“We cannot beseenin here together.” I said the words more slowly. Locked alone in a closet was uncomfortable and unpleasant. Locked in a closet with an unmarried woman was a marriage sentence.
I could see the exact moment she comprehended my meaning. Followed a second later with, “No! Oh no!”
She rose abruptly, resuming her scrambling scratches at the door with no more success than my battering ram efforts.
For nearly half an hour, we struggled, digging and ramming to no effect. The solid mahogany was impenetrable. Our only measure of the time was the length of the orchestra sets, barely audible in our fortress.
Finally, her fingers raw and my shoulders unusable, she collapsed back to the ground in the strip of moonlight once again.
She did look rather fetching, all rumpled in the silvery-blue light. Light! Moonlight! The window!
There it was, salvation. A small latch tucked at the bottom of the tiny window. It would open! To be perfectly honest, I was more than willing to break the glass to escape, but avoiding that effort was all the better. There was but one flaw in the escape plan I was formulating. In spite of my height, the window still eclipsed my reach by a foot or more.
Along the side, there were shelves that lined the wall, abutting the wall where my salvation lay. I grabbed the topmost shelf, pressing a foot to the lowest.
Snap!
I barely managed to lift my foot from the ground before it cracked off the wall, broken. The remaining shelves would not support my weight even if I could reach them.
“What are you doing?” She interjected, irritation thick in her tone.
“The window!”
“What about it?”
I turned back toward her, gesturing to our salvation. “It opens, we can climb out.”
Wordlessly, she plucked herself off the ground, finding my side. She sized up our escape. “You’ll never fit through there. Your shoulders are much too broad.”
“You are all complaints and no suggestions. What do you propose then?” It was an irritated, snappish comment and it was unfair. She had been right at every turn.
“Do you suppose you could lift me?”
“What?”
“I could probably fit.”
“You want me to lift you?”
“Do you have a better idea?
I waited nearly a full minute for inspiration to strike. Nothing came. “Fine.”
Wordlessly, she positioned herself below the window while I eyed her from behind. She was shorter than I remembered. The top of her curls barely reached my shoulders. In my memory she had been taller, sturdier.
In the moonlight, her curves, though impressive, were delicate and less caricatured. Her bold, brash countenance had overtaken her physical form in my mind, made her stronger, more substantial.
Faced with her petite form, I gripped her waist as gently as I was able while maintaining a grip. Through the gossamer fabric, I felt the edge of her long stays. I had never touched a lady’s unmentionables. The thought of them on her was… intriguing.
Brushing the intrusive thoughts aside, I tightened my grasp, lifting her clear off the ground with ease. A quiet gasp escaped her.
“Did I hurt you?”
“No,” she murmured, distracted. I could feel her stretch toward the window, but my view was limited to red silk. “Can you step closer to the wall?”
Following her instruction, I pressed her against the wall and myself more firmly against her. She smelled lovely, feminine and floral. One inhale and I was addicted, jasmine and orange blossoms and something indefinable.
Above me, she made a tiny grunt, struggling to reach the latch. Damn! I had no business having such a reaction to that sound. To her scent. To the smooth curve of her waist under my fingers. To the cascading curls brushing against my cheek.
