Chapter Eleven #2
“A place where I store most of my valuables.”
Drake shut the door and pulled over a side table to keep it from swinging open.
It wasn’t perfect, but it would do. Violet stood beside him, taking in the barren room with a faint furrow in her brow.
There wasn’t much to see. That was the point.
This was Fury territory. Unless a man possessed a wish to vanish from this earth, they wouldn’t dare set foot uninvited onto a property they had no business setting foot on.
The men hot on their heels shouldn’t know about this place either. Not even his brothers did.
“Not much here,” she murmured.
“By design,” he said, pressing a palm to his side again.
Christ, the room tilted for half a second before he forced it steady.
“Come.” He ignored the stars dancing in his vision as he led her down the corridor, past the sweep of the staircase and the empty frame that had once been a receiving room, until they reached a plain door set into the wall.
He shoved it open. A steep stairwell dropped away into darkness, straight into the old cellar he’d turned into something far more useful.
He reached blindly for the shelf beside the door, releasing his wound just long enough to light the candle. The flame sputtered to life, and he applied pressure again, jaw locking against the sharp flare of pain.
“Stay with me.”
“What about the horse?” she asked softly.
“He’ll be fine for now. He won’t wander.”
A small scoff. “Did you train the poor animal like a dog?”
Drake chuckled again, immediately regretting it as pain once more knifed through him.
“Something like that.” He gripped the rail nailed into the wall that directed the path downward, careful with his steps, careful to hide how every descent jarred his wound.
Reach his supplies, patch himself up, and pretend he wasn’t one breath from dropping.
That was the plan. Simple. Manageable. Bloody necessary.
“Your brothers will come soon?”
He sighed at the concern in her voice. “They don’t know about this place.”
She paused before saying with a hint of disbelief, “I find that rather odd.”
“Why? Because we’re brothers?”
“Not that. Rather, you seem extraordinarily close and bonded.”
They were. “That doesn’t mean a man doesn’t deserve some privacy. Even as close as we are, we all have our little secrets.”
He stepped into his.
Behind him, Violet stopped short. “Another dungeon? Just how many do you have?”
He smiled at her tone, which landed somewhere between incredulous and resigned. “Enough.”
“That’s not a number.”
“No,” he agreed. “It isn’t.” She opened her mouth, closed it, and shook her head. “It seems an odd fascination to have.”
Fascination . . . He supposed that was a good enough word. “Never thought about it all that much. But it seems that way, does it not?” His “fascination” probably formed after years of spending time dreaming about tossing his father in one.
Drake swept a gaze over the familiar space.
His iron-barred chamber filled with locked-away treasures.
Crates of old French cognac and other valuables stacked in one corner, while a chest filled with pirates’ loot sat in another.
Ming vases lined like trophies. Against the wall on the far end, he had placed a sofa and cot for nights hidden down here, whether it be from his brothers or, like now, his enemies.
His hoarding of valuables—he couldn’t say what that was for.
“I suppose it’s something to be admired,” she murmured. “Is that gold?”
He followed her pointed finger to his pirates’ loot. “What do you think, little flame?”
“I think you robbed the Crown.”
“Nothing so dramatic.” He reached into his boot and tugged the thin leather cord free, a small iron key dangling from its end. The motion nearly stole his breath. He clenched his teeth until the wave passed, straightened and fit the key into the lock. Metal clicked, echoing faintly.
She stepped up beside him. “That looks like a painting by Gainsborough.”
Drake quickly glanced at the portrait of a woman in blue. “That’s what the man who handed it over claimed.”
“Handed it over?” she asked, astonished.
“A repayment of debt.”
“Honestly, I do not even want to know.”
Drake crossed over to the desk littered with maps and ledgers, setting the candle on the surface and wrenching the drawer open. “You know your painters.”
Her pause was almost palpable before she cleared her throat. “I pay attention.”
Deception was not this flower’s strong suit.
“You know,” she added. “Normal people store things in cupboards and such.”
“Are these mere things?”
“I suppose not.”
Drake’s mouth curved faintly, and the room swam again. Damn it. You will not collapse.
All he needed was five minutes. Five minutes to stop the bleeding and pull himself back together. He didn’t want her to panic. Or God forbid, turning into a hysterical woman running off to find help.
He turned his wounded side away from her. “There’s a crate of cognac to your left. Bring me a bottle.”
She moved to the crates. “Ah, right. For the wound.”
Drake leaned a hand on the desk, letting the cool wood steady him while the room swayed. Christ, he needed a distraction. “There’s more art beneath those cloths, if you’re inclined,” he added. “A Caravaggio, I was told.”
The fog pressed harder at the edges of his vision. He forced his gaze to remain sharp, his breath even. Bloody hell. He refused to go down in front of Violet Sharpe. The last time they’d both been in a dungeon, she’d locked him inside. This time, who knew what the woman might do.
But the floor still tipped. His last coherent thought, embarrassingly, was that he didn’t want her to panic, but he had no control over his body. One moment he was upright, reaching for his supplies, the next, his strength simply disappeared.
Then bloody nothing.