Maplecroft (The Borden Dispatches #1)(50)

I might get lucky.





? ? ?


I thought I’d have to seduce her out of the key, and I was right, after a fashion.

Emma wished to stay downstairs, for it’s become warm very suddenly—and probably not permanently, given the way seasons shift and startle around here. Next week, I’m sure it’ll be dastardly cold for another bad snap, and then come May, things will level out. That’s my prediction.

So Emma was downstairs, where it was cooler, still. Heat rises, and thank heaven for that simple fact of nature, because the bedrooms are all upstairs and that meant we’d have the whole floor to ourselves at last.

It took forever and yet another day to get Emma settled on the grand settee, enthroned like a queen in a fort of pillows, which must’ve been almost as warm as the stuffy room she wished to escape—but what’s it to me? Let her smother herself with feathers, or sheets, or whatever else makes her happy. It makes me happy to have her out of the way.

After a protracted ritual of adjustments, she finally was comfortable enough for us to turn down the lights and draw tight the curtains, and all the while Lizbeth was a grouch about it—fussing about every little thing, checking all the locks on all the doors and windows, as if someone would try to come inside the moment her back was turned.

Nonsense, Lizbeth. Nobody cares but you.





? ? ?


But with Emma settled, and now equipped with bells to ring in case of difficulty, we retreated to Lizbeth’s room. I had a guest suite, but I was sick of using it. I wasn’t here to camp at the end of a hall. I was here to see Lizbeth, and I would see every inch of her before my visit was up. She knew it, I knew it, and Emma likely knew it, too; but Lizbeth was so funny about Emma hearing any slight peep.

Honestly, that woman would sleep through a thunderstorm without so much as a flinch, if she ever sampled even a fraction of what she kept beside the bed. And the bottles there (and the labels upon them) were newer than those with the bourbon downstairs, so I knew they saw more circulation. Besides, the walls in this place are as thick as a tomb.

But propriety still means something to Lizbeth for some reason, and really, at this point I can’t imagine why. Let us throw open the windows and let the whole block hear how happy we are to touch one another. Who cares?

What are they going to do, talk about us? You’d think she’d be used to it by now.

Sometimes I fear I don’t understand her, not at all. But I will fix that. I will let myself downstairs, and see what she has to hide from me.





? ? ?


We undressed one another, and I thought we might take our time, since Emma was well out of shouting distance and we had all night; but Lizbeth was impatient, hungry. She almost tore my chemise, and with her head buried in my neck she told me not to worry, she’d buy me another. A dozen others. Anything, just hurry up and finish with these stupid clothes.

She pulled a pin out of her hair, and it came cascading down, all the way to her waist, and that was all she was wearing, standing in the moonlight that came filtered in through the curtains. Anyone who looked hard enough at the right angle from outside could’ve seen her. All the curves and lines of her, none of them concave except the hollow at her waist. The rest of her rounded and nicely muscled, almost like a dancer. Her arms were taut and all but swelled with strength, and her thighs were sharply cut.

She took my breath away.

Not just for being naked; that was distraction enough, and I welcomed it. But she’d forgotten to remove her jewelry. And around her neck she wore a heavy key.

The key.

She remembered it at the last second before pouncing upon me, and with what was surely meant to appear a careless, casual gesture, she pulled the chain until it unfastened by force, and tossed it onto the bureau.

I made careful note of where it went, though not so careful that I think she noticed.





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When we were finished with our merriment—and it was merry indeed, because God, I was starving for her . . . I offered to make some tea, but she said no. She’d make it. I think she just didn’t want me in the kitchen, so fine, all right then. We were both being wary about one another. But she didn’t retrieve the key, though—so she was not as cautious as I was opportunistic.

She must want a partner, and not just a lover. Whatever she’s hiding, I can bear it. We can hide it together.





? ? ?


She was still shaking a little when she arose and pulled on a robe, and wearing nothing else she headed downstairs. But who would see her except for Emma? And Emma was already asleep, almost certainly.

So while she was gone, I crept free of the sheets, unwound myself, and walked naked as quietly as possible. My dress was on the floor nearby. In its front right pocket, I had a small assortment of keys, collected from around the house. I hoped none of them were important, but I doubted it; I’m sure they were merely the keys of a household, some left behind by the previous owner, some to locks that no longer existed, on doors that had long since been removed.

I felt around for a key that more or less matched the one on the chain, and when I found as near a twin as possible, I switched them out—stashing the cellar door key in my empty dress pocket, and vowing that sooner or later, I’d replace them all where I’d found them. Not that I could remember them all, but I had a general enough idea that my small act of subterfuge would not become known anytime soon.