A melancholy sigh threatened to rise in his throat. Horrified at the prospect, he climbed out of bed, obtained new underwear from his bag, and employed the washroom to refresh himself. Upon returning, he paused for a while, regarding Alice’s finely wrought face within its tumbled frame of hair. She looked like an angel—granted, an Angel of Death, considering her abilities with an umbrella or merely the heel of one hand, but that was beside the point. He was obsessed with her beauty. Part of him wanted to bring out a ruler and measure the width of her cheekbones. Another part began to raise more ribald suggestions.
“I cannot sleep with you staring at me like that,” Alice said without opening her eyes.
Daniel actually felt himself blushing. “It’s probably unwise for us to share the bed.”
“Nonsense. Besides, my reputation would be ruined if a servant or pirate entered the room and found you sleeping alone on the sofa. Come now, you are making much ado about nothing.”
He almost laughed at that, but judging from Alice’s cool expression, she’d not had the same literature professor as him. With a shrug of surrender, he climbed into the bed and settled down with his back to her. Reaching out, he doused the bedside lamp.
“Good n—”
“Sleeping.”
He did sigh then. At least with her rigid attitude, there was no danger of waking to find her head in his lap like he had this morning.
Which was not the best thing to remember, under the circumstances. He cast the provocative image from his mind and began a slow, resolute count backward from one thousand until at last, somewhere around sixty-nine, he drifted thankfully into sleep.
And woke at dawn with Alice Dearlove dreaming in his arms, her breath like poetry against his hard-pulsing throat.
16
alice wishes for silence—she gets something far better— they take the plunge (in more ways than one)—poetic interruptus—out of the woodwork—as thick as thieves
For all evils there are two remedies—time and Daniel Bixby’s muscled arms.
Wait. No.
For all evils there are two remedies—time andsilence. That was the correct quote, and Alice liked being correct in all things. Almost as much as she liked the tanned skin of Daniel’s forearms when he folded up his sleeves and—
She scowled. Since waking this morning embraced by those arms, she’d found it difficult to think about anything else. Except perhaps the man’s jawline. And his torso. And the way every sweep of his eyelashes seemed to stroke her inside. She tried to counter this with reminders of the mission, but it was really quite amazing how her brain could take “the impending murder of Queen Victoria” and translate it into “the thrilling breadth of Mr. Bixby’s shoulders.”
Besides, silence as a remedy for the evil in this house seemed beyond hope. She and Daniel had excused themselves after breakfast,claiming a desire to rest, only to discover everyone else resting too—i.e., searching the castle for Jane’s secret weapon. Crowds jostled, thumped against walls, and stabbed cushions (as well as the occasional bustle of a passing lady). Daniel did find his pocket watch tucked behind a powder box in Mrs. Rotunder’s bedroom, but since it was stolen from him again ten minutes later, they felt unable to call this a success.
At least no more kissing had taken place. Thank heaven for that! In absolutely no way whatsoever did Alice wish for further kissing. About this, she was adamant.
Daniel’s voice broke through her thoughts. “Do I have something on my face?”
“Pardon me?” she asked rather dazedly.
“You are staring at my mouth.”
“Oh.” She looked away, glaring at the wall of the corridor in which they stood. Several holes had been bashed in it. Farther along the corridor, Millie the Monster was using her sword to rip apart a framed portrait of Beryl Black, as if the secret weapon might have been hidden behind the lady’s painted smirk. Mrs. Rotunder kept trying to wedge her husband’s wooden hand into a gap between floorboards, so as to lever them up, while the gentleman himself dozed in a chair nearby.
“I was thinking about that barricaded room you mentioned yesterday,” Alice lied. “Shall we attempt it now, while everyone is busy? I am wearing my petticoat parachute.”
“Good plan,” Daniel agreed.
They hastened to the castle roof and, climbing onto the parapet, surveyed the hundred feet below them. “That window,” Daniel said, pointing to one nearby.
“Right,” Alice said briskly. As she began unknotting the ribbon for her parachute petticoat, she gazed out across the fields and woods, the vast, lonely sky soaring untouched above them. “Hampshire is so tranquil,” she remarked, a strange dissatisfaction rippling through her mind.
Daniel glanced at her sidelong. “Hm?”
“Do you know Jane Austen lived here?”
“Of course.” He sounded rather offended that she’d even asked. “Now, I think if we angle ourselves during the descent, we should—”
“I wonder how much of an influence scenery like this had on her writing.”
