“It’s turned out not to be useless,” Chrystabel pointed out. “Here we are in it, with a priest-hunter looking for us.”
“Looking for Creath, really. But it’s a wonder there are still priest-hunters around. Elizabeth’s been dead for forty-eight years.”
“Arabel said the priest-hunter was ancient. Perhaps she wasn’t exaggerating.”
“I’d guess she wasn’t.” She felt him tense. “Do you hear that?” he asked.
“What?”
“Someone’s in the cellar next door.”
Listening hard, she thought she might be hearing footsteps, barely audible through the stone wall. Then a distinct bang. She jumped, and Joseph’s arms tightened around her.
“Is he knocking on the wall to see if there’s a room on the other side?” she asked in her smallest whisper.
“Probably. But he won’t be able to tell. These stone walls are too thick.”
To her embarrassment, she was trembling. Her knees threatened to give out. “Can we sit down?” she whispered right into his ear, so quietly she could barely hear herself.
Still holding on to her, he began shuffling them toward the table.
“No,” she breathed. “The bed, not the table. I want to sit beside you, not across from you.”
“I don’t think we should be on a bed together.”
“You’re sounding like your father.”
“I am not an old fust-cudgel.” The words sounded like they came from between clenched teeth, and she felt him take a deep breath before he continued. “It’s just that…I’m not sure I can trust myself with you.”
“Why would you say that?”
“Because it’s true. I’ve never felt anything like the way I feel with you, Chrysanthemum. Whenever I’m near you, I just…lose control.”
Liking the sound of that, she became even more determined to get him to the bed. Picturing where it was in her mind, she began moving them toward it. And recognized the moment he gave in. He knew the room better than she did, and he had them on that bed in a flash.
Not wanting to alarm him, she sat primly beside him and slipped her hand into his. “Are you still worried?” she asked, staring straight ahead into the blackness.
“Of course I’m still worried. Are you not?”
“Just a little.” Mostly she was worrying about how to get him to kiss her. “Maybe we can help each other feel better. What are you worrying about?”
His hand squeezed hers as he considered. “I’m worried for Creath. I’m worried your brother might not know the way to Bristol.”
“We went through Bristol on our way here. You said yourself that it’s just twelve miles away. I’m sure Creath knows the way, too—she’s lived here all her life, has she not? Trust Matthew. He’ll get her to Bristol.”
“Once they’re there, he’ll need to bribe a Justice of the Peace to marry them without her guardian’s permission. To marry them without asking her age. I didn’t tell him that.”
“Matthew is clever. Besides, does Creath not know that?”
“I did mention it a few days ago.”
“Then they will do fine. Trust Matthew,” she repeated.
She felt him shift around, perhaps trying to get comfortable on the lumpy straw pallet. “What are you worried about?” he asked. “If not the two of them?”
“Your parents,” she admitted.
“Really? What about them worries you?”
“I’m worried they’ll be in trouble if we’re found down here with these holiday things. They’ll get blamed for breaking the law—all because I insisted on celebrating Christmas. What if they lose Tremayne to confiscation, like Matthew lost Grosmont Grange? It would be all my fault.”
He squeezed her hand again. “That’s not going to happen. For all his bluster, Sir Leonard is a petty troublemaker. He won’t dare to go up against the Earl of Trentingham. At least, not over something as minor as Christmas decorations.”
She did remember the earl standing up to Sir Leonard. Still… “That’s not what your father said.”
She felt rather than saw him wave that off. “My father can be a bit of a fust-cudgel.”
When she giggled, his hand squeezed hers again. “Is there anything else you’re worried about?” he asked.
“I don’t think so.”
“I thought you were going to say you’re worried my parents won’t approve of our betrothal.”
“No!” she exclaimed in a whisper. “Your mother loves me. Although you haven’t proposed, so there’s no betrothal for them to approve or disapprove of, is there?”
“Holy Hades.” He promptly slipped from the bed. She guessed he had gone down to a knee. He took both her hands in his, fumbling a little till he found the second one. “Chrystabel Trevor, will you make me the happiest fellow alive by agreeing to be my wife?”
“Sweet heaven!” She wished she could see his face. But she couldn’t, so she needed to touch it. She pulled her hands from his to cradle his cheeks, thrilling at the feel of his slight roughness against her palms. “Is this truly happening? I love you so much. Will you kiss me now?”
“You haven’t said yes yet.”
“Yes! For goodness’ sake, yes!”
TWENTY-TWO
SHE’D SAID YES. He was going to marry Chrystabel.
Chrystabel would be his wife, and he would be her husband—assuming they made it out of this priest hole unscathed.
And assuming Creath married Matthew.
Because if something did go wrong on their journey…
Holy Hades.
“I love you,” Chrystabel whispered.
“I know,” Joseph returned, his own whisper filled with wonder. He could scarcely believe he hadn’t known her four days ago. “I love you, too. But—”
“We’re betrothed. We’re betrothed!” Her whisper was pure glee. She was adorable. Even when he couldn’t see her, she was adorable. “You said you would kiss me if I said yes.”
He hadn’t, not really. But he could see how she might think he had, so he came up off his knee and sat again beside her. Peering into the pitch-black, he reached for her—then pulled back.
It didn’t feel right kissing her in a dark priest hole. For one thing, until Creath was safely wed, their betrothal was on tenuous footing. He had
