The Unintended Bride (7 page)

"What?"

"A knocking sound?"

She paused to listen, enveloped by a sense of coming doom, hoping for a terrible moment that she would hear only silence because she wanted nothing more than to leave this shadow-strewn shop behind. But the sound was clear, even if it was faint. Reluctantly, she nodded. "It is coming from upstairs."

"Wait outside while I check to make sure that Mr. Beasley has not fallen or hurt himself in some way."

She knew well enough that he worried the shopkeeper had been hurt by the one who had left the note for them to find. "I would prefer to go with you, I think," she said.

He looked as if he might protest, his lips parting. However, having learned a trick or two from her sisters, she quickly began to ascend the stairs before he could voice his agreement or disagreement with her wishes.

"It would be wiser if you waited outside," he said as they climbed the staircase.

"Then I am not being wise today," she answered sharply. She had no intention of wandering idly through the other shops on the street while he might be facing a madman alone.

They followed the sound up a flight of bare steps, through a wide door with a padlock hanging loose, and up a final rickety flight of stairs that creaked ominously under the weight of their careful feet.

"What do you think it is?" She asked the question only to break the dreadful silence that made her want to scream and run. "Perhaps," she offered, "it might be a loose shutter. Or a roof board."

He took her hand and squeezed it briefly, but did not let go as they continued. "Or perhaps Mr. Beasley came upstairs, fell, and now cannot get down the stairs by himself to seek help."

"Or call out. " She took comfort in feel of his strong fingers entwined with hers. The shimmering feeling from last night returned, spreading out through the grip of their hands to encompass her. The feeling mingled with her dread, but did not ease it away.

"He is elderly, I know, but surely we would hear his voice calling by now?" She pictured the man lying injured upstairs, the victim of the note writer who was tormenting Arthur.

They opened the last small door and ascended three final steps, finding themselves in a small, dustless chamber at the top of the shop, lined with yet more books. Mr. Beasley was nowhere to be found — injured or well — in any of the rooms.

One small octagonal window let in light. Somehow Hero was comforted to see the patch of blue sky above them. It almost seemed that their journey up the stairs had taken them hours rather than minutes, that she should see stars through the windowpane.

"There's no one here," she said with relief. And then she realized that the rhythmic sound had in fact stopped. She looked at Arthur and saw that he, too, had realized . . . and then the door behind them slammed shut.

At first she thought it an accident. The sound of a bolt being slid home sent a cold chill up her spine.

She broke the connection of their hands and raced for the door. "Mr. Beasley, there's someone up here, don't lock us in." Silence.

"Mr. Beasley!" She pounded on the door. The elderly proprietor of the shop was nearly deaf. Now was not the time to be ladylike. Nor was it the time to wonder if her jailer was Mr. Beasley — or the one who had sent the notes.

Arthur joined in, and the door rattled slightly under their joint efforts. But Mr. Beasley did not appear to rescue them.

After a moment she stopped, her fists aching from the force of the blows she had been raining on the door. "Do you suppose he did not know we were here?"

"We did ascend quietly." Of course they had, they didn't know who or what they might face when they reached the top, no matter that they spoke as if whoever had locked the door must be Mr. Beasley, even now.

"What shall we do?" Hero glanced at Arthur.

"I suppose we are trapped here until he comes back to unlock the door."

So they would pretend it was Mr. Beasley, still. She could not refrain from a sharp question. "The shop usually closes at six in the evening — and often enough of late the last few years, he closes early because of ill health. It is more than possible that he might not return until tomorrow morning."

He shook his head. His voice was filled with frustration. "That is simply not acceptable." He scanned the room carefully, his gaze focused and intense. "There must be some way to escape. If only Beasley had conveniently left an ax up here — " He lapsed into silence, but his gaze was searching and pensive at the same time.

Hero sank back against the door. Trapped. They were trapped here. Together. Alone. In one of her sister's fairytales, they might end up confessing tender feelings for each other. Perhaps share a kiss. But this was not a fairytale. She was alone with a man she loved, who seemed desperate to escape her. Could anything be worse? Only that he might know how she felt. Thank goodness she had not spoken of it last night in the library, tempted though she had been.

The silence began to wear at her nerves. "Why do you think Mr. Beasley locked us in here?"

He closed his eyes and pressed his ear against the door. "Why are you so certain that it was Mr. Beasley? We saw no sign of him when we searched the shop."

This was not what she wanted to hear at all. If he, too, shared her suspicions, then they could not be entirely foolish. "He could have been hidden somewhere."

"We looked thoroughly through the shop."

They had, she could not argue. He had even laughed at her for checking inside a large cupboard. "You know he does not hear well, perhaps he did not hear us calling" — a new hope struck her — "or perhaps he just stepped out for a pint and just now returned."

"That is possible enough." Arthur paused to consider her premise. "But why not leave a sign to say so?"

She sighed. He was so particular in the details. Most of the time she loved that about him, but not now. "Perhaps he forgot — he must be nearly eighty. Perhaps his sign was blown away, or stolen by a prankster."

"Perhaps."

"There was no sign of a struggle," Hero said calmly, though she felt anything but calm at that moment. "We saw most of the shop while we were searching for him. Do you suppose — " The thought was too terrible to speak aloud. But she did. "If this were a tale told by Mr. Dickens, the person who locked us in would no doubt be the fiend who sent you the message."

He grinned at the thought. "Mr. Dickens writes melodrama. Don't you think we are too sensible for such a thing? Or do you think someone with the heart of Quilp may have evil designs upon me?" The question hung in the air between them as they both considered its implications. At last, slowly, reluctantly, he asked, "But what motive would — "

She said quietly, knowing that it would wound his pride, because it would mean that the manuscript had been a maliciously illusive lure, "To make a fool of you?"

"How?"

"Someone will have to release us, after all. We shall have to explain how we came to be here .... " The full implication of what she was saying began to dawn upon her, and she trailed off. She felt a shiver take hold and tried to fight it.

"True. I should have known it was a hoax." He took her hand again, and their eyes met as he felt her tremors. He pulled her to him, holding her tight, until her shivers stopped. "And now I've involved you in a foolish mess."

He had called her Hero. Easily, as if it were the name he used for her in his private thoughts. Not that she would bring it to his attention now. He might let her go, and that she did not want. "Nonsense, you did what any good man on a quest would do — you followed your instincts and checked up on a lead that was slightly improbable but not outright foolish."

"Digby shall never know of this, Hero. I promise you on my honor that I will get us out of here with no one the wiser."

"Nor shall Gwen hear of it from my lips," she promised in return, though in truth she could not care about Digby or Gwen. He had used her given name. Again. If he had realized what he called her, he would have been appalled, he would have apologized. She knew it meant nothing. He was distraught. He was confounded. He had called her by her name, and it sounded so right from his lips, she dared not look at him too long for fear that he would see and understand how she felt about him. Instead, she stood in the circle of his arms until, at last, he set her aside.

"There must be a solution to this puzzle, and I shall find it," he vowed, as he paced around the tiny room. He ruffled his hands through his hair until it was so untidy there were wisps that actually stood straight up. She had a strong desire to run her fingers through the locks to calm them. But she did nothing of the sort.

She must not think about his slip of the tongue. Must not think it meant anything at all. If she was not careful, she would say something she would regret forever. She needed a distraction from the sight of him. The thought of him in the library in his shirtsleeves, his hair touseled as it was now.

She began to browse the shelves that lined the tiny room. There were large and small books, seemingly all on one subject, judging by the way Mr. Beasley had organized them. She was grateful that they had not been locked into an empty attic room — with nothing to look at but themselves. Though she wouldn't have minded looking at Arthur for hours at a time, she was afraid if she did, he would see through to her heart.

She put on her spectacles to look more closely at the books on the shelves. Oddly enough, many had no titles visible on the spines. The other titles were not ones she recognized. She chose a few at random and began to leaf through the pages rapidly. Some were illustrated as well, she realized.

Several were even illustrated in hand-painted color, she noticed as she chose one book and opened it idly to thumb through it more carefully. And then one illustration in particular captured her attention. She gasped. "Oh, my."

The book would have slipped from her fingers to the floor if Arthur had not caught it. His expression grew horrified and then quickly blank as he, too, saw the drawing on the page that had made her fingers lose grip. "I did not know Beasley sold books like this," he said sharply, without looking at her, as he replaced the book on the shelf.

"I didn't know there were books like that," Hero replied shakily. The illustration was burned into her brain. A man and woman. Undressed. In each other's arms. She looked at the walls and their shelves of books. Were they all like this one? Curious, she took another from the shelf and flipped it open. Yes. This illustration was not in color, but the india-ink sketch left no detail to the imagination.

If Miranda had not already been quite clear and explicit about what happened between men and women when they married, this sketch might have sent her into hysterics. She snapped the book shut, remembering Miranda had promised that though it sounded awkward and painful, it wasn't. For one moment, though, she found herself doubting her normally truthful sister.

She looked up at Arthur. They were trapped in this room together. Alone. In a roomful of books that illustrated what a man and a woman could do together, did they dare. She remembered much too clearly how he had looked in the library last night, haloed by the lamp light. She had been so tempted to confess her feelings. She glanced up at the small window. At least he would not present such a temptation tonight, as there were no lamps, or candles, in the attic room. Soon darkness would fall. And then what?

She fluctuated rapidly between wanting to laugh until her breath came in gasps and to cry until her tears were spent. Could anyone have devised a more perfect torture for her?

She hoped none of her feelings showed upon her face as she said numbly, "If you cannot find a way to breach the door, how long do you think we might have to wait?" She lifted the book in her hand in a wordless gesture, and then said only, "I don't think this reading matter will keep us suitably occupied."

He did not answer. He was staring down at her with an intensity that made her wonder if he might have divined her wild imaginings. But that was impossible.

"Arthur," she touched his arm, a mere brush of her glove against his forearm, though she felt the touch vibrate up her arm and through her center in an instant. "How long do you think we will have to wait here before Mr. Beasley comes back?"

He shook himself out of his trance and looked around the room at the shelves of books. He shuddered. "We cannot wait for rescue. To be found here, together, would be disaster." He renewed his assault on the door until he suddenly stopped mid-blow and bent to examine one of the hinges.

After a moment, he said, "I think this is loose; can you find something flat — wait." He pulled a page cutter from his pocket and worked at the hinge.

Within a few moments he gave a cry of triumph and a wrench of his arm. The hinge hung loose in his hand, and the door gaped open slightly.

He grinned at her, his eyes lit with triumph. He held up the page cutter. "I suppose we must now dub this Excalibur."

Hero gave a clap, as if to cheer him, though part of her wished he was less eager to escape confinement with her.

With a little more effort, Arthur had the top hinge undone as well. "Well done," she said approvingly as he pulled the door away and they hurried down the three little steps into the darkened outer room — where they were promptly stopped by the larger door.

"Devil take this fiend. Perhaps he was sent by Dickens himself to confound us," he groaned.

Hero stared at the door. Earlier, she remembered, the padlock had hung loose, but now the door was securely fastened, and apparently padlocked from the opposite side again as well, as when they pounded at it they could hear the metallic thump of the padlock for their efforts.

They both stared at the second door in dismay. There were no hinges on this side at all. And, just as solid as the smaller door, it did not give way to their blows.

Trapped again. Hero noticed that the light was quickly fading away, and she climbed back up to the small room to see, through the octagonal window, that the sky was darkening to dusk. Juliet would be home from her drive by now. Miranda would be frantic when she realized Hero was missing.