“No,” she said, wiping at her wet face and hair. The unrelenting rain had also soaked the front of her jacket. “I don’t think we are either.”
“I had better build a fire.” Hands on his hips, he scanned the room and pointed to the only piece of furniture, a table. “We can use the table for wood. Would you push some of that sand around the door to block the crack beneath it?”
“Yes, of course.” She removed the damp jacket and placed it on one of the small hooks by the door. Using the side of her boot, she shoved the wet sand against the aged portal until there was no more light coming from beneath it. Her task complete, she joined Langdon.
He had turned the table so the top lay on the floor. One leg slanted inward, and he pulled it toward him, snapping the brittle wood. He lifted his booted foot and sent it smashing into the table’s frame.
Elizabeth jumped back to avoid the collapsing wood. “You’re rather handy to have around,” she said, rocking from foot to foot on the hard-packed sand.
With a grin, he applied some well-placed kicks, and the table fell to pieces at their feet. “I try to be helpful.”
“I will try to be helpful as well.” Elizabeth grabbed the wood and placed it in the empty fireplace. Langdon’s lantern was still lit, and she extracted the candle, setting it to dry wood.
He came to stand beside her, his breeches marked with grime. Throughout their time together, he was always polished, never a threadbare cuff to be seen. “I doubt that this will last us through the night,” he said.
“We can always use the crates if need be. I recall seeing wood in the cavern as well. Although I have no desire to venture into the caves again until we can catch Randell.” She might not have a choice if the squalls continued. The storms on the coast sometimes lasted days.
“I doubt Randell—if he is indeed the mastermind—will do any of the dirty work.” Langdon held his hands out to the small blaze, his fingers ruddy from cold. His habit of going gloveless didn’t serve him well at this moment.
“The caves were wetter than I estimated,” she said, staring up at him. In the dim light, he appeared even more masculine, the shadows highlighting his firm jaw. She swallowed the lump that formed in her throat.
He turned his head to look at her. “I saw some fabric in the crates. Perhaps I should fetch them.”
“Do your many skills involved dressmaking?” she asked, fighting a blush at being caught staring. If the night evolved the way she wished, clothing wouldn’t be a concern for her. The blush crept higher and the thrill that coursed through her had nothing to do with the cold.
“Sadly, no. At least we will not go hungry.” He nodded toward the basket by her feet.
“Indeed. I must thank Cook for her forethought.” Elizabeth flipped the lid open with her foot to reveal a white linen cloth. Lifting the fabric, she inspected the contents. A wheel of cheese, ham sandwiches made with hearty bread, two apples, and a bottle of wine. Her mouth watered with hunger but the cold that pervaded her bones took precedence.
“Let me fetch the fabric and we can hunker down for the night.” With a soft smile, he strode over to the trap door.
Elizabeth grabbed up her discarded skirt and wrapped it around her shoulders. She was curious to see what the crates contained. He maneuvered his way back down into the hole. She watched his every move. There were four crates in all. The top one was slender. He pried the lid off with his knife and lifted it to her. “We can use this for the fire.”
She took the lid with stiff fingers, barely feeling the bite of the rough wood. “Is it wise for us to do this? You, yourself, warned me about touching any of the goods in the cave.”
“You listened to what I said. I am impressed.” The rakish smile he cast her way enhanced her desire for him; reminding her of the possibilities their isolation would afford. He pushed aside some straw to reveal a bolt of rich burgundy velvet. “Material fit for a queen,” he said.
“Yet you’re not taking your own advice.” The fabric was heavy and slick. She clutched it to her chest and moved back to the fireplace. She rolled the fabric out, creating a makeshift rug for them to sit on. Her task complete, she hurried back to the trapdoor. Langdon had placed several more bolts of cloth on the edge. Each one was more luxuriant than the last. She rubbed a blue silk against her cheek. What she wouldn’t have given for a wardrobe made of such finery. “Are all the crates full of fabric?”
“All but one. Our thief has excellent taste in wine.” He handed up a bottle to her, head back. “I think we have enough to keep us in some comfort.”
“Yes, I believe so.” The wine bottle had a red seal, and she read the label, a cabernet from Chateau Lafite, Rothschild. Sitting down on the velvet, she put the bottle aside.
Langdon climbed out of the hole and shut the trap door. He shrugged out of his greatcoat and brown jacket, hanging them next to hers on the wall. The fire was crackling and warmth had begun to cut through the hut’s chill.
“Were all the bottles from Chateau Lafite?”
In his shirtsleeves, he snatched up a blue wool and unwound the fabric. “Yes. They are worth a small fortune, I would imagine.”
“They left it where anyone could come upon it. It is not the wisest move.” She grabbed the corkscrew from the basket and laid it next to the bottle. Performing the mundane task was somehow comforting. Her stomach growling, she pulled out a plate and cut off pieces of hard cheese. She slipped a sliver of cheese into her mouth, the salty flavor melting on her tongue.
“The fear of getting caught would keep all but the most foolish person from stealing it. Does this land belong to Randell?” He used the wool for a cloak, his bulk taking up the space as he sat down. Bottle in hand, he began to open the wine.
“No, it belongs to the earl of S.... oh my goodness.” She slapped her hand over her mouth to stifle the laughter.
“What is so amusing?” he asked, removing the cork from the bottle.
“Well, this is part of the old earl of Sanderson’s land. Thus, I believe this hut might belong to you.” Per usual, Cook had packed enough food for six people. The woman’s enthusiasm would pay off in this instance. She cut the sandwich in quarters with the small knife from the basket. Simple fare but ambrosia now.
