Oh, he was a rogue. She may not know him at all, but Mr. Copeland was most definitely a rogue, self-assured and confident. Of course, he had every reason to be as he was quite handsome with his chiseled jaw and crooked smile that hinted at a dimple on the left.

  A wave of warmth rushed over her, but that was easily attributed to the number of torches that Mr. Copeland had lit along the narrow passage.

  “It isna right that I be alone with ye,” Fanella finally said.

  “We’ve already been alone,” he reminded her.

  “Aye, that still doesna make it right.”

  “And exploring the castle on your own is better?” he countered.

  Fanella glanced behind her once again. It was dark below and she wasn’t certain what she may find. As much as she wanted to discover every secret that lay within the castle walls, perhaps she wasn’t as brave as she once believed. Though, when she first started down the stairs there hadn’t been an ounce of fear, but now it crept up her spine in a manner unfamiliar to her being.

  Oh, she was being foolish. Since when did she let anything scare her?

  Besides, it wasn’t what lay below, but the man before her that had set Fanella’s nerves on end, though she didn’t know why because he certainly didn’t scare her. No, it was something else. She just didn’t know what the else was.

  Ethan studied Miss Grant, waiting for her to decide if she was going to continue into the dungeon or insist on returning above-stairs. If one of his sisters were in this predicament, he hoped they’d insist on being returned to the sitting room and not go into the dark with a strange man. Though he was certainly not someone Fanella need worry about, but she didn’t know that either. Would she allow curiosity or reason to rule her decision? She admitted to enjoying gossip and scintillating details, and she was wandering about the castle without a chaperone. Would the desire for adventure and curiosity win in the end?

  Once again, she glanced back down the stairs.

  “What is down there?” she asked again.

  Ethan shrugged. If he told her, she wouldn’t want to explore any further. Or, perhaps she would. “What are you hoping to find?” he countered.

  A delicate blush spread across her cheeks. “Ye’ll think me silly.”

  He put a hand over his heart. “I promise that I will not,” he vowed.

  Once again, she bit the bottom corner of her full lip. Such lovely lips they were, and he wouldn’t mind nibbling on them either.

  Ethan immediately pushed the thought from his mind. Hadn’t he just reminded himself that he could be trusted, as such, he should not be thinking about kissing Miss Grant.

  “Bein’ that the castle is so old, I was wonderin’ if there were dungeons, or remains of one from the days of old.”

  Ethan didn’t bother to fight the grin. If that is what she was looking for, then Miss Grant would not be disappointed. “Yes, they remain.”

  Her grey eyes widened as a smile formed. “Ye’ve seen them? Will ye show me?”

  Curiosity most certainly over-ruled reason and though it was ill-advised to continue further, Ethan pushed the warning from his mind and gestured for her to proceed down the steps. He remained close behind and lit the torches along the wall so that she’d not trip in the darkness as they descended into the lowest level of the castle.

  As they gained the bottom, Ethan lit the lantern that hung on the wall.

  Fanella walked to the center and did a slow turn. “This is the dungeon?”

  It was almost as if she was disappointed. Around the perimeter they were surrounded by cells of various sizes. Some large and comfortable and some so small that it was impossible to lie down, only sit. Some had chains attached to the wall, others did not. In a far corner, an iron cage hung from the ceiling. To the side, a barren fireplace, but the tools for torture and branding had not been removed.

  “What were you expecting?”

  Miss Grant shrugged. “I don’t know. A rack, torture devises, skeletons.”

  Ethan chuckled. “You do have a fanciful imagination.”

  “Aye, I do,” she admitted without embarrassment and did another turn. “Is there an Oubliette?”

  “A what?” What the blazes was she talking about?

  “Oubliette? A narrow hole only accessible from the top. Prisoners were tossed in, but it was so deep they couldna reach the top to get out. If they were ta be freed, a rope had ta be tossed down to assist.”

  “A narrow hole?”

  “Aye. So narrow they couldna even sit or lie down, but were forced to stand, and sometimes, forgotten,” she ended on a whisper.

  “Why do you know so much about dungeons, or is it just the torture you are interested in?” What kind of miss was Miss Grant?

  “It’s fascinatin’. We doona have much entertainment in Falkirk.”

  “Falkirk?”

  “Aye, where my family lives. It isna far from Bonnybridge, where the MacGregors live. The families have been friends since before I was born,” she explained.

  Ethan had only visited Edinburgh and was unfamiliar with either town.

  Miss Grant rubbed her arms and stepped into a cell. “That’s why it is so cold. There is no glass in these windows.”

  “Maybe the earlier dukes didn’t think it was necessary for prisoners to be comfortable.”

  “I suppose not.” She shrugged and came back to the center of the room. “This really is no different than a cellar where one might store items or keep wine.”

  “And probably why the wine is kept here,” he said.

  Miss Grant did a turn. “Where?”

  “This way.” He lit another lantern and led Miss Grant down a passage and into another section, where much larger cells lined the walls and each contained racks of wine bottles. He pointed to the far wall. “Those stairs lead to the kitchens.”

  Miss Grant let out a sigh as if disappointed.

  “It’s not what you were expecting?”

  “I suppose not.”

  “Well, when my brother becomes duke, I’ll ask him to bring back the ways of old so you can visit when he needs to torture someone.”

  Her eyes widened and she turned on him. “I doona wish to see anyone suffer. I just thought there would be more left of earlier times.”

  “His Grace has requested six bottles of the Vin Au Constance,” someone called, their voice growing louder as he descended into the cellar.

  Miss Grant’s eyes widened as she looked to Ethan. “Should we be here?”

  It wasn’t whether they should be or shouldn’t. Nobody should find them alone. “Come on.” He grasped her hand and drew her into the deep cell where they’d been standing before and both crouched low in hopes of not being discovered.

  “Are you sure six bottles will be enough,” another servant said.

  “Six of the Vin Au Constance and another six of the burgundies he just received from La Romanée.”

  “More wine from France,” one of the servants grumbled.

  “With Napoleon out of the way, His Grace is filling his cellar.”

  Ethan held his breath and hoped the wines the three were looking for were in other cells.

  Ethan peeked around the corner and found a footman standing at the entrance of their cell.

  “His Grace will have someone’s head if he finds these were left unlocked with so many guests in the castle.” And before Ethan could object, the footman pulled the cell door closed and locked it.

  “Don’t let them lock us in,” Miss Grant hissed.

  “Would you rather be caught alone with me?” Ethan whispered back.

  “As we canna leave, someone will find us eventually.”

  She was right, he hadn’t thought the matter through. At least a footman was better than a member of Miss Grant’s family. Ethan could bribe a servant to remain quiet.

  Coming out of hiding, Ethan marched to the door and called out. “Here. Let us out.”

  Silence greeted him.

  “Is anyone there?”

  Where the blazes did they go so quickly?

  “Somebody. Anybody. Come unlock the door,” he yelled.

  Nothing.

  “Oh, dear. I believe we are in a pickle,” Miss Grant muttered as she came to his side.

  Together they pulled and pushed on the door, but they were locked up tight.

  Chapter 3

  “What are we to do now?” Mr. Copeland paced inside the cell. Up one row of wine bottles and down another.

  “We could pick the lock,” Fanella offered.

  He eyed her with skepticism. “Pick the lock? How?”

  “Have ye never picked a lock before?” Fanella pulled pins from her hair. As a result, a few of her curls became dislodged and tumbled down to her shoulders, but she’d repair them when she was free of this cage.

  “I’ve never had cause to,” he answered. “Am I to assume you are proficient at the craft?”

  “Aye, but doona tell my brothers,” she whispered. Not that there was anyone around to hear.

  “Why not?” Mr. Copeland asked.

  She certainly couldn’t tell him that she often rifled through the library, the desks, the office in the distillery, and sometimes the safe. It was important to know what may be kept from her. “They just doona need to ken.”

  “As long as you can get us out of here, I’ll not breathe a word of this talent you possess.”

  Fanella moved to the door and knelt on the ground while she tried to maneuver the pins within the lock. This one wasn’t anything like other doors or drawers and no matter how hard she tried, she couldn’t get the lock to release. Finally, she blew a curl out of her face and settled back on her heels. “I’ve never failed before.”

  “At lock picking or anything?”

  Fanella glanced up at him. “Lock pickin’ or most anythin’ I put my mind ta.”

  He raised an eyebrow before he wandered over to a shelf and began inspecting wine bottles.

  “Do ye fail, Mr. Copeland?” Fanella asked as she got up off the stone floor and brushed the dust from her skirts.

  “Only when matters or situations are out of my control.” He carried a bottle to her. “We had this for dinner last evening, I believe. It was quite good.”

  “Not that it does us any good right now.”

  Instead of commenting, Copeland disappeared around a rack. Curiosity had Fanella following him until he came to a stop at a small table. Atop of it was a corkscrew and half a dozen glasses.

  “How very odd. Who would want to drink wine in here?”

  “His Grace enjoys sampling wines when a new shipment is received.” Mr. Copeland began to uncork the bottle. “After they are stored by region or country, he samples them. There are tables in each cell, and he’s asked me to join him on a few occasions.”

  “The area beyond these cells is large enough that he could have a proper sitting area if he wished to be down here so often.”

  Mr. Copeland chuckled. “I’ll mention it to His Grace.”

  Though Fanella did enjoy a glass of wine with dinner, on occasion, it wasn’t something that she craved, and she’d probably be quite content if she never drank wine again. However, Mr. Copeland had managed to remove the cork and was pouring two glasses so it would be rude of her to refuse.

  “How long do ye think we’ll be down here?”

  “That will depend on when anyone realizes that we are missing.”

  That could be hours, at least where her family was concerned, but she’d not dwell on that now.

  “We might as well get comfortable since we are going to be stuck in here.”

  Comfortable? It wasn’t like there were chairs.

  After handing Fanella a glass, Mr. Copeland took his and the bottle and made his way to the front of the cell. There, he set them on the floor before taking a seat, resting his back against the bars.

  Given the circumstances, she had little choice but to join him, as she didn’t want to stand until they were rescued, which could be hours.

  This was certainly a predicament. He was alone with a miss he’d just met and who knew when they’d get out of here. “It could be days before I’m missed,” he muttered aloud.

  “I’m certain yer family will make note of your absence at dinner,” Miss Grant attempted to assure him.

  Ethan snorted. “Aye, maybe Constance, but not the others,” Ethan decided. “They’re used to me disappearing and won’t think it odd if they don’t see me for hours.”

  “Disappearin’?” she asked in alarm. “Why do ye disappear?”

  “I cannot abide crowds, if you must know,” he admitted. “When there are too many people in a room, talking over each other, it becomes too loud to think. It’s one of the reasons I disliked London. Too much noise.”

  “Is it quiet where ye come from?”

  “New Orleans is not as quiet as Kentucky had been, but New Orleans isn’t nearly as loud as London, though when it is, it’s a different kind of noise, of people living and enjoying themselves.” Ethan smiled. “Life is more comfortable on the plantation than it is here.”

  “Kentucky is a state and New Orleans is in a different state?” she asked in a way that she wanted to make certain she was correct. Ethan was actually surprised she knew that much. Then again, the Battle of New Orleans hadn’t been fought all that long ago. Eleven months, and it was still fresh in Ethan’s mind.

  “Why did ye leave Kentucky for New Orleans? Did ye prefer it more?”

  Ethan took a deep drink of the ruby wine. “Our home was destroyed.”

  Miss Grant’s eyes widened, and she took a drink of wine. “Destroyed? How?”

  “Earthquakes,” he answered and took another drink of wine.

  Her mouth opened and formed an “O” as her eyes widened.

  “Several earthquakes, actually,” he admitted. “Beginning in December of 1811 and continuing through February of 1812.”

  “How many were there?”

  “More than we could count, though I wondered if they ever really ended. However, four were strong enough to change everything.”

  “That must have been terrifyin’.” Sympathy filled her grey eyes.

  “We lived along the Mississippi and we were used to the rivers rising in the spring. However, the earthquakes caused land to cave into the river and water came in further than it had before. Some of our land sank as other portions rose. Trees tilted and others were uprooted…cracks developed in the ground. In the end, the house, barn and stable collapsed…the farm was no longer habitable.”

  “How horrible for yer family.”

  The anguish in her eyes reflected the anguish he’d felt within his soul by the time the rumbling had stopped and he was surrounded by devastation.

  “Your earthquakes are the same I read about a few years ago. Some said that the land shook as far away as Boston.” Fanella frowned. “However, I dinna ken the distance so it was hard to judge how large it was.”

  “The two were nearly two thousand miles apart.”

  “That is nearly four times the distance from Falkirk to London.” Fanella sipped her wine as if pondering the distance. “I ken America was large, I suppose I hadn’t realized just how large.”

  The side of Ethan’s mouth quirked. “It’s much larger but I’ve not been beyond the Missouri territory.”

  “If Boston is so far away, how long does it take to travel there?”

  “Usually six weeks.”

  Fanella blew out a sigh. “I willna complain about trips to London anymore.”

  Ethan chuckled. “We didn’t return very often. When we traveled, it was to New Orleans, or over to New Madrid, for trading.”

  She tilted her head and studied him. “Do ye think ye’ll ever go back? Do ye even want ta?”

  “I miss Kentucky. It was a good life, but even though there hasn’t been another earthquake, who is to say that it won’t happen again and what we build up won’t be destroyed once more.”

  “I’m verra sorry for ye, Mr. Copeland. I canna imagine such a loss.”

  The kindness and empathy in her grey eyes filled him with comfort. The earthquakes had begun four years ago, but he was surprised at how much her concern brought solace.

  Chapter 4

  Such devastation! Fanella didn’t know what she’d do had her family home been destroyed. Not only the home, but land as well. What would her brothers do if they were forced to rebuild and start over?

  As horrible as she was imagining those circumstances, she was also quite certain that it was worse than she could ever conceive. “Had ye been to New Orleans before ye decided ta move there?”

  “Several times.”

  Intrigued, Fanella turned more fully toward him and Ethan refilled her glass.

  “Why did ye travel to New Orleans so often?” Fanella was certain it was far more fascinating than traveling to London. In fact, their entire conversation had been interesting so far, even though she wished he’d have been spared the pain of losing his home.

  “Trading. We often sailed the Mississippi river with grains, skins, furs, all manner of items for trade and sale,” Mr. Copeland answered. “We knew the area and our mother was hopeful that by living in a more populated area her children might finally marry.” He laughed.

  “Did ye have no neighbors?”

  “Our closest neighbors were miles away. Everyone who had settled in our part of Kentucky owned vast amounts of land that was farmed and hunted. We also fished and were self-sustaining.”

  “Fished?” Fanella asked with excitement.

  He pulled back in surprise, but he still smiled. “Do you enjoy fishing, Miss Grant?”

  “Aye.” She sighed. “It’s the most relaxin’ thing ta do outside of readin’.” At the confession, Fanella felt her cheeks warm and she quickly took another sip of wine. Her brothers had warned her not to confess her enjoyment of fishing to a gentleman since proper misses did not participate in such activities. Would Mr. Copeland consider her improper now?

  “I could spend hours along the Mississippi or at the large lake on our farm. My sisters, however, thought fishing to be disgusting.” He laughed. “That didn’t stop them from enjoying the fish at dinner, however.”