Naught.
A chamber for ablutions, although the ornate bath was of sufficient vastness to fit both herself and Peg the pig.
Could Ernest have stealthily returned to the Feast?
Frowning, she twisted, noticed a tapestry waft and so crossed to investigate, realised another ajar door lay hidden behind.
Further stairs revealed themselves, curled and ancient, stone treads hollowed by centuries of footfall.
Of course, if she was reading all this in a Gothic novel, she’d be screaming at the winsome heroine not to ascend, that ghouls and demons might greet her – or even a wicked rake. But she wasn’t winsome and Ernest wasn’t wicked.
So she set bare sole to step and followed the steep curve, guided by a few candles which fluttered in their sconces. Around and around she climbed, until at the top, an open door presented itself, and beyond she could see the night sky above crenelated parapet.
She clambered up the last few hewn steps and onto the flat stone roof of the Tower, breath lost to the sight, for it was as though the stars were mere inches above her head, the sky deepening to ebony, a sliver of purple to the horizon.
Humbling and mighty.
And staring out over the land was Ernest, his naked back to her, arm muscles stretching as he rested fists against the stone crenels. His waist and hips were lean but a wiry strength revealed itself in the ripple of sinew. Buckskins clung to perfectly shaped buttocks and his own bare feet were motionless.
Had he heard her?
With silent tread, she stepped forth.
Hebe had vowed to her aunt to live each moment, and if Ernest allowed her, she was going to take this moment for her own – to not think on the morrow but seize this night.
So she stretched out a tentative hand to touch his waist.
He jolted but turned not.
His skin was heated, and she loosened her fingers, exploring the indentations of his spine.
Never before had she caressed a man, marvelled at the muscle which tensed as she meandered upwards over his back and to his rippling shoulder.
Magnificent.
“Why did you leave?” she whispered, a catch to her throat. “Do you not want me?”
ERNEST SWIVELLED,quick as night and caught that wandering hand.
Without words, he thrust it to his heart; it beat rapid. Lower, he clasped it to his abdomen; it tensed.
“Ernest…”
The ivy had freed itself from her hazel crown to fall against her blushed cheek, and the meadowsweet had cast its spent blooms upon her shoulders – so damn beautiful.
“I want you, Hebe, so bloody much,” he bit out. “And my abject apologies if my actions put that in doubt.”
“You left me–”
“But I never locked the door.”
He drew her hand lower still, to his ferocious arousal.
Her eyes widened, fingers flexing, and he groaned.
Since he’d first laid eyes on Hebe Locke, he’d desired her but that was naught. For now he wanted so much more – the tremendous courage contained within that heart, the touch of her valiant hand.
He dragged her fingers to his lips. “I desire you with a fierceness that I have never known. It tears at me, night and day. But…” He kissed her knuckles. “I will not be the wicked rake that seduces you. I will not be the debaucher that you regret. I want you to be with me because you want to. Because a fire tears through you also. Because you cannot think for the passion that enthrals you. I want your hands to wander my skin without reserve because theyhaveto.” With an exhale, he leaned close. “I want you utterly unfettered as the soaring lark.”
