Chapter Sixteen
The grotto was as black as the inside of a tomb when Barnaby woke. He fumbled for the tinderbox, lit a fresh candle, and placed it in the lantern. God, what time was it? He felt as if three decades had passed while he slept. His bones ached as if he were an old man.
His pocket watch told him it was midday.
Barnaby rubbed his face. Stubble rasped under his hands. A bath and a shave. Those were what he wanted most when they got out of here: a bath and a shave.
If they got out of here.
He looked at Merry, half-hidden in the nest of blankets. Asleep, she looked like a child. A rush of tenderness tightened his throat. Carefully, he tucked the blankets around her. Viscount’s granddaughter. Dancing master’s daughter. His wife.
Merry was right; they did suit each other.
We w
