His serious expression lightened a little, and he took a breath. “Speaking of safety and security, what of this armory you wish to uncover? Come, Ophelia, let’s see what the library has in the way of house plans. I believe there were some drawings made in my great-grandfather’s time, as they planned some modernizing refurbishments. Let’s see.”
He crossed to a long set of drawers beneath one of the shelves and started pulling them open. Ophelia joined him, marveling at the variety of contents. There were sketches and drawings, political pamphlets, scrapbooks, household ledgers, and handwritten pages of music she’d have to peek at later. He moved to another set of drawers, riffling through some longer sheets and drawings, and finally made a sound of satisfaction.
“Here we are.” He took out a set of plans nearly as wide as the drawer itself, bound together by silver clips. He carried them to the largest library desk, and brought a lamp for extra light. “Sit down, dear. Have a look at them. Do you have much math?”
She shook her head. “No, Your Grace. Er, Papa.” Now that she’d cried on the kind man’s shoulder, it was a little easier to address him so. “When I started singing, my parents chose to focus my studies on music.”
“Ah, but music is mathematical in many ways. Where should we start? The basement corridors? The first or second floor? The third floor or the attic?”
Ophelia bit her lip, getting caught up in the duke’s enthusiasm. “I think the basement is too obvious a choice. If they wanted to hide a room full of armor, they’d put it on one of the upper floors. Wouldn’t they?”
“Indeed, it’s not in the basement.” He flipped the pages open, and they looked together at the drawings and measurements. In her music school, she would have felt too nervous to concentrate if she was being tested so, one on one, but the duke made her feel comfortable, even entertained. He made various guiding noises as she pored over the plans, murmuring “warmer” when she looked at certain areas, and “colder” when she seemed to lose the track.
At last, purely by chance, she noticed a discrepancy in the height of the kitchen storage rooms compared to that of the adjacent dining room and the ballroom, which occupied two floors. “Perhaps it’s around here,” she said, hoping she was right. She circled the areas on the neatly scribed plans. “I think it’s got to be here, but they haven’t put it down on paper.”
“Indeed. Because there was a time, for security, that the lords of this manor kept secrets. The weapons and food stores were kept somewhat close, in case of an invasion or unexpected siege. Shall we go look? Now that you know the general vicinity, you’ll find it with no trouble at all.”
He refused to give her any further direction, his blue eyes still twinkling with challenge. Ophelia decided to start in the kitchen and work back toward the storerooms, but she got nowhere. She gave her favorite cat a pat on the head as they left the kitchen and walked through the dining room to the ballroom. In past centuries, it had been a Great Hall, and it still had a high stone balcony. She stood in the middle of the smooth floor where guests might dance or dine, and looked up, turning in a circle.
The upper floor was done up with velvet wallpaper and carved wooden panels, alternating to regal effect. She’d never looked at the carvings, not having lived here very long, but now she decided she must. She went up the wide, double curved staircase to the upper walk, with Wescott’s father at her heels.
“Who made these carvings?” she asked, as she went around studying each one.
“Sixteenth century craftsmen. Half of them are mythological figures, and half are saints. I’m sure a pagan or two passed along these balconies.”
She recognized some of the carved figures, but not many. Some of them were women, perhaps from the Bible, while others were clearly ancient gods, some with multiple heads, or strong arms holding up the sun. She stopped short when she encountered a carved figure wielding a sword. She was almost certain it depicted brave St. George battling his fire-breathing dragon, the flames glancing off his armor, his hefty weapon held aloft.
The armory might be behind the panel, according to her vague calculations. Perhaps St. George was a hint. While the duke watched, Ophelia tapped at the edges of the carved rectangle, looking for hidden notches or levers.
“Don’t be gentle, my dear.” His voice was warm, perhaps even proud. “Give it a good push.”
She stood back and pushed the middle of it with both her hands, and was surprised when the panel popped outward rather than inward, moved by a set of hidden springs. “It’s in there, isn’t it?” she asked, her voice going soft with excitement. “I’ve found it.”
“I was sure you would. You seem the driven type, when you put your mind to something.”
Was she driven? Wescott would say stubborn. “Can I go inside and look? Is it safe?”
“It’s safe enough if you don’t touch anything. A lot of the weapons are ancient, but his aren’t, and he keeps them very sharp.”
She stood back to let the duke go first, since he had the lamp. They entered a low, narrow corridor that might have been nothing at all until it took a sharp turn. A few more steps, and a space opened up, higher and more spacious than she could have imagined.
“Jesus and Mary,” she breathed.
When her father-in-law held up the lamp, it illuminated dozens of shields, swords, and other battle arms mounted in neat rows upon the walls. Some of them looked very ancient and dull, even rusted, but others sparkled as if they were shined daily.
While the walls were full of pikes, knives, shields, and swords, the center of the room was empty, just a cold stone floor. One corner of the spacious room held an age-blackened fireplace. When she’d sung in Armide, she’d worn fake armor and used a fake sword, but the swords around her were substantial and real, their polished finishes glinting by lamplight.
“It’s beautiful to see them all lined up and stored so smartly,” she said. Even her whisper sounded loud. “I’ve never seen such a thing.”
“Wescott enjoys his hobby,” he answered. “He spends many hours here, and often adds to his collection of antique arms.”
He lifted the lamp toward another corner, as she wondered how big the room could possibly be. Did the fireplace light up this entire dark, windowless space when Wescott came here to practice at his fights? Then her breath caught. Someone else was here, some ancient intruders, some ghosts advancing toward them. She let out a scream, and it bounced deafeningly off the walls.
The duke laughed, touching her arm to reassure her. “They’re only suits of armor, Ophelia. There’s no need to be afraid.”
He moved the lamp closer to show her the four stately, steel sentries, complete with metal gloves, pointed metal shoes, and conical helms. She blinked at them, wondering that her very eyelids didn’t make some sound in the chamber.
For the acoustics were marvelous. Her scream had echoed beautifully.
It made her want to sing.
Chapter Fourteen: The Armory
The note from his father had been short and to the point. You can’t fall in love with your wife if you aren’t here with her.
That was it. He hadn’t even signed it. He didn’t need to; Wescott knew his father’s angry handwriting by now.
He should have started back to the Abbey a couple days ago, as soon as he’d gotten the note. Now the weather had turned as stormy and angry as his father’s terse missive, and he was marooned in his luxurious London home, feeling as empty as the opposite side of his bed.
While he walked the halls and ate solitary luncheons and dinners, he tried to find love for his wife, for his tragic Ophelia, but he kept coming up against an impediment. He didn’t know her. He hadn’t tried to know her. He hadn’t done much to understand her, as she’d accused him several times.
By the time the weather cleared, he was no closer to solving the problem of his broken marriage, but he would return to Oxfordshire and keep trying, because once he loved her—if he could love her—things would get better. Hadn’t his paren
ts said so? If they couldn’t find love, he’d settle for harmony, or at least cooperation, so they weren’t tense with anger all the time.
He finally returned home a week after he’d left, arriving in late afternoon. He went to his rooms first, to bathe away the scent of horse and change into proper clothes to face Ophelia. She wasn’t in her rooms, so he went downstairs to find her, and instead discovered his parents in the front parlor having tea.
“Wescott,” said his mother. “What a pleasure to see you. Come give me a kiss.”
He obliged, then greeted his father.
“It’s good you’ve returned,” he said, with only a mild note of censure. “I perceive the weather’s been bad.”
“Somewhat.” He meant no disrespect, but he couldn’t sit now and chat about the weather. He scanned the parlor again. “Where is everyone else?”
“Hazel and Elizabeth have gone to Lockridge Manor to visit Rosalind,” said his mother, “and your wife’s become interested in…other things.”
“What other things?”
His parents exchanged a look, then his father spoke. “Believe it or not, she found the armory, and has been spending an inordinate amount of time there.”
“The armory?” Wescott was aghast. “And you allowed this? It’s not a safe place for a woman unused to weapons.”
“On the contrary, she feels very safe in there.” His father stirred his tea, unperturbed. “She tells us the room has exemplary acoustics.”
“Indeed,” said his mother. “My love, you’d never believe it. Her voice has returned. She’s been singing like a bird, and smiling again too.”
Of course she was singing and smiling, since he hadn’t been there in days. He clenched his teeth in agitation. “She’s in the armory now?”
“I expect so,” said his father. “You ought to go see her. She’ll be glad to know you’re home.”
He doubted his wife would be glad. As for him, this wasn’t the homecoming he’d hoped for. Had his parents lost their minds, allowing Ophelia to spend “inordinate amounts of time” in a room full of lethal weapons? He turned on his heel and strode quickly to the second level of the ballroom, hurrying around the balcony to the hidden panel. He found it ajar.
“The armory!” he muttered to himself. “Exemplary acoustics? Are they mad?” The room was full of swords, knives, and axes. What were they thinking, allowing her there? Who’d told her about the armory in the first place? He’d have words for whoever it was when he found out.
He entered the dark corridor and stalked to the bend, then stopped, hearing the strains of a glorious song. It could only be his wife’s voice. He’d heard so many times how lovely it was, but his imagination hadn’t come close to reality. Her vivid, clear soprano took his breath away, to the point he couldn’t move for a moment. Her voice sounded more beautiful than any other singer’s he’d heard before. Her tone was as strong and bright as the sun.
He was so taken with the angelic sound, the expression in each note, that he didn’t recognize the melody at first. It was an old country lullaby his nurse had sung to him years ago, although her voice could not have been so rich or pure as Ophelia’s. Gentle lamb, shelter here. Gentle lamb, shelter near, quite near in my arms as night falls...
It was so sweetly sung, so affecting. An angel’s voice. God’s gift. What he’d taken for exaggeration fit her in truth, and she was only singing a lullaby to herself. What did she sound like in full voice, in operatic performance?
He put his hands against the wall, fighting a sudden surge of irritation, even anger. Why had she kept her talent from him? Her voice hadn’t been ruined by the fire. It was clearly in perfect working order, but she’d refused to sing for him, perhaps to punish him, or perhaps as a form of disdain, because she didn’t want their marriage or his attentions.
And when the contrary creature finally decided to sing, it was in his armory, where she had no business being at all.
He went the rest of the way into the room and took in the sight of his wife, his emotions high. She stood in the dead center of the chamber, a light sword held aloft in her hand, the other arm extended for balance. By now, the sweet lullaby had ended, and she’d begun a more strident piece, perhaps an aria of some sort.
He thought, she’s going to maim herself. He also thought, she looks like a warrior-goddess of old.
“You must put that down at once,” he said, speaking over her song. “It’s not safe.”
She turned to him, her voice cutting off, although the last soaring note lingered, echoing off the metal weapons and stone walls.
“Wescott!” She lowered the sword a little. “You’ve come back.”
“It’s a damned good thing, too,” he said, crossing to her. “What are you doing in here? It’s no place for a lady.”
She pointed the sword at him as he came, so he was forced to stop.
“Ophelia.” Her name was a warning. “Those points aren’t blunted. The length of that sword is sharp as hellfire and could easily cut you to bits.”
“Or cut you to bits.”
Was that humor? The corner of her mouth turned up a bit. She held the sword steady. She must have been stronger than she looked.
“Ophelia Lucinda Drake, lower that sword this instant. And be careful!”
Whatever his emotions had been before, they were all coalesced now into one hard ball of worry in the pit of his heart. Not his stomach. His heart. As he stared at his reckless wife, willing her not to slash some part of herself open by accident, he realized a peculiar thing.
He had feelings for her. Strong feelings.
Deep, intense feelings very akin to love.
It made no sense, taking into account their marriage thus far, but he was certain it was true. After all his worrying on the topic, he already cared for his wife more than he’d imagined.
When he started toward her to tell her so, and rescue her from her folly, she pointed the sword straight at his heart.
“Wait. Stop there, please,” she said. “I have to tell you something.”
“I have to tell you something too.” He tried to keep his voice level. “Put down that damned sword. You don’t know what you’re doing.”
“I do. Your father told me which ones I might handle, and how to do it safely.”
“My father is a meddler, and you can’t handle any of them safely. None of them have blunted tips.”
“Please, let me speak.” She lowered the sword. He watched in dread, waiting for her to slice off a few of her toes. “I have to tell you something very important, and I don’t want to lose my courage.”
“Speak, then.”
He stared at her, his arms crossed over his chest. She wore a gold embroidered gown, impeccably fitted at the top, with delicately layered skirts cascading to her slippers. She looked like a mythic figure with the sword at her side.
“Wescott...” She took a deep breath. “Let me begin by saying that I understand why you left me. I’ve been a contemptuous person in this marriage. I didn’t try to care for you at all. The thing is, I think I was afraid. I don’t know why.” She couldn’t quite meet his gaze. “I just realize now that I was... I was afraid of you. Afraid of everything, really. It was silly of me.”
He studied her, surprised by her words. “I’m sorry you felt afraid.”
“Your father said perhaps it was leftover fear from the fire that became all tied up in you and me, and our marriage.”
He eyed the sword, still worried it might fall on her. “The two of you seem to have struck up quite a friendship over the past week.”
“Oh, Wescott, your family is so kind, and you’ve tried to be kind too, although I couldn’t see that because I was so afraid of you becoming my husband. I know you’re angry that I found your armory, but being in here with all your swords and shields makes me feel braver. It’s made me feel better.”
“I’m not angry. I just want you to put down the sword.”
She looked at the weapon like she’d forgotten it
was there. “Honestly...oh, I’m making a muck of this.” She touched the back of her free hand to her cheek. “The thing I want to say is, I’m going to try to do better, and not be afraid. I want to learn more about you and be a more pleasant wife.”
“I want that too. I mean, I want to learn more about you too, so we can have a happier marriage.” And I already love you. I’m fairly sure I do. He crossed the rest of the way to her, because he wanted to hold her. He wanted to kiss her. He grasped her sword hand and circled her waist with his other hand, drawing her close. She lifted her face to his, and instead of rebuffing him or twisting to be released, she stood still, trembling a little.
“May I kiss you?” he asked. “I’ve wanted to for days now.”
“Yes.” She nodded and bit her lip. “I think… Yes, I’m ready.”
Slowly, gingerly, their lips met in the first real, willing kiss she’d given him since they’d shared a bed at the inn. As his mouth possessed hers, his fingers found the sword’s hilt and disengaged it from her slackening grasp. He held it at his side, careful not to move it or injure her, even as he clung to her with his other hand and kissed her with weeks’ worth of pent up desire.
She was not quite fearless—her hands pressed upon his chest when he deepened the kiss, but she didn’t push him away. He dropped the sword to the side to free his hand, so he could embrace her properly. Afraid of him? If only she’d said, he might have done everything differently.
He gentled his kiss, bringing her along with him patiently, even as his cock grew hot and thick against her front. How wondrous, to lust for his own wife so violently.
But he would not make her afraid. When he felt his passions rising to the breaking point, he drew away, for he wouldn’t consummate their marriage here on the stone floor of a weapon-filled chamber. It might have been an apt location, considering what came before, but they’d both be sore and scratched afterward.
As she returned to her normal senses in a breathless, charming way, she looked over at the sword, then back at him. “You’ve disarmed me,” she said.
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