Page 52 of An Outlaw’s Desire

“We are equals,” she muttered. “You should share right now what you have discovered.”

“I might be wrong, although I do not believe so.”

He set aside the sword. With both hands free, he ran his right palm over the wall, assessing the row upon row of stones. He ran his fingers over each stone and poked at every gap in the mortar.

Close to his right hip, an oval-shaped stone wobbled.

“Ah.” He carefully shifted it, little by little, until it slid free.

Blythe moved closer, so the torchlight touched where the stone had been. He heard her sharp intake of breath.

“This part of the wall…. ’Tis not really a wall at all.”

“’Tis not really a wall at all,” he agreed. “’Tis a door.”

Before Blythe could offer another hairpin, Pitt produced the one he’d used before and slid it into the metal lock that had been hidden behind the oval stone.

Excitement bubbling up inside her, Blythe waited, hardly daring to draw a breath, while Pitt twisted and turned the pin. Someone had built the door and intended for it to look like the surrounding walls, so it would go undetected. For what purpose? Why go to such effort?

Whatever lay beyond must be important.

The lock clicked. At the same moment, a metallic thump sounded from inside the door: mayhap some kind of gear releasing.

“Move back,” Pitt said.

She took several backward steps.

Gripping makeshift handholds in the stone, Pitt pulled. He grimaced. “’Tis heavy.”

“I will help.” She shoved the torch into the wall to her right, put down the book, and moved in to help him.

“On the count of three,” he said. “Three. Two. One….”

They pulled together, him gripping higher up, her lower down. With a grating sound, the door—just tall enough and wide enough for a man to step through—shifted outward a little. Stones had been cut and secured to a wooden board with such care that when the doorway was in place, it blended seamlessly with the rest of the passageway.

She helped Pitt move the panel far enough aside to reveal what lay beyond: a chamber.

Pitt retrieved the torch, and as its light illuminated the room, Blythe’s hand flew to her throat. Holy Mother Mary.

Pitt’s features hardened with anger and dismay. Without a word, he walked farther into the room, until he stood in the midst of the crossbows, broadswords, bows, quivers of arrows, and shields propped against the walls. He shook his head.

“These weapons are not part of the armory,” Blythe said.

“Nay, they are not.”

His voice sounded odd; as though he’d just come to a startling realization at that very instant.

Pitt leaned down and picked up a sheathed sword lying atop a gray wool cloak. His face contorted with anger and dismay.

“Do you recognize the blade?” she asked.

“I do.” His furious gaze met hers. “It belongs to me.”

Chapter Fourteen

“You?” A shrill humming noise filled Blythe’s mind. Judging by his expression, Pitt had no idea how his sword had come to be in the chamber. His emotional reactions seemed genuine, not feigned or rehearsed.

“The cloak, too, is mine,” he said evenly. “’Twas stolen months ago.”