Page 50 of Much Ado about a Widow

“Well, that certainly seems much safer.” Sighing, Georgie accompanied him out of the foyer. “At least books cannot kill you.”

“You wouldn’t think so, would you.”

“Rob!” She batted his arm. “You cannot convince me you have a deadly book in your library. What does it do? Are its pages treated with poison? Or does it explode when one reaches page two hundred seventy-six?”

“Perhaps I should peruse your library at Blackham. Do you have such volumes there?” The false eagerness in his face, laced with laughter behind his eyes, made her laugh as well.

“You wretch. No, we have no such books at Blackham. And I’ll wager you have none such here at St. Just.”

“And just what would you care to wager, my lady?” The humor in his face had died, replaced by a fiery passion. “A kiss?”

Although thrilled at the thought of kissing him again, Georgie schooled herself to caution. “You would hardly make such a wager if you didn’t know for certain what books your library holds.”

“Unless I am bluffing.” His eyes darkened to black. “Do you think I am bluffing, Georgie?”

“I . . . I don’t know.” Lord, he had her so confused she could barely remember her name.

“Then let’s find out, shall we?” He led her down the corridor to the rear of the castle, to a huge oak-paneled door that he opened. Beyond was a delightful room with a fireplace where a pleasant blaze crackled, a chaise and several comfortable-looking chairs, and masses of tall, polished wooden bookshelves filled with books of all descriptions. High atop the shelves, busts of stern-looking men peered down at them.

“Oh, but it’s lovely.” Georgie wandered toward the fire, holding out her hands to the friendly blaze. “A very cozy room despite those heads above us.” She pointed to a bust of Cicero. “Not a place for murderous books at all. I believe you are bluffing.”

“You think so?” Chuckling, he strolled over to one of the bookshelves and pulled out a black bound book, looking to be of quite some age. “Come look at this.” He carried it to a nearby table and set it down.

In spite of herself, Georgie eased toward the table as if she truly expected the volume to burst into flame or explode. Once close enough, she read the title and looked at him, frowning. “The Holy Bible?”

“Yes, but a very special one.” His eyes twinkled. “It belonged to an ancestor from the time of King Henry VIII. This particular Kerr was a cleric at Henry’s court who had displeased the monarch and was awaiting execution in prison. Knowing King Henry’s whims and his own precarious situation, he’d taken precautions just in case he should be imprisoned. He requested that his wife bring him his personal copy of the Holy Bible, this very one here, to be a comfort to him in his last hours. The request was granted, and the wife delivered the book to him. Later that night, the ancestor began praying, weeping and wailing, calling out to his jailors that he was being possessed by a demon.”

“You are making this up, Rob.” Georgie didn’t know whether to laugh or be frightened.

“I assure you, I am not.” The sincerity in his face convinced her, almost. “So the jailors ran into the jail cell, and by that time my ancestor was writhing on the floor. The two guards turned him over, and he rose up and stabbed them in the heart with this.” Rob flipped the Bible open to reveal a narrow compartment carved out of the pages in which lay a long, narrow dagger.

“Dear Lord.” Georgie gasped and stumbled back.

“The ancestor then replaced the knife in the Bible, closed the cell, pulled his hood up over his head, and walked out carrying the book. No one stopped him as they assumed he was a priest there to give last rites to the condemned man.” The pride in his ancestor’s clever plan resonated in Rob’s voice. “He went home, gathered his wife, and they struck out for the most distant place they could find, which turned out to be Cornwall.”

“It seems the entire family tree is fraught with actors of one kind or another.” Narrowing her eyes at him, Georgie shook her head. “I am not quite sure this tale isn’t a bag of moonshine.” She ran a finger along the mass of cut pages and shuddered. “However, the book is, I grant you, a deadly tome.”

A look of triumph flashed across his face as he gathered up the Bible and returned it to its place on the shelf. “And thereby I win my forfeit?” The dark look of desire was back in his eyes.

“Yes, you do, my lord.” Tingling all over, Georgie raised her chin, and closed her eyes, anticipation of his warm mouth on hers filling her with an exquisite tension.

“Excellent.” He grabbed her hand and pulled her toward the door.

Her eyes popped open. “What are you doing? Where are we going?”

“Somewhere more private.” He turned down a corridor that led to a steep flight of steps.

“More private than a library?”

“Trust me.” Squeezing her hand, he started up the dark stone staircase.

“Where are you taking me?” Panting to keep up with Rob’s breakneck pace, Georgie pulled on his hand. “Slow down or you will kill me yet.”

“You are made of sterner stuff than that, Georgie.”

“You . . . can say that.... You’re not even . . . breathing hard.” How could he run up this steep staircase and not be winded at all? She’d danced entire evenings and never been this out of breath.

After what seemed an eternity, Rob flung open a door, and they stepped out into dull sunshine and a crisp, hard breeze. All about her was light and wide-open space as far as she could see. Her head spun. “Where are we?”