm.
She shook her head, scoffing at the danger. They were free, weren’t they? She hurried forward, determined to put as much distance between them and Rose Cottage as possible. Rounding the corner and heading toward the shed, she ran straight into Howard North’s gun.
