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CHAPTER TWO

PORK CHOP AND PREDICAMENT

Seven Years Later

Beatrice was beginning to suspect that intellectual curiosity might be her downfall.

After three hours of waiting in Lord Rothbury's abandoned folly tower, she had exhaustively documented the patterns of dust accumulation, mating habits of spiders, and calculated the statistical probability that she would die here, her obituary reading "Last contribution to science – the study of dust patterns in medieval architecture. "

When she finally heard hoofbeats, the relief was short-lived. Of all people in Westerfield who might happen past, it would be him. Lord Ira rode below, looking unfairly handsome on his black stallion. Seven years had done nothing to diminish the sharp sting of his childhood mockeries.

She could wait for another passerby.

The church bell tolled in the distance. Four o'clock. In another hour, it would be dark.

Beatrice swallowed her pride. "My lord! Lord Ira!"

Ira reined his horse, surveying his surrounding in confusion.

"Up here!"

He tilted his head back, and even from this height, she could see his expression shift from confusion to that familiar, insufferable amusement. Confound it. He was even more appealing than before – broader and just rugged enough to lend him a serious air. Until he opened his mouth, that is.

"Well, well," he called up. "If it isn't Beatrice Bluestocking. If you are attempting a study on the effects of altitude on social aspirations, I daresay you are going about it all wrong."

Beatrice's fingers tightened on the windowsill. "How fortunate that seven years hasn’t elevated your wit above the livestock, my lord."

"Ah yes, speaking of which – " His eyes turned smug. "Have you developed any new notions about animal intelligence since our last meeting? I must say, that particular specimen proved quite... satisfying in the end."

The old hurt flared fresh. "You are exactly as cruel as I remember."

Pain flickered in his expression, but his tone remained light. "Come now, Miss Winters. Surely seven years is long enough to mourn a porkchop?"

"The door," she said through clenched teeth, "is stuck. If you would be so kind as to assist, I will endeavour to remove myself from your presence as quickly as possible."

"And deprive yourself of such charming company?" He dismounted with casual grace. "Though I must admit, this is a rather extreme method of securing an audience. Missing me, were you?"

"About as much as I’d miss the measles."

"More pleasant than measles, I should hope." He approached the tower, then grinned up at her. "Though possibly more infectious. I've been told my smile is quite catching."

"What I recall catching from you, my lord, is a profound disappointment."

That hit home. His smile faltered slightly before he covered it with an elaborate bow. "Then allow me to disappoint you one last time by rescuing you from your predicament."

Before she could say another word, Lord Ira disappeared through the tower entrance which led to the staircase.

"My lord!" Beatrice rushed to the door and began to shout, hoping he wouldn't do anything impulsive. "The mechanism is jammed! You need to?—"

The sound of rattling echoed up the stairwell as Ira shook the door vigorously, drowning out her warning. A solid thud interrupted her as his boot collided with the ancient oak, followed by a grunt of frustration.

She had barely enough time to move out of the way before the door crashed open under his weight – followed by an ominous click.

Beatrice gawked at the door then at the large man dressed in black leather riding gear sprawled across her floor. "Pray tell me you did not..."

"It appears," his voice was hoarse from the impact, "the door has won this battle." He rose to his feet, cravat askew, his hat nowhere to be found. "We seem to be locked in." He regarded her with a sheepish smile through the strands of chestnut brown hair that had fallen over his eyes.

The silence stretched between them like a drawn bow.

"Of all the arrogant, thoughtless..." Beatrice's voice shook. "Could you not, for once in your life, listen before charging in like a bull?"

"I prefer to think of it as decisive action."

"It is proof that breeding doesn't guarantee intelligence!" She whirled away sharply but knew he caught the gleam of tears in her eyes.

"Miss Winters..." His voice lost its teasing edge. "Beatrice... I apologise. I never meant to cause you grief... for the door or anything else."

"And yet you manage it so effortlessly. Despite not intending to trap me here or make me a laughingstock seven years ago, here we are.

" She kept her back to him, gathering her trembling hands in front of her so he couldn't see them.

"Do you know how long it took before people stopped making pig-related jokes at every social event?

How many times I had to hear about the viscount's daughter who thought she could train roast pork? "

"I didn't realise..."

"Of course not. Everything's a grand joke to you. Well, congratulations, my lord. You've managed to get caught in your own net. I do hope it proves educational."

The silence that followed was heavy with years of unspoken grievances. Beatrice adjusted her spectacles, a shield between them.

She took a deep breath to maintain her composure then pivoted to face him.

"You know what pains me the most? I harboured the foolish notion that you might prove different.

Before your friends' arrival at the fair.

.. you inquired about my scholarly pursuits.

You appeared genuinely intrigued. I dared to imagine that perhaps.

.." She shook her head. "But alas. I was simply another trifling amusement for the earl's overindulged son. "

Ira appeared utterly aghast. "Beatrice, I find myself at a loss for words..."

"How refreshing..." She held up a hand as he opened his mouth. "Please... probably better if you don't. Let's direct our attention to a swift departure from this place."

Beatrice stood at the window, straining her eyes against the dimming light. Ira leaned against the wall near her, his earlier amusement giving way to quiet reflection.

"It's futile to watch," he stated finally. "No one ventures this far except me."

She stiffened but didn't move. "Pray tell, why?"

"Because it leads nowhere particularly interesting. Just to the old quarry, which hasn't been used in years." He paused. "The road's maintained purely out of habit, and I'm probably the only one who still rides it."

"How comforting." Beatrice's fingers worried at her skirts. "Though I don't suppose you'd care to explain why you ride a road that leads nowhere?"

His voice became distant yet vulnerable. "Sometimes nowhere is exactly where one needs to go."

She did turn then, surprised by his tone. He wasn't looking at her, instead studying the darkening sky through the window.

"We'll hear anyone coming before we see them," he added. "No point straining your eyes."

Beatrice unconsciously touched her spectacles, a nervous habit she'd never quite broken. The single chair and narrow bed seemed to mock her with the reminder of their forced proximity.

"Please," Ira gestured to the chair with exaggerated gallantry, "I insist."

"How generous of you to offer me a seat in my own prison," she mumbled without a bite.

"I prefer to think of it as our prison. I did contribute rather significantly to the situation." He settled himself on the edge of the bed, stretching out his long, muscular legs visible through the shiny leather.

The silence stretched between them, broken only by the occasional cry of a bird outside.

"How long were you here before I arrived?" he asked.

Beatrice smoothed her skirts, buying time before answering. "Three hours, give or take."

"Three…" He groaned softly.

She lifted her chin. "Given how you've tormented me since we were children, I'm not entirely sure I wouldn't have preferred another three hours of solitude."

The barb hit its mark. Ira actually winced.

Beatrice met his gaze. "We should focus on escape plans. I have no desire to dwell further upon past wounds."

He fell silent, studying her with an intensity that made her uncomfortable. "Very well,” he said, crossing his arms. “What do we have to work with?"

Beatrice pulled out her notebook, grateful for the distraction.

"The door is oak, at least three inches thick.

The hinges are on the outside, unfortunately.

The lock mechanism is an old pin tumbler design.

Without proper tools, it's virtually impossible to manipulate.

The walls are solid stone, and before you suggest it, I've already checked for convenient secret passages. "

"Naturally you have. Though I note you haven't mentioned the obvious solution."

"And what might that be?"

He flipped one corner of the blanket over and studied the sheet. "We could see how far the bedsheet would stretch. Appears as though someone's stayed here only recently. The blanket and the sheet are clean. How is that possible?" He looked up at her sharply. "Have you been sleeping here?"

Beatrice averted her gaze.

"You have! Why?"

"Not sleeping. Resting. And reading and writing."

He lifted both brows. "Are you sure you weren't meeting a beau here?"

She was about to retort at his jest but stopped when she saw his fierce expression. "Of course not!" she snapped instead. "What kind of lady do you take me for?"

His eyes softened, but they remained on hers.

"I won't fit through the window," she said primly.

Was it her imagination, or did Ira's eyes darken? His gaze roved over her curvy form. His Adam's apple bobbed above his cravat as his attention settled on her eyes again. Heat flushed from her belly to her face.

"If you are discovered trapped in a tower with me at dawn..."