But as she finished, and before she could turn another page, they heard voices in the hall again.
“Better not let Mrs. Gudgeon catch you dillydallying belowstairs or she’ll put you to work scrubbing chamber pots. In a right solid snit, she is.”
“Don’t I know it. I’ve already had an earful about not having the proper tray for Lady Morgan. She said if I don’t find the lemon curd with rosemary for her ladyship’s crumpet, then I shouldn’t bother coming back at all.”
“Oh, don’t take it to heart. I’m sure she’s just mad at Mr. Gudgeon again. Wonder what the old flirt’s done this time.”
“I’m sure I’ll hear her caterwauling about that later, too . . . if I still have my post.”
“Don’t fret. If we can’t find it in the larder, I’m sure Mrs. Philpot’ll have a jar on her shelf.”
Meg glanced over her shoulder to see that there was, indeed, a jar of lemon curd with rosemary on the shelf. Beside her, Myrtle tucked the book back into the drawer and tried to slide it closed. But it halted halfway, the wood issuing a high squeak of protest.
Just then, a pair of shadows paused directly outside the door.
“Hang back. Did you hear something?”
Meg held her breath. Her heart stuttered to a stop beneath her breast. Then, at the appearance of slender, chapped fingers curling around the edge of the door, the organ suddenly kicked into a full rushing gallop in her ears.
They were going to be caught!
“Yes—my head on the chopping block if I don’t find that curd. Come quick. Help me look in the larder before I’m sacked.”
The hand fell away from the door, and the shadows moved. It wasn’t until she heard the diminishing scuttle of hurried footsteps that Meg’s shoulders dared to sag with relief.
That was a close call.
Truth be told, until a moment ago, she’d only felt as if she and Myrtle were having a lark. The consequences of her actions hadn’t seemed too severe considering how easily Mr. Gudgeon had been for Maeve to handle. Mrs. Gudgeon, however, sounded like a veritable dragon—one less likely to be forgiving should she discover a pair of trespassers whose companion was flirting with her husband.
The distant thwack of the cleaver echoed down the hall, and Meg put a protective hand around her neck.
Unquestionably, it was time to leave.
After ensuring the hallway was clear, Meg and Myrtle made their escape, albeit with one minor complication. The virtually unpopulated route they’d taken down to this level was now chock-full of maids, either toting ash bins or baskets of linens, blocking their exit.
Quick as a compass, Myrtle turned on her heel and scurried down a set of narrow stairs. Meg followed close behind. And moments later, they were deeper inside the keep, sprinting on tiptoes through the windowless, winding—and thankfully vacant—corridors with a pilfered recipe in their possession.
Myrtle had just turned a corner when the slip of foolscap fell from her pocket. It drifted silently to the stone floor, its felonious owner oblivious.
In Meg’s rush to scoop it up, she created a gust of air that sent the paper skittering like a sail in a tempest around the corner, the shadows eclipsing it from sight.
“Psst . . . Aunt Myrtle,” she whispered from beside a low, rough-hewed arch. But her cohort in crime hurried ahead, heedless, the shuffle of her slippers already growing fainter.
It took another moment for Meg’s eyes to adjust to the dim light enough to locate the recipe. Then, when she bent to pick it up, she heard brisk, heavy footfalls coming from the corridor behind her.
Drat! All she had time to do was to step on the fallen paper, press her back against the sloped stone wall, hold her breath and hope that whatever servant might be heading this way would pass by her without a blink.
A tall man approached, striding forth at an agitated pace. He appeared somewhat preoccupied, pushing a hank of dark hair carelessly back from his forehead and leaving it to fall to one side. And he was garbed in a blacksmith’s apron, the heavy leather accentuating the leanness of his hips and breadth of his shoulders.
In this light it was difficult to determine his age, though he appeared to be beyond thirty. He had a sort of rawboned face, angular and chiseled—striking, though not necessarily handsome—with a prominent aquiline nose. And, sitting on the bridge of said nose, was a pair of round spectacles with brass frames.
She didn’t know what his position in this household was—what with his apron, soot-smudged cravat and the cuffs of his shirtsleeves rolled up—but he possessed an air of superiority, as if he oversaw many people and kept them on task.
Definitely not one to trifle with, she thought. And she quickly banished the fleeting notion of attempting the three Fs for the first time on him, should he continue on his course directly toward her.
But as he drew near, she caught sight of the dull cast over his noticeably smeared lenses and wondered if he might not spot her in the shadows at all.
When he walked right by, a silent sigh of relief escaped her. Luck was on her side.
Or at least, it was . . . until he stopped.
Like a hound catching the scent of his quarry, he lifted his head and stiffened, suddenly alert. Then he turned on his heel and stared directly toward her hiding place.
“What are you doing in this part of the keep? You know this is off-limits.”
His voice was deep and commanding—a baritone so low that it was more like a growl. It tingled in her ears before traveling directly to the pit of her stomach in some sort of strange tumult. How odd. Especially considering that his expression was austerely disapproving in a way that she’d always disliked in men.
However, it was clear that this man assumed she was a servant. The dim light and dirty spectacles likely kept him from seeing the azure spencer, striped day dress and white kid gloves that would have revealed her for the interloper she was.
“Yes, sir,” she said with a hint of contrition that she hoped would fool him. “I was just on my way out.”
At once, his mouth turned down at the corners. He took a step toward her and tore off his glasses. “You’re not one of the maids. Who are you?”
Meg couldn’t answer. Her lips parted, but no sound came out.
She drew in a breath to start again but tasted the air instead. It was flavored with the char of creosote and something else. Something enthralling like a combination of sun-warmed spices and worn leather. Something that made her lungs cinch tight around it, refusing to release. Something that made her want to lean in for a deep inhale.
But she couldn’t move. All she could do was stand there, not breathing, and stare fixedly into eyes that seemed to hold her own captive. They were intensely dark brown with flecks of gold, a color so rich and earthy that it reminded her of the smooth stones resting on the creek bed at Crossmoor Abbey. And she felt as though her body were filled with those very stones, stacked one on top of the other, rooting her in place.
“I’ll ask once more before I call my servants. Who . . . are . . . you?”
His servants? No, it couldn’t be.
“You are the Duke of Merleton?” Her voice was oddly hoarse, throat dry as biscuit crumbs.
“Who the devil else would I be?”
He seemed to grow larger before her eyes. But she, as a fully grown woman who didn’t appreciate being talked to as if she were still in leading strings, was suddenly snapped from her peculiar trance.