Page 42 of An Outlaw’s Desire

“Strange story about Lord Worrell.” Pitt snorted. “A ghost from a Christmas past? Whoever has heard of such a thing?”

“I am intrigued.”

“Aye, well, if the ghost does exist, he had best stay away from you and your chamber.”

Pitt’s words held a possessive note, and Blythe fought a wild little shiver. She held his gaze. “Since I am the current occupant of this room, ’tis up to me—not you—to decide if a ghost is allowed in here or not.”

Pitt’s eyes narrowed in challenge.

“’Twould be rather exciting, I vow, to encounter a spirit, although….” She crossed to the table where the tome lay. “I really should read what others have said about such experiences.”

Before she could pick up the book, Pitt walked up behind her, and his arms slid around her waist to draw her back against him. He kissed her nape, then nibbled her shoulder, and heat spread through her. Her eyes fluttering closed, she savored the sensual bond that even now hummed between them.

He gently turned her to face him. “Please. Do not go hunting for ghosts—or do anything equally foolhardy.”

“Such as hide an intruder in my chamber?”

A faint smile curved his lips. “Exactly.” His gaze turned solemn. “If anyone other than me comes through that hidden passageway, alert the guards at once.”

Misgiving gnawed at her. At last, he might be revealing some of his purpose for sneaking into the keep. “Is that likely to happen? Who else might be in that tunnel?”

His jaw hardened before he picked up the lit candle on the table. “’Tis best if I leave the way I came in.”

“Why would anyone else be in the hidden corridor?” she insisted.

Torment registered in his eyes. “As much as I want to tell you, I cannot.”

A chill settled inside her. “Why not?”

He headed to the chest of drawers. After setting down the candle holder, he gripped the furnishing, lifted it, and pulled it away from the wall with barely a scraping sound.

“Pitt.”

He sighed, the sound hissing between his teeth. “If I tell you, he….”

“He?” When Pitt did not elaborate, she said, “Who do you mean?”

Pitt retrieved the candle then pulled open the door to the passageway. The taper’s flame fluttered, as if in danger of going out.

Glancing back, he said: “I will come to you tomorrow night. Be well, Blythe.”

“You also.” With a muffled thump, the door hit the tapestry and he squeezed into the dark passageway.

“Tomorrow,” she said, “will you tell me more?”

No answer came from the darkness.

After emerging inside the long barrow, concealing the tunnel opening, and peering through a gap in the rocks to survey the field, Pitt scrambled out. He closed the former tomb’s entrance and, heading into the gusting wind, crossed the snow to the trees.

Twice, the moon had glided out of the clouds. While the guards on the fortress’s battlements might have seen him, no one had shouted for him to stop. No one had pursued him. They would have, if he’d been perceived as any kind of threat. To ensure he wasn’t being followed, he took a longer trail through the woods to the outskirts of the town that had built up around Millenstowe Keep.

Upon reaching the wattle-and-daub inn, he went up the back stairwell. The air in the confined space reeked of smoke and mildew. Music and laughter from the bar on the ground level followed him up to the poorly lit landing.

As he unlocked the door to his room, fatigue seeped into his bones. Because he was behind on payment for his lodgings, the staff wouldn’t keep his fire burning or provide him with fresh candles. He’d collected sticks earlier, though, and would soon get a blaze going to ward off the drafts.

The door creaked inward. Flickering light drew his gaze to the hearth, where a fire crackled.

Surprise whipped through him, just as a man turned from the battered table.