Page 37 of The Viscount of Shadows

Claudia turned down the wick, and darkness descended. She did not move toward him. After several moments, she climbed onto the pallet and lay on her side, her back to him. Oliver laid the blanket over her and moved closer, laying his arm on her hip.

“Never mind that,” he murmured, referring to his erection. “It is my permanent state whenever you are near.”

Claudia laced her fingers through his and squeezed gently. “Try to sleep.”

As if he could. How many nights had he dreamed of this since they met, having Claudia in his arms? As much as Oliver wanted to revel in her nearness and the feel of her soft curves, his eyes grew heavy, and sleep overtook him.

* * *

It took quite a while before Claudia fell asleep. How long she slept, who knows? Oliver still breathed heavily next to her. She was lying with a man. Sharing a sleeping area was not as horrible as she thought. Oliver was warm, and his arm around her did not make her feel trapped. His potent presence calmed her rattled nerves. And what he had said earlier about vaulting over his desk and kissing her senseless? It had sent such a thrill of desire through her; she grew wet as he said.

But the biggest revelation?

Finding out Tensbridge—Oliver—was The Sentinel.

Hell’s bells, never would she have guessed. Why would she even suspect it?

A viscount, heir to an earl? Why would he do it?

It must be an exciting story. But then, if Claudia asked him to tell it, he would want to hear of her past. She had never told anyone the entire horrid tale. To even speak of it would require a modicum of trust. For some reason, she felt it with Oliver.

But beyond that, they must escape. What to do? During their previous meeting, Oliver mentioned that the detective was at the Lancaster Road station. Perhaps she could slip out and enlist Simpson’s assistance, have the coppers create a distraction enough to get Oliver to safety and a doctor’s care. It was a notion worth contemplating.

Oliver stirred and coughed, then groaned. “Hell, I can hardly move. Can you take me over to the bucket? I have to urinate.”

“As long as I don’t have to hold your shaft for you.”

Oliver chuckled low in his throat, then moaned. “I said don’t make me laugh.”

“I will bring the bucket to you. Can you get up on your knees?”

“If you help me.”

Claudia fetched the bucket, knowing exactly where she had placed it previously. Already it reeked. How could they stay down in this stone cellar? The odor from their excretions will drive them out, if nothing else. Placing the bucket on the ground, she took Oliver’s elbow and slowly assisted him in kneeling. He kept the groans low, but his distress was evident. He had been right; they would have never made it out of Notting Dale, especially with the faraway voices heading their way and growing ever closer. They were no doubt more of Danaher’s men.

“Easy,” she murmured. “The bucket is directly in front of you.”

“Good.” A long, steady stream filled her hearing, and then it ceased. “As you said, mortifying.”

“We do what we have to survive, and—”

Noises from outside silenced her. They froze.

“What the feck, Billy. This be an abandoned buildin’, has been for years. No one would come in here. It’s ready to fall down.”

“You ’eard ’imself, search every building and lean-to,” another man replied.

They clomped about, their heavy tread reverberating through the cellar. Claudia’s heart sped up as she fought a wave of fright. She must remain calm in this crisis and clear-headed.

“He also said he would rip out walls and floors. He’s gone barmy. Havin’ us look for a whore and some nutter in a mask. They’re gone, I tell you.”

“’imself says no. We ’ad men at every exit. No one left right after the attack.”

“Who’s to know? The prostitute and the nutter hid and slipped out hours later. Waste of time, this is. Come on. We got more to check on this street.”

The voices and footsteps receded.

Claudia and Oliver did not move or speak for several minutes.