A Man Of Many Talents (30 page)

Like his pirate ancestors, he had captured his woman at last, and made her his. Yet while doing so he had surrendered himself, his very heart and soul, into her keeping.

Christian had thought to hold her close, to finally sleep here in her bed beside her, but he soon found out that Abigail had other ideas. The woman he had once thought stiff and unyielding wouldn’t hold still. She stroked his arm and his back, nipped at his ear and whispered questions about his anatomy that made him grin.

“Can’t a man get some rest?” he teased.

Smiling wickedly, she swung over him, and Christian reached for her, only to spring back with an oath as something struck his nose. “That necklace of yours is lethal,” he complained, lifting a hand to grasp the deadly piece. “What
is this, your own personal cudgel, for use upon any importune male?”

She laughed softly, a throaty sound that, impossibly, managed to arouse him again. “No, it’s an old brooch of my mother’s, handed down through the family.”

“Yet you always keep it hidden,” Christian said, glancing up at her face. She colored, the faint tinge of rose making her even more beautiful. Then she shrugged, a gesture Christian found wholly endearing.

“The clasp is long gone, so it is easier to hang on a chain. And, as a companion, I thought it best to keep it hidden away,” she explained.

The implication that Abigail was prey to the petty jealousies of other household members, or worse, theft, was evident in her tone, and Christian felt a rush of anger that she had ever been put in such a position. He closed his fingers tightly around the golden circle only to pause in surprise at its heavy weight.

“As well you should have,” he said. “It might be worth something.”

“Oh, I doubt that,” Abigail said. “It has no jewels or stones, and is rather plain. But that is why I like it.”

Of course. The Governess would not be dazzled, which was one of the reasons he loved her. Even showered in jewels, she would never be garish or tasteless, but always herself. And this piece, odd though it was, seemed to fit her, Christian thought, examining it more closely. Cast all in gold, it resembled a large, flat ring, with a gold bar across the center and unusual indentations along the outer rim which might be some sort of Old English or runes.

Christian paused, rubbing his thumb over the surface, while something nagged at his thoughts. “The pattern looks
…
familiar to me somehow.”

“Oh, I don’t think so. It has been in my mother’s family for years and years.”

But Christian still struggled with a memory. He knew
nothing of jewelry, particularly antique pieces, and
yet…
“Do you know what it says?”

“Something about true love, I imagine,” she said.

Christian glanced up and grinned. She was blushing again, and he decided that he had a definite fondness for that delicate rose hue. Indeed, he began to think of all the ways he might induce that lovely flush all over her body. Loosing his hold on the jewelry, he let it swing free, only to grab it suddenly again.

“Ah! I’ll take it off if you are going to choke me with it,” Abigail said indignantly.

“I have it!”
Christian crowed, unable to contain his excitement.

“I know. Now please let go of it,” Abigail said tartly.

“No! I know where I’ve seen that design before! Get dressed!” he urged, releasing the brooch from his hold. Even as she protested, Christian was already on his feet, tugging on his breeches. The mystery of Sibel Hall, having taunted him so long, now felt tantalizingly close to solution.

A
bigail was still
protesting as Christian took up a lantern and hurried her downstairs, through the darkened rooms of the old house. “But you routed the ghost. What on earth are you looking for now?”

“The answer,” Christian said as he raced to the great hall, still and silent except for the crash of thunder and the lash of rain against its walls.

“What answer?” Abigail asked.

“The answer to everything,” Christian said, pulling her behind the fretwork. But this time he moved past the first door to the one that led to the old buttery and the kitchens that were no more. He paused at the end of the passage, where stout oak prevented their exit.

“You are talking in riddles,” Abigail complained.
“And
…”
Her
words trailed off when he bent to pick the
lock. “I am not going out-of-doors in this weather!” she cried.

“Oh, come on. It’s only a few steps,” Christian argued as the door swung wide.

“We’re liable to be struck by lightning,” she said in her Governess voice. At least that’s what he thought she said as the sound of rain and wind swallowed her speech.

Christian flashed her a cajoling smile. “We won’t be out there long enough. And it’s warm. Wet and warm. You don’t mind getting a little wet, do you?” he coaxed in his most seductive tone.

“Oh, very well,” she muttered, her color high. With a triumphant laugh, Christian took her hand, and they ran pell-mell across the overgrown grass to the next building.

“Where are we?” Abigail asked when they stepped inside.

“The chapel,” Christian explained, running a hand through his damp hair. “I should have guessed it, of course. But I knew the chapel was built after the original hall because it wasn’t attached. So I didn’t think Sir Boundefort had a hand in it. After learning his story, I’ll wager he built the chapel himself after his lady died.”

Christian lifted the lantern high and pointed to the left wall. “See? I don’t know if they’re singing, but there are angels.”

“ ‘
’Neath the angels singing fair,’ ” Abigail murmured. She turned to Christian. “The line about blessed care must refer to the chapel. I suppose we ought to have realized that meant a holy place, but the words were all so cryptic, I thought them nonsense.”

Christian walked to the wall below the painted cherubs. “And look here. Does this remind you of anything?”

Abigail stepped forward to examine the strange carvings, lifting a hand to run her fingers over the indentations in wonder. Then she turned to him with an expression of astonishment. “Why, they remind me of my brooch.”

“Exactly,” Christian said in triumph. “May I have it?”

While Abigail tugged the necklace from the bodice of her gown, Christian walked the length of the wall, studying the various circles and pausing to touch each in turn. He knew the brooch would match only one, and finally he stopped before it. He held out his hand, and Abigail dropped the circlet into his palm, the gold cool against his heated skin. Turning the brooch carefully, he lifted it to the wall and set it into the recession. With one small adjustment, it fit to perfection. Then he pressed the face of the brooch hard against the surface. There was a creak, followed by a click.

“What on earth?” Abigail whispered.

Feeling rather proud of himself, Christian grinned. “I have a friend who knows quite a bit about locks.”

“The one who taught you how to pick them?” Abigail asked wryly.

Christian nodded. “This is an old type of puzzle lock. Sometimes the keyhole is concealed by a pivoted cover or elaborately hidden in decoration. Or sometimes, as in this case, there is no keyhole. The secret here is pressure, either on certain parts of the design or, as
it turned out, on the entire de
sign, triggered by the front of the brooch, the ring brooch.”

“
‘
The ring when set against its mate, Sweet kiss! Shall unlock the gate,’
” Abigail murmured. “But why my brooch?” She turned toward Christian with a puzzled expression.

Christian shook his head. “How does the rest of it go?” He was hard-pressed to remember one word of the rhyme, even though it had been rammed down his throat for weeks.

“There’s only one more verse,” Abigail said.

“Then start at the beginning. Give me the whole thing again,” Christian urged.

Abigail drew a deep breath and recited in a low voice,

My grief is such I cannot bear,

So must my worldly goods despair.

All my treasures sacred keep

In stone abode and darkness deep.

There shall they rest in blessed care

’Neath the angels singing fair,

Untouched by all but she who wear

Mine own love token in her care.

Thy ring when set against its mate,

Sweet kiss! Shall unlock the gate

For only her, all others spu
rn
ing

Until my lady's love returning.

“
‘
Mine own love token,’
” Christian repeated. “This must be the brooch that Sir Boundefort gave to his lover.”

“But how would I have it?” Abigail asked, obviously baffled.

“Because you are the one who will return!” Christian exclaimed with sudden insight. “That’s why we could find no record of your connection to the Averills. There is none! You are not a descendant of Sir Boundefort, but of his lady. Wasn’t she a widow, with a daughter?”

Blinking in astonishment, Abigail lifted a hand to her throat, groping for the brooch that was no longer there. “But that would mean that Bascomb solved the rhyme. Why didn’t he ask me for the brooch? Or bring me here?”

Christian shrugged. “He was an old man. Perhaps he wasn’t interested in the treasure, just the answer to the puzzle. Or maybe he felt that no one except you could actually unlock the so-called gate.”

“And just what have we unlocked?” Abigail asked.

With a flourish, Christian pushed on the end of the wall, which swung inward at his touch.

“Another hide?” Abigail asked.

“The first and yet, the final, one,” Christian answered. “It’s larger than the occasional space used by medieval homeowners to safeguard their wealth, and, may I add, far more ingenious, as well. Sir Boundefort was a clever character,” he added.

“Very nicely done, my lord.”

The sound of another voice in the dim chapel made Christian whirl around, poised and alert. He half expected to see Emery smirking in the darkness, but the shadowy form was smaller and female. Mercia. Christian breathed a sigh of relief. After all his cautions, he had let excitement over their discovery distract him from potential dangers.

“Oh, Mercia! You startled me,” Abigail exclaimed.

The older woman, eccentric as always, remained just outside the lantern light, and Christian wondered what the devil she was doing out and about at this hour.

“Again, very nicely done, my lord,” she said. “For someone our dear cousin, or shall I simply say, our dear Abigail, dismissed as her Last Resort, you have proved
to be surprisingly cleve
r
.
Far more clever than Emery with his books and studies. Far more clever than I, even, for though I knew the rhyme held the key, I failed to unlock its secrets.”

Christian eyed her quizzically. Why was she skulking in the shadows? The woman was damned peculiar at the best of times, but something about her behavior now roused all of his instincts. He inched toward Abigail, although outwardly he maintained a casual pose.

“Well, perhaps your treasure is in here. Shall we have a look?” Christian asked the older woman. He had hoped to draw her out, but she remained where she was, her sometimes peculiar presence turning downright eerie.

“There is something! It’s a chest!” Abigail announced, obviously unaware of any undercurrents. And perhaps she was right. These last few weeks might have left him overly suspicious. After all, what could a little old lady really do? Christian turned his head to see some kind of trunk secreted inside the opening.

“Drag it out here, and then step back,” Mercia said.

Surprised at the older woman’s demand, Christian swung back around only to gape in shock. Mercia had moved forward finally, but the lantern’s glow revealed that she held something in her hand, specifically a pistol, which she was pointing at them in a rather deadly fashion.

“Mercia!” Abigail cried from beside him. “What on earth are you doing?”

“My dear Abigail, whether you are related to some long dead doxy or not, you have no claim to this treasure. As a true descendant of Sir Boundefort, I am taking my rightful share,” the older woman said.

“What of the others?” Christian asked dryly.

“
To the clever—and the persistent—go the spoils,” she said. “I have toadied up to Bascomb all my life, living in near poverty, counting the days until I could come into my own. That day, unfortunately for you, has finally come.”

“Mercia!” The Governess was back in full force, scolding her elder in tones of stunned disapproval.

“I’m sorry, dear, but once I realized that I wasn’t going to get the house, I knew I wouldn’t have the luxury of a lifetime in which to solve the mystery, as Bascomb had,” Mercia said. “I knew the old devil was close to the solution, but I didn’t realize how close. I assumed that I, as his next of kin, would inherit. Alas, he foiled me, even in death, the bastard.”