She scoffed at her own fears, listened to Arthur's movements in the other room for confirmation that he was still there, and tried to remind herself that she was an intrepid adventurer who could withstand this tiny hardship.
If only there were enough light, she could read more of
A Milkmaid's Life
to take her mind off her circumstances. Arthur had said nothing to her about the book. He hoped he thought it as innocent a tale as she had when she first began reading it. Did milkmaids truly have gentlemen who admired them so?
She grew warm, remembering the escapades of the simple dairy girl. Of course, she was a simple, beautiful dairy girl. It had been foolish of her to read those tales. Her thoughts now were wicked, thoughts of the flesh. Of how it would feel to have Arthur lying beside her in the dark, to have his arms around her.
To have him kiss her as the milkmaid's admirer had kissed the milkmaid — Hero blushed to think that those kisses had not just been on the mouth . . . But she stopped the direction of those thoughts, which made it impossible to sleep. She closed her eyes and tried to count sheep.
That, of course, became difficult when the silent darkness settled around her like a cloak. She jumped each time she heard a rustle, or a squeak, real or imagined.
Unfortunately, her imagination was quite lively, and she did not seem to be able to keep still.
Once, a mouse ran over her foot and she screamed. It was only a little scream, but she heard Arthur stir next door, and the next minute heard his tread on the stairs. "Is something wrong?"
"A mouse just ran over my foot, I am fine." She tried to sound brave, but her efforts sounded pitiful even in her own ears.
He moved across the floor steadily, quietly. She realized he had removed his boots. To her astonishment, he settled himself beside her. "Would it help if I hold you and guard you against the mice?" Her heart squeezed with a regret so sharp, she had not realized how very much she had come to care for him. His offer was a gesture she wished with all her heart had been elicited by more than his impatience with her squeamishness. For a moment, she resisted. "I am fine, truly. I was only startled."
"Are you certain?" He leaned in close to her and she could feel his breath on her cheek.
"Yes."
He moved away, and without thinking she reached for his arm to pull him back. She had felt so safe with him warm against her.
He sighed and settled back against her. "You have been brave enough tonight, Hero. Let me fight the mice for you."
"And the spiders?" She asked it only to lighten the humiliation she felt at exposing her cowardice.
He laughed. "And the spiders. They will not bother the two of us if we huddle together."
She went willingly enough into his arms. For a moment she wondered if he truly thought she would believe his comforting yet untrue statement. She hoped he did not honestly think her such a lackwit.
He made her a little bed with his jacket and her cloak. But in the end, she was not able to settle until he had snuggled her tightly in his arms in assurance. "No mice will get up your skirts tonight, I promise. Go to sleep, Miss Fenster."
Not that she believed he could keep the promise — not unless he himself . . . but, no, that thought was unworthy. Which did not stop it from circulating through her brain as she softened and slept beside him, warm and comforted in his embrace.
Arthur felt every breath she took as a torment of pain and pleasure. But it seemed a small price to pay for such a gift as Hero Fenster in his arms, no matter how chastely. She felt as he had always imagined she would. Warm and real. His. But she was not his. Not truly. Not yet. He marveled that fate had given him the opportunity to hold her as he had wished to, and he wondered if he owed it to cowardice or heroism that he was able to defy the strongest of temptations to do more. He could not consider himself honorable if he used their circumstances to take advantage of her.
Whoever let them out of the attic the next day — if anyone did, which was not a thought he wanted to examine just then — would be privy to scandalous knowledge. He must protect Hero at all costs, even to marrying her if the gossips caught hold of the truth. His grandmother would be devastated. Gwen . . .
Perhaps she would not mind as much as his grandmother, or her own father. She had always been a social creature. Everything he had heard indicated she was enjoying her entree into society and all that London had to offer one of her temperament. His grandmother had written him weekly of the beaux Gwen had gathering at her feet.
He had read the letters with a totally inappropriate lift in his spirits. He knew that Grandmama hoped that would bring Arthur to the point of a formal declaration, but it had instead made him hope that he would escape from his family obligation to marry Gwen without having to make his own wishes take precedence over so many others.
But what about Hero's wishes? Had she hoped Gabriel Digby would speak soon? Would she mind giving up a life with Digby, for one with Arthur?
The very thought made him want to wake her and declare himself. To seduce her like a cad, so she would have no chance to escape the fate that seemed most likely for them. He tightened his hold on her until she protested, and then loosened his arms. No matter the circumstances, would even Gabriel Digby be willing to give her his name if this night became fodder for the gossips? As much as Arthur hated to admit it, he knew that was a possibility. And not one he wanted to allow.
The only question remaining to be answered was what did Hero want? The answer was obvious to him when he compared himself to Digby. Arthur was the better scholar, though not by a great deal. Digby, however, was the better material for husband, for father, for man of the world. How could he doubt which man she would choose if given the chance?
What a mess he had made of her life with his simple request that she accompany him on this misbegotten quest. It would be his responsibility to straighten it out as well.
He bent his head against hers and inhaled the pleasant scent of rosemary from her hair. He did not have to seduce her to have her to wife. A simple confession to the duke would sweep away any objections from his grandmother, or Fenwell Delagrace, and see them married. Was he selfish enough to keep Hero for himself, or should he let her go to Digby, as she preferred?
Oddly enough, the answer seemed heavily weighted to one side, no matter how he played with the options. He closed his eyes, knowing which way he would decide without question, knowing Hero would be the one to pay the price for his arrogance.
He would have to find some way to finally make his mark in the world. To live up to his namesake and his legend. It was the least he could do for Hero, when he was taking the biggest decision of all away from her.
He slept at last, to dream of frogs and princesses and kisses that made him burn in the fire of pleasure and pain.
The morning light streaming in from the little window woke Hero. It took her a moment to remember why she was lying on an attic floor, being held in someone's arms. Her first impulse was to leap up, but then she turned her head just slightly into the crook of his neck and caught the scent of him, beeswax candles and ink and something warmer, spicier that she couldn't define. She enjoyed the feel of being cradled in his arms. She could feel the muscles in his arms flex as he held her safely against him.
She lingered in that timeless place between sleep and waking, not moving. Part of her wished she could stay in such a state forever. Part of her wanted to do as the milkmaid might, to let her hands and lips wander and explore until she knew his flesh as well as she knew his mind. She brushed her hand, ever so gently, over his arm, and up to his shoulders, his neck. She touched the line of his jaw, keeping her fingers as light as a butterfly's wing.
She would have gone further, to run her fingers through his hair, but he let out his breath in a sharp exhalation, and said, "I assure you I have not turned into a dragon overnight."
Mortified, she realized he had been awake during her exploration. What had he thought of her? She pulled away from his warmth, hiding her reluctance as best she could as she tidied her hair and her clothing with a flurry of little pats.
"Good morning," she said. And then, in the awkwardness of the moment, added, "I don't quite know the proper morning greeting in a situation like this."
"Good morning is quite proper, I expect. Although I know nothing of such things either." His return glance was warm, but he made no move to embrace her, so she decided it was just her imagination at work again. "Perhaps in this situation we should make our own rules."
Again, she sensed that there was some deeper meaning beyond the surface of his comments. Uncomfortable with the serious tone he was introducing into the morning, she said lightly, "Well, then, good morning, Mr. Watterly. I trust you slept well."
"As well as can be expected in the circumstances, Miss Fenster," he replied with a smile.
She was inordinately relieved to have the tension of the moment dissipated. "I don't suppose you've heard Mr. Beasley moving around downstairs yet?"
"No, I've heard no sounds at all from the shop, although the street is abustle." He stood and began tidying himself, pulling his pocket watch from his vest as he spoke. "He should be arriving soon, I expect."
Where last night had seemed a romantic gothic adventure, this morning their predicament seemed more serious. She went to the open doorway to study the one that had been so firmly padlocked. "Do you suppose he unlocks these doors first thing?"
He contemplated her question for a moment before answering, "I certainly hope so. We cannot survive here forever."
The thought had never occurred to her. "We certainly cannot." If Mr. Beasley took days to open this door, it would be too late for her and for Arthur. They would die from dehydration before they starved to death.
Even as she had the awful thought, her stomach began to grumble with hunger. She glanced at him in embarrassment, but he was too much a gentleman to comment upon the complaint of her unmannerly midsection.
Instead he said, "Perhaps we should have some breakfast while we wait for him?" He unwrapped the biscuit and apples he had put aside last night.
"You take it," she said quickly. "I am not hungry —
He shook his head. "We are in this predicament together, Miss Fenster. There is no help for it but that we shall breakfast together." Without further words, he snapped the biscuit in two and handed her half, along with several dried apples.
"Thank you." Despite her hunger, she nibbled at the food without much enthusiasm as she stood staring at the locked door, wondering how long they would have to wait for rescue. She had thought the light would dispel her wicked desire to play milkmaid to Arthur's ploughman. Instead, the sight of him, the scent of him, only tempted her to more thoughts of foolishness.
She wished he would put his jacket back on, straighten his cravat, his hair. Then perhaps she would stop wishing to — "He no doubt has a routine for the shop. I expect we should make ourselves as presentable as possible. I fear we'll give the man quite a shock when he finds us here."
"I expect he will survive us. We are quiet enough sorts. I certainly have no intention of jumping out and howling like a ghost. Have you?"
"No. Although I confess to having played such pranks as a child, I have long since put them away." She smiled at the thought, remembering how she and her sisters had loved to frighten one another into screams, which quickly dissolved into fits of giggles, as children.
"I myself intend to wait patiently until I hear the tread on the stairs, then calmly stand and wait for the door to be unlocked."
The room seemed so small today, where yesterday it had only been intimate. Hero began to pace. Twenty paces lengthwise, ten paces crosswise. She must simply refuse to believe they would not be rescued. "What if he forgets to open the attic door today?"
He took her shoulders and said firmly, "We will get out of here today no matter what."
She did want to believe him. But — "How? If — "
He said confidently, "I will rip a board from the shelves and batter the door down if I must."
"Can you do that?" She recognized, only after she spoke, however, that her astonished tone was far from a compliment to his abilities.
He laughed abashedly, as if he, too, found the thought incredible. "I know I'm more Juliet's frog than a warrior like my namesake, but I think I could manage it." There was an odd look in his eye when he joked, "I may never have been kissed by a beautiful princess, but I held one in my arms all night."
The room seemed impossibly smaller. "How long should we wait?"
"An hour, perhaps? No more. I would not choose to be so destructive if it is not necessary. But your family will be frantic by now."
Nervously, she began to pace. "Mr. Beasley should be in the shop by now, wouldn't you say? Perhaps he has already come and gone and we are free and don't even know it?"
He looked dubious. "I have heard nothing on the stairs."
"Still, it does not hurt to try," she said, hurrying down the little steps and into the other room.
They tried the door, but it was quite solidly locked and rattled little in its frame when Arthur pounded upon it.
He began to work at the shelf he intended to use as a battering ram, to remove it from the wall. She helped him move books and stack them in an empty corner. "Do you believe Mr. Beasley will be discreet? About the two of us being here all night?"
He did not meet her eyes. "I suppose we will know soon enough."
"I don't want the duke to find out. He is quite a stickler for such matters, you know."
"I'm certain he will understand," Arthur said quietly.
"Perhaps, but it would be better if he did not know. He might even " — she laughed nervously, "expect us to marry if he were to find out."
Arthur smiled in response. "What? Just because we spent the night together — alone. How unreasonable of him."