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She was fascinating, resilient and wickedly clever. He wanted to know more about her, hear her tell stories about herself, not about the ghosts that purportedly roamed the halls of Ashveil Manor.
He could blame it on exhaustion, his fascination with her. The curve of her lower lip, the sprinkle of freckles across the bridge of her nose. The sorrow in her voice as she recounted her childhood made him want to hold her close and soothe her pain. Or perhaps the fear in her eyes had him wanting to come between her and whatever unseen forces were attacking her.
What a foolish notion. He was the force attacking her, and he shouldn’t obsess over her freckles.
But when she was angry with him, a flush took up under those golden freckles, like someone had painted a strip of pink watercolor across them. He hadn’t determined what caused the blush that crept up her neck while in the kitchen, or why she bit her lower lip…
The stairs curved sharply beneath him, and he ducked to protect his head from the sloping ceiling. The floors were similarly rough hewn, with more modern shelving covering one wall, stocked with rows of glass bottles. “Is this a dungeon?”
“It might have been.” She hung the lantern from a hook on the opposite wall and crouched to examine the wines. “Why, are you considering chaining me to the walls and interrogating me?”
An image flooded his mind, her arms stretched long over her head, breathless and at his mercy—
“The history of the manor is not well-documented,” she continued, oblivious to his prurient thoughts. “Especially prior to the fifteenth century.”
He watched her for several moments as she pulled out one bottle after another, examining them before putting them back on the rack.
“Bridget,” he said, “I… I shouldn’t have pried earlier. About your mother and father.”
She hesitated. “You shouldn’t have done a lot of things.”
He leaned against the wall opposite the shelves. “Perhaps we can start over—”
“I doubt that’s possible.” She stood, shoved a bottle she’d picked seemingly at random into his hands. The pink bloom returned to her cheekbones. “You’ve decided I’m your enemy—”
“I didn’t decide that.” He set the bottle on the floor.
“If I’m not your enemy, what am I?”
Captivating. “This isn’t personal.”
She approached slowly, deliberately, and pressed a slim finger to the center of his chest. “This is entirely personal. This house, my work—it is nothing but personal.”
He batted her finger away and stepped closer, his chest brushing hers. “I don’t—”
The door to the cellar snapped shut.
Bridget sucked in an audible breath and whirled away, racing for the stairs.
He followed close behind, managing the ladder-like ascent until he stood close behind her back while she struggled with the latch. “Open it,” he said. Stupidly.
Because the door was clearly stuck.
“I can’t.” She shook the handle with more force. “It’s locked. It doesn’t even have a lock!” She grabbed with both hands now, putting all her weight into opening it.
“Let me try.” He bracketed her with his arms, lifting the latch, but it wouldn’t clear the strip of metal holding the door in place.
They were trapped.
Bridget’s shoulders rose and fell more quickly, and she wavered on her feet. “I can’t stay down here,” she said, almost to herself. “I can’t—” She pounded on the door. “Hello! Is anyone there?”
His pulse thundered. “No one can hear you,” he said, but she only knocked harder, her cries turning raspy. “The Keenans left.”
“Please! Help us!” Her voice broke on the last word, and he wrapped his hand around her fist, lowered it to her side.
“The frame likely swelled during the storm,” he soothed, guiding her down the stairs and into the cellar once more. “Give it time, and the door will open on its own.”
She leaned against the stone wall, her eyes drifting shut as she pulled in labored breaths. “This is your fault.”
