The Skylighter (The Keepers' Chronicles Book 2) by Becky Wallace

right hand.
    For a moment she considered giving up, returning to the room, finding another avenue of escape. Bartlett wouldn’t keep her locked up forever.
    Then she heard the scratch and click of a key in the lock.
    “I assure you, Lord Ceara, I’m only holding this girl for her own safety,” Bartlett said as the door creaked open. “I care for her as if she were my own. I know her father wouldn’t have wanted her to run off with that DeSilva boy, no matter the circumstances.”
    “I believe you, Bartlett. I do. But my hands are tied. When a duke suggests that his lover is being held against her will by one of Camaçari’s most prominent innkeepers, I have a duty to see to his request.”
    “She’s not his lover , no matter what DeSilva says. She’s a sixteen-year-old girl who has been swept away by a smarmy noble.” Feet crunched over glass. “Johanna? I know you’re upset, sweetheart, but please come out.”
    “Where is she?” Ceara asked, his tone razor edged.
    The bed curtains rustled. A tin tray gonged. Johanna’s fingers pulsed, the torn nails shooting bolts of pain into her cramping hands. She could have slid down, making her presence known, but something in Ceara’s voice made her ignore the pain. Rafi would never have called her his lover.
    “I don’t understand. . . . The windows are locked from the outside,” Bartlett said, sounding baffled as he drew closer to the chimney. “A drunk groom took a header from this room last year.”
    “She couldn’t have disappeared. Are you sure none of your staff let her out?”
    “I’m positive. I’ve got the only key.”
    Boots stomped back and forth, as if the men were looking for some place where she could have secreted herself.
    “There’s no other way out of this room?”
    “None.”
    Johanna’s arms shook with the effort to hold on; her feet scrabbled against the wall for anything that would help relieve the strain on her shoulder. She found a tiny lip, enough for her left hand to grip.
    “Damn it.” Ceara grunted, then cursed again. “Winston, run to the wall. Send the signal to close the gates. I don’t want anyone leaving the city. Maxim, knock on every door. Drag everyone out of their beds—”
    “That’s not necessary. There’s no one staying on the second floor, and someone would surely have seen her come down the stairs.”
    Ceara’s men ignored Bartlett, and footsteps rushed out of the room.
    “If she’s truly in love with DeSilva, she’ll come back to him,” Bartlett continued. “There’s no need to scare the girl with such drastic measures.”
    “Drastic . . . measures,” Ceara growled.
    A grunt. A gasp. Two thuds. Both heavier than the sound the table had made when it hit the floor. She knew what made that sort of noise.
    A body.
    Johanna’s muscles spasmed; her fingers slipped. Years of training saved her and she landed lightly. The charcoal remnants that littered the fireplace barely crunched as she backed to the chimney’s farthest corner. Waiting, holding her breath, her entire body tense, she prepared for someone to notice the soot hanging in the air and the toes of her stained boots.
    Footsteps returned. A new voice spoke. “No one’s seen her, my lord. But . . .”
    “What is it, Don Diego?” Ceara asked with a snarl.
    Boots, scratched with wear but well cared for, stopped in front of her hiding spot.
    Injuries forgotten, Johanna reached for the bricks but was too slow. An iron grip snagged her ankle and yanked her out of the chimney.

Chapter 17
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Dom
    Dom gave the palisade pole a hard shake and was pleased when it didn’t shift under his weight. It was the tenth he’d laid that afternoon, and his body ached with the effort. Blisters marked his palms, and the muscles in his arms throbbed, but there was something pleasant about the feeling.
    Don’t get used to this. You’re much better at being lazy than you’ll ever be at working. Once Rafi comes back, you’ll never have to be useful