In the faint light of the rush, his shadowed face loomed close to hers. “What is it then?”
“We would be…” She was unexpectedly lost for words.
“As close as birds in a roost? You have nothing to fear from me. I am not about to take advantage of the situation. I promise to keep my hands to myself.”
“That isn’t what I meant.” Her cheeks were now so hot she might be sitting by the fire.
“What then?” He’d taken to roaming about the room and no longer seemed intent on her answer.
“It doesn’t matter,” she mumbled, realizing it was futile. They would never see eye to eye. She bent over the sofa to check the space behind it. “I can fit in here.”
“These artifacts look quite atmospheric in this gloomy light,” he murmured, right behind her. He peered into the dark space. “You could squeeze in there.” His shoulder nudged hers. “But I cannot, and we need to be together so that we may confer.”
“Confer?”
“Act together. As a force.”
“This is not the army. We are not at war.”
“We are in a way. We are fighting for justice, and this foe is a murderer,” he said, sounding ruthless and quite unlike himself.
She shuddered again.
“Come and look inside.” He swung the door of the sarcophagus open, and the smell of antiquity flowed out. “It’s roomier than you think.”
She swallowed. “I’m not…” she began. A scratching noise came from somewhere near the library door.
In the blink of an eye, Peyton had extinguished the rush light with his fingers and pulled her into the stone coffin, easing the door partly closed.
She took a deep breath of dusty stale air and something ancient, and indefinable, and clamped her mouth shut on a scream.
They waited, she hardly daring to breathe.
“Must have been mice behind the wainscoting,” he finally whispered, making no attempt to leave. “But now that we’re in here—”
Peyton appeared a good deal too pleased to be here. “It’s too cramped.” Aware of his spicy cologne and the touch of his leg against her bottom, Helen fought to remain calm. A hand alighted briefly on her side a whisker from her breast. She swallowed on a moan. The tension was excruciating.
Peyton cleared his throat. “Will you permit me to place my hands on your waist to support you? Otherwise, you might grow tired.” His breathing sounded strained. He must find the air as stuffy as she did.
With her pulse galloping, Helen was tired already. This had been a ridiculous, fruitless exercise, and she had only herself to blame for it. “If you must.”
She regretted it immediately. His hands seemed to burn into her flesh through her dressing gown. “Perhaps we might talk? If we keep our voices low, we can hear the door.”
“Good idea,” he said, his breath on her ear. “You have beautiful hair, Helen. It’s very long and silky.”
Helen launched into a rambling conversation. “I remember meeting your sister, Lady Greywood, years ago. She’s very pretty and has a pleasant nature, as I recall.” Not one of the spiteful debutantes Helen had encountered who had made her life hell. Elizabeth had Peyton’s coloring. Dark hair and green eyes. “I was very sorry to hear of her loss.”
“Thank you. Lizzie has only recently returned to society. I was very pleased to see it, but now, she’s met someone.”
He sounded worried. She wanted to turn and read his expression, which was foolish for they’d be pressed embarrassingly close together. “You don’t like him?”
“I wish I could say I did.” He sighed. “But Lizzie is keen to marry him and go to live in Italy.”
She wanted to know more but could hardly ask. Was the fact that Elizabeth would leave England trouble him most?
“I can quite see why you’d be uneasy about it,” she said. “You have a younger brother too, Viscount Brinkley.”
“Charlie was recently sent down from Oxford for some prank. Fortunately, they’ve reinstated him. He’s formed an unsuitable attachment to a Miss Groton, which has no future. I’m keen to see him finish his education and take the tour.”
