Page 45 of An Outlaw’s Desire

Blythe walked toward the fire in her chamber, spun on her heel, and went back to the trestle table, each time crossing the area where she’d first seen Pitt’s footprints.

Night had fallen a while ago. He’d said he’d visit her tonight. Where was he?

She’d tucked Clarine into bed and returned to the room, goose bumps prickling on her arms as she’d imagined him waiting for her, but her chamber had been empty.

He might have been captured. He could be in the dungeon, unable to get word to her or anyone else…unless another ill had befallen him.

Oh, God, she couldn’t lose him now.

Determined to find out if an intruder had been caught, she’d visited the kitchens a short while ago and asked for another infusion. While the servants had made it, Blythe had wandered the bailey and tried to eavesdrop on the guards’ conversations. Without gleaning any information of note, she’d returned to the kitchens and lingered, so her infusion would be well-steeped. That delay hadn’t proven worthwhile, either.

“Pitt, where are you?” She exhaled a worried breath, turned, and approached the fire again. The heat from the blaze reminded her of him: the fire in his eyes as he’d gazed down at her; the warmth of his powerful, muscled body when they’d lain together yestereve; the possessive smolder in his expression that had told her he hadn’t forgotten that once, she’d been his.

At the answering ache within her, she looked at the tapestry hiding the door. Could he be hurt in the passageway, unable to reach her chamber? ’Twas more plausible than the doubt insisting he hadn’t intended to come to her tonight at all but had said so last night so he could end their discussion without offending her.

Nay. Pitt hasn’t forsaken you. He is in trouble.

Blythe crossed to the chest of drawers. Leaning her weight against it, she shifted it, little by little, until she could open the door. Holding a candle, she slipped into the inky passageway.

She walked forward, as far as she dared. In the enclosed space, her footfalls and the rustle of her gown echoed. “Pitt?” she called.

No answer.

“Pitt,” she said, more loudly.

No response.

She truly did not want to go deeper into the tunnels. She could lose her sense of direction. She might even encounter Lord Worrell’s ghost.

As Blythe returned to her room, her gaze fell upon his lordship’s book on the table. Its pages told of secrets linked to the castle and its surrounding lands.

If Pitt was connected to one of those perilous secrets—and part of her believed he was—did she not have a duty, as Rosetta’s best friend, a loyal friend of Ash, and a former ward of Lord and Lady Montgomery, to find out? She might be the only one who could get such information.

“Aye.” She smoothed her hands over her gown. Leaving the chest of drawers to return to its place later, she picked up the tome and quit the chamber.

As she hurried down the torch lit corridors, she mulled what she’d say when questioned. Drawing on her knowledge of the fortress, Blythe made her way down the winding stairwell that led to the chambers below the keep.

The air became mustier. Damper. The coldness from the stone seeped into the soles of her shoes.

Male voices, growing louder, reached her.

“…his lordship will want to question him,” another said.

“Lord Montgomery may not return for another day or two.”

“We should send a missive.” That voice belonged to Harlow.

Blythe hesitated just beyond the light touching the end of the stairwell. When she rounded the corner, she’d be in view of the guards. She’d better be convincing in her act.

You can be. You will be.

Pushing her shoulders back, the book clutched to her bosom, she descended the last few steps.

His wrists manacled in front of him, Pitt sat on a wooden stool. The guards had forced him to sit the middle of the dungeon—not confined him in a cell with iron bars or the isolated chamber designed to break the minds and wills of uncooperative prisoners.

While being uncaged could be advantageous, he in no way considered himself lucky. The men, all seasoned warriors and heavily armed, encircled him and watched his every move. No way in hell could Pitt make a run for the stairwell. His captors had also ensured he wouldn’t get far even if, by slim chance, he did manage to escape them, for they’d stripped him of his weapons, tunic, shirt, cloak, and boots before shackling him. He’d been left wearing only his woolen hose. On such a frigid night, he could freeze to death.

He still might. The air in the dungeon was bloody cold.