Page 26 of My Devoted Viscount (Brazen Bluestockings #2)

She found the pocket where earlier that afternoon he’d stuffed his handkerchief after dusting a rock for her to sit on, and dipped her fingers inside the soft wool.

At first she encountered cold, rough metal.

She explored it for a moment, assessing the shape.

The toy soldiers! Toys from his childhood.

What had he looked like as a child, amusing himself for hours on end in a cave with only tin soldiers for company?

A little more groping inside his pocket—her cheeks heated—and she found the fine linen.

Careful not to dislodge the toys, she tugged the handkerchief out, shook it, and folded it into a square.

Probing with her fingers, she found what she thought was the main wound, the source of the blood, and pressed the linen pad to it.

She couldn’t very well keep kneeling next to him, holding her hand to his head indefinitely. Her back muscles were beginning to cramp. Tear a strip from her petticoat? It was probably filthy with sand and dirt. And she had spent hours embellishing it with embroidery.

Her fichu! She had tucked it back in her gown’s neckline after she noticed Fairfax staring at her chest when they were out on the beach, after he’d tripped on her foot. He couldn’t very well stare at her breasts in here.

After shaking out any dust, she soon had the fichu folded lengthwise and ready to wind around his head to hold the makeshift bandage in place. Cautiously feeling her way, she lifted his head sufficiently to slide the fichu underneath and tied a knot to hold the handkerchief in place.

He still made not a sound, no reaction, though his breathing remained steady.

Still on her hands and knees, she circled around him and continued with her original plan to find the entrance to the cave.

The rocks became a pile rather than scattered.

Impatiently she yanked her skirts out of the way and climbed, glad she had changed into her half-boots before sneaking out of the house and down to the beach.

Up. Over to her right. Higher. Rocks slid and her feet slipped, and surely her knees and palms were bleeding, but she kept climbing, groping her way across, ignoring the sound of ripping fabric, until the pile began to descend again and she bumped her head.

On the roof of the cave.

The entrance had collapsed.

Tears leaked from her eyes. She wanted to pound her fists in frustration.

She allowed herself a moment to wallow in frustration at the setback.

That’s all this was … a setback. She tamped down the returning panic that threatened to paralyze her, shoving it to the back of her mind.

If rocks had tumbled down, they could bloody well be shoved aside.

Her eyes feeling gritty from dust and fatigue—how late had the night grown?

—and her hands and knees on fire, she picked up a rock from the top of the pile and flung it to the far side of the cave.

She cocked her head to listen, wanting to be sure the rock landed on the floor and not on Fairfax.

It landed with a clatter, not a dull thud, before rolling to a stop.

She tried to gauge the center of where the entrance had been by where the peak of the pile seemed to be, and began throwing rocks off to the side. Some were too big for her to budge so she worked around them.

Perspiration trickled down her spine, her breath came in harsh pants, and occasionally she swiped her sweaty brow with the back of her forearm.

The rocks grew heavier. More and more of them were too heavy for her to shift.

Figuring perhaps she could move the big rocks by removing the smaller ones supporting them underneath, she worked her way down the pile.

Minutes or hours later, as she paused to catch her breath and stretch cramped muscles, she heard another sound.

A groan.

“Lord Fairfax?” she called.

He grunted.

She clambered down and felt her way to his side, and shook his shoulder. “Lord Fairfax!”

He pushed away her hand as though brushing away an annoying insect.

“I would really like it if you could wake up, my lord,” she said.

“Not tonight, cara ,” he muttered.

Sophia sat back on her heels, her hands on her hips.

Until she realized her hands hurt too much to rest on fabric, and she let them dangle at her sides.

Here she was, trapped in a cave with a collapsed entrance, had been in complete darkness for who knows how long, perhaps no one knew they were stuck in here, her hands and knees and probably other body parts bleeding from crawling on sharp rocks, she was exhausted from trying to free herself …

and her only companion wanted to sleep instead of regaining consciousness?

“Wake the bloody hell up!” she shouted. Her voice bounced off the rock walls, reverberated inside her skull.

“Ow, ow, ow,” he muttered. Fabric rustled. “No need to shout,” he grumbled.

Relief washed through her at hearing his rumbling bass voice, even if he likely wanted to throttle her just now. “Can you sit up? How is your head?”

“Thought I was sitting up.”

She reached out and found his shoulders—both of them.

His hands grabbed hers and held them, waving them in front of where she imagined his face was, before bringing them down to his chest. “Why is it so dark?”

“The cave entrance collapsed.” She detested the break in her voice on that last word.

“Oh. Thought that’s what happened when Clyde fired.” He cleared his throat. “Let’s have a look at the damage.” He let go her hands.

Before she could sarcastically inquire if he had gained the ability to see in total darkness, she heard more fabric rustling, a scratch, and then a candle flared to life, held in Fairfax’s hand.

She blinked at the sudden brightness.

His face was smudged with dirt, darkened from razor stubble, her black fichu wrapped at a jaunty angle around his head holding his folded white handkerchief in place, and streaks of blood marred his hair, temple, and forehead.

He had never been more handsome. She had never been so relieved in her life to see another human.

He dripped a little wax on the ground off to the side and set the candle in it, then started to rise. And sat back down with a thump and groan, holding his hands to his head, his eyes squeezed shut.