A Man Of Many Talents (31 page)

Christian heard Abigail’s low gasp from beside him, even as he wondered if old Bascomb had died unassisted, or if he’d had a little help from the cold-blooded Mercia.

“I had not counted upon the cousins hanging about, either, but I soon discovered that Emery was quite intent upon finding the treasure, and I trusted to his efforts. Obviously, my faith was misplaced. But you, my lord, have proved yourself beyond anyone’s expectations,” she added, though Christian took no comfort from the compliment.

“Now, if you would please use those underemployed muscles of yours to drag the strongbox into the chapel, I will hold my fire,” she said, her grip on the old pistol surprisingly steady.

Christian studied the weapon, which looked suspiciously familiar. “You surely cannot believe that old firearm from the great hall is still in working order,” he said, hazarding a guess.

“I’m certain it is, my lord, for I keep it primed and at the ready. What better place to hide something than in plain sight? I wouldn’t want to have anything incriminating in my possession, lest anyone search my room, like you did Emery’s,” she explained. “Now, we have wasted enough time. The chest, please.”

Christian moved into the dark cavity, but he gave the contents a wary look. Sir Boundefort might not be able to haunt the place, but he’d been a crafty character, clever enough to keep his hoard out of anyone’s hands for centuries. Christian gave the chest a nudge with his toe, just to make sure it wasn’t covering up some trapdoor or other devilry.

“I said drag it, not kick it,” Mercia called out. She was impatient, obviously, and Christian took heart, for impatient people made mistakes.

But he couldn’t trust to that adage. He needed a plan. And quickly. He couldn’t very well toss the chest at her, for it was too damn heavy. He was just going to have to leap for the pistol, but he’d have to be sure Abigail was out of the line of fire. The old woman could shoot only one of them, and he was going to make certain it wasn’t Abigail.

With deliberate care, Christian pushed the chest forward. He still wasn’t sure that Sir Boundefort was done with his tricks, and he was buying time, as well, time to come up with a better plan. Stepping in front of the piece, he slowly pulled it from its hiding place, across the old stone floor. If
he could just get closer to…

“That’s far enough, my lord!” Mercia ordered. “Now, if you would please step backward. You, too, Abigail, dear.” Christian heard Abigail’s gasp of alarm and realized the old woman wasn’t going to shoot them. She was going to shut them up in the hide, and since the brooch was the only way to unlock it, the two of them would be trapped there forever.

“But surely you are going to open the chest?” Abigail said, her voice even despite their circumstances. Once more, Christian could only admire her steady strength, her courage
under fire, her intelligence. Only the Governess could reason with a madwoman like Mercia. “I should at least like to see the treasure that Sir Boundefort took such pains to hide, that has been secreted here for centuries,” Abigail said.

The older woman hesitated, but then greed, as it so often does, overwhelmed her caution. Impatient, she stepped forward to kneel before the chest, the pistol still held in one hand. “All right, but don’t make a move, or I’ll shoot.”

She paused to study the chest and ran her other hand over the dusty surface. “There’s no lock.”

Obviously she was pleased by the discovery, but Christian grew more wary. After such an elaborate scheme to hide it, the chest wouldn’t just be open for the taking, would it? He inched closer to Abigail even as he waited for inspiration to strike him—with a new plan. He still held the brooch, a feeble weapon at best, but if he aimed it at Mercia’s hand, he might knock the pistol aside, or at the very least cause her aim to go awry. Never having excelled at ninepins or the like, Christian broke out in a sweat, for he would have only one chance.

The lid of the chest fell back, and in the glow of lantern light Christian saw an empty tray fitted neatly into the top of the opening.

“There’s nothing in it!” Abigail said from beside him.

“Yes, there is, stupid girl!” Mercia answered, excitement rife in her voice. “This comes out. See the finger holes?” she said, pointing to the tray. Still holding the gun in her right hand, she reached into the tray with her left. But as soon as her fingers slipped into the holes, the older woman jerked back wildly. The pistol flew from her grasp, and she began screaming in agony, her cries echoing through the chapel in a horrific wail.

“What on earth?” Abigail said, rushing forward, while Christian retrieved the weapon skidding across the stone floor.

“Help me! Help me, you stupid girl!” Mercia cried.

“What is it?” Abigail asked, bewildered and frantic.

Christian knelt next to the chest. “It’s Sir Boundefort’s last safeguard,” he said, running his hands along the exterior of the chest, searching for the release catch. “The unsuspecting thief reaches into the tray, setting off a spring trap that closes over his fingers, like those set to catch animals in the wild.”

Trying to concentrate amid Mercia’s writhing and shrieking, Christian felt something give and heard a snap. Presumably the tray could be removed now without danger. Either that or the wretched trunk would release darts at them next. Glancing about, Christian searched for something to pry out the tray, but Mercia was already pulling her hand out, bloody and mangled, along with it.

She sank back onto the stone, clutching her injured hand with a wail, just as a shadowy form appeared in the doorway. Christian seized the pistol, determined not to fall prey to either an evil Emery or a crazed colonel. He could not make out the figure, but above the sounds of Mercia’s whimpering and Abigail’s soothing whispers as she bound the injury, he heard the familiar clearing of a throat.

“Yes?” Christian said.

Hobbins stepped into the light. “I heard a commotion, my lord, and wondered if you were quite well.”

Christian grinned at the sight of his old family retainer, for in his hand the valet held the other pistol from the wall of the great hall. “Thank you, Hobbins. You are well prepared, as always.”

“I try, my lord,” the man said.

“I do believe we need a physician, if you can have one summoned,” Christian said.

“Very good, my lord,” Hobbins replied with a nod. And without comment upon the bizarre sights before him, the valet turned to attend to the matter.

Leaning back against a heavy wood bench, Christian loosed a sigh of relief and decided his ghost-routing days were over, this little adventure having come far too close to an exploration of the other realm, firsthand. Frowning, he
glanced toward the space that had nearly been his tomb, only to realize that Sir Boundefort’s chest stood open and seemingly disarmed. But no glint of gold or sparkle of jewels gave hint of the treasure within.

“So what have we here, Sir Boundefort?” Christian asked softly as he leaned forward.

“Don’t you touch it! It’s mine!” Mercia wailed, struggling to sit up despite her wounds.

Abigail kept her still with a restraining arm. “Be careful, Christian,” she whispered. “Whatever it is, it certainly isn’t worth getting hurt.”

Spying something shiny within, Christian snapped it up. Thankfully, nothing tore off his arm, and he rubbed the object against his sleeve. “A portrait,” he murmured, looking down into the face of a medieval gentlewoman, dark-haired and sad-eyed. “This is Sibel, I’ll wager. Yes! She’s wearing the brooch,” Christian realized, for the circlet at her throat was small but familiar.

Abigail leaned close, and Christian handed the portrait to her. “Your ancestress,” he said, feeling an odd sort of hitch in his chest. Glancing away, he turned back to the trunk, pulling out a small drawstring bag.

“Mine! Mine!” Mercia cried. Proving surprisingly agile, she snatched at the pouch, spilling its contents onto the floor, then shrieking in disgust.

“Dust!” she shouted, outraged at the sight of what looked like brown earth. “Dust! Where is the gold? The jewels? The spoils of the crusaders?” Rummaging wildly in the trunk, she tossed aside a faded piece of cloth with her good hand, grabbed up something else, then flung it down as well.

Christian watched as what appeared to be part of a bone rolled across the stones.

“
Tell me that’s not someone’s finger,” Abigail said, eyeing him askance.

Christian grinned. Was there ever such a woman? “Well, at least it’s not the finger of anyone we know,” he said, picking up the piece to study it.

A large chunk of wood followed, nearly striking Christian. “Hey!” he shouted to the frenzied Mercia. But the woman was past all reasoning. Throwing a tooth and several pieces of parchment to the floor, she buried her face in her good hand and wept.

“What does it all mean?” Abigail asked, carefully retrieving the discarded items.

“I’m not sure, but I suspect it is Sir Boundefort’s treasure, all right, just not the kind his ancestors were expecting,” Christian said. “He put his wealth into the building of the hall, but kept hidden that which was most dear to him, his most valued possessions and the spoils of his journeys in the last Crusade.”

Christian picked up the chunk of wood and held it up to the light. “Not every good knight returned with silks and plunder. And those were different times—when other things were revered. Perhaps our pious soul thought this a piece of the true cross?”

He carefully replaced the wood in the trunk, then bent to return as much of the earth as he could to the small sack. “And this might well be soil from the Holy Land,” he said, putting it back in the chest. Unfurling the faded cloth, he saw a cross upon a field of pale green that once must have been vibrant.

“Our man’s device,” Christian said. He tucked it back in place, along with the other items. “Some saint’s tooth? Another’s bone?” he asked, then shrugged. “Perhaps these papers will tell the tale, but I think what we have here is a hoard not of worldly worth but of spiritual.”

“Religious relics,” Abigail said, and silence fell over the chapel but for the muffled weeping of Mercia and the pounding of the rain outside its walls.

Christian nodded. The mystery of Sibel Hall was finally solved, if not to everyone’s satisfaction, at least to his own. His task here was completed beyond any measure of a doubt. But now what?

He glanced toward Abigail and wondered.

20

A
bigail looked out
over her little garden and sighed, unable to believe that its profusion of blooms would soon fade. Although the days were still warm, summer was waning, and before long it would be giving way to cooler breezes and falling leaves. And then what would she do?

Abigail winced at the question she had been trying to ignore. She had her cottage, finally, her heart’s desire, so naturally she would spend her time in it, enjoying her privacy to the fullest. Cooped up, all alone?

Again Abigail ignored the question, concentrating instead upon the home that meant so much to her. After all those years of yearning and dreaming, she had come into it quite quickly and easily. Once the specter and everything that went along with it had been revealed, Mr. Smythe had been eager to purchase Sibel Hall for a client, though not Mr. Gaylord. And, bless him, Mr. Smythe had even found a delightful property for her in exchange, which left her with far more money than she had hoped.

Abigail sat back on her heels and admired her home, thankful for her good fortune. The cottage itself was lovely, a picturesque bungalow with fresh paint and lots of little windows and a beautiful view of the rear garden, to which she had been adding her own touches. Weeding took time, of course, but Abigail most enjoyed those days she was able to spend out-of-doors tending to growing things, her appreciation of nature fully renewed.

She didn’t have to, of course. She could have paid a gardener, but she liked to do it herself. The work gave her a sense of accomplishment, and without it years of duty made her, well, fidget. Although she treasured her freedom, she was ill prepared for a life of leisure, and when she wasn’t working in the garden, she was somewhat at a loss. Oh, she had her reading and her correspondence, but she still despised needlework, couldn’t play her small pianoforte very well, and gr
ew bored. Restless. Yearning…

With a frown, Abigail wondered if she ought not involve herself more with the neighbors. Things here at the cottage had grown a bit quiet, especially after her day girl complained that she couldn’t sit and chat if she was to be about her work. Obviously, the girl didn’t have the good sense to enjoy her position, for she had even had the temerity to suggest that Abigail hire a companion!

She wasn’t lonely, Abigail told herself even as she cocked her head at the sound of someone in the drive. Rising to her feet, she turned and shaded her eyes, heart racing, pulse clamoring, only to see that one of Farmer Morrison’s cows had wandered away again. The sight of the lumbering beast, walking toward her as if in greeting, made Abigail’s eyes ache with the pressure of unshed tears.

All right. She
was
lonely. But she didn’t miss her godmother’s household or her cousins who had turned out not to be cousins. Although he was not even a distant relation, she still corresponded with the colonel. He was happily living with one of his old military cronies and had written glowingly of the fellow’s widowed sister. He had even heard
from Emery, who might
really
study with the monies left him in Bascomb’s will. As for Mercia, Abigail had made sure the woman was taken care of, her stipend assuring her a cozy berth with a caretaker who would make sure she was clothed and fed, while keeping all weapons out of her possession.

Abigail couldn’t say she longed for any of them. One person and one person only occupied her thoughts, and she was finally forced to admit that she missed that someone with a desperation that grew ever stronger. The long days of her freedom had given her plenty of time to relive every moment spent with him, including the last—when he had proposed to her.

Like everything else, Christian Reade, Viscount Moreland had offered marriage with a cavalier shrug and a flash of white teeth, hardly the most romantic of gestures. And then, instead of whisking her off her feet, he had told her that he realized she did not want to wed, that she valued her independence and her dream of her own home above all else.

But think about it, he had said. Think about it! You know how to reach me, he had said, just as though she would pen him a polite note admitting that she loved him, passionately, endlessly, helplessly, and, by the way, would he please come for her?

Abigail snorted. She had her pride, and, truth be told, she had clung to her vision of her future, coveting her little house and garden. And, yes, she had to finally admit that she had been hurt when he hadn’t remembered her, had forgotten their initial meeting that, although so long ago, still resonated in her heart. She had stored up a lot of resentment over those years, years spent dreaming of him riding up to her parents’ house and, later, rescuing her from her godmother’s and whisking her off to a life of adventure and freedom and love.

In her naiveté
, she had expected too much from their chance encounter. Abigail knew that now. But no matter
how she might dismiss it, the painful death of her dreams still haunted her. And when she had penned the letter asking him to rid her of the specter, she acknowledged now that she just might have been thinking of more than his reputation with ghosts.

But even those last tattered hopes had been dashed when he arrived at Sibel Hall and didn’t know her. And Abigail had held that against him, nursing the old grudge back to life. She had told herself she was disappointed that he had accomplished so little in his gilded existence, that he was not the sort of man worthy of admiration, that he was a rake and a liar, when really she only faulted him for one thing: his abandonment of her.

Abigail lifted a hand to her face, shocked to feel the scalding heat of tears. Had she turned into a sour old spinster, without even a real suitor in her past to blame for her bitterness? For how could she hold Christian accountable for a brief encounter in his youth, a boy’s play promise?

The real man, the adult Christian, a chameleon of light and dark, had proposed to her, perhaps more out of duty than desire, but what kind of fool would she be to let pride stand in the way of her happiness? Even half a loaf of life with Christian would be better than none, far better than what she had once thought her heart’s desire. For without him her carefully planned existence was empty, certainly better than the long years she had spent with her godmother, but lacking
in love, excitement, passion…
and adventure.

Blushing, Abigail recalled the night in her bed that had, to her disappointment, put no child in her belly. She wanted that child. And others. She wanted a home that was filled with a family, not empty rooms that ensured a stultifying solitude. And, most of all, she wanted Christian Reade, Viscount Moreland, a scholar who wasn’t studious, a pirate who wasn’t a cutthroat, a wonderful, reckless, caring, witty, glorious man who had broken her heart once only to piece it back together, reviving her dreams and breathing life into her weary existence.

Drawing in a deep breath, Abigail wiped the stain of long unshed tears from her face and squared her shoulders. She knew what she must do.

C
hristian strode into
the house, looking for his grandfather. Having just returned from London, he wanted to assure himself that all was well—and to check the post, of course. He had been to the City for a meeting with his architect, but the afternoon had not gone well. Although he had tried to resume his previous life upon his return from Sibel Hall, nothing felt the same. Oh, his interest in building was still there, but he kept thinking he should ask Abigail’s opinion.

Christian laughed, a humorless sound, at that notion. Abigail was happily ensconced in the cottage he had chosen, unbeknownst to her. No doubt she was living her dream and never even thought of him, except to rue the night she had let him into her bedroom. Christian knew that. He recognized it as fact, and yet, try as he might, he could not dismiss that evening or the woman he loved so easily.

And so he went through the motions, studying plans and drawings, making halfhearted decisions, and spending time with his grandfather, with whom he shared a new bond. Now, the highlight of the day for both of them was the arrival of the post. Christian just couldn’t stop hoping for a letter from Devon.

“There you are! Where have you been?” the earl said, an expression of such expectation on his face that Christian hated to disappoint him by complaining about his architect.

“Just talking with Bramley,” he replied. “Where’s the post?”

“Forget the post,” his grandfather said, with a wicked grin. “There’s someone here to see you.”

Christian started, his heart lurching in his chest, before reason overcame his hopes. More than likely it was some designer or builder, seeking his business.

“Out in the garden,” his grandfather said. “By the old lilacs. I ought to have Thompson plant some new ones. We need more of them about the place. Perhaps a whole line of them.”

The minute he heard
lilacs,
Christian was on his way. Hurrying to the tall doors that led out onto the elaborate grounds, he ran down the stone steps of the terrace, past the carefully tended beds to where the countryside encroached and several enormous lilac bushes basked in the fading sunlight. There was Abigail, poised before them.

When Christian saw her standing there, a memory came back to him slowly, like a dream, a memory of his younger self, visiting his grandfather’s house with his parents. Adults were coming that day, and he was admonished to behave himself, but he tugged at his neckcloth and hoped the couple would bring sons with them.

To his disappointment, their only child, though about his own age, was a girl. Since he was going through his pirate phase at the time, Christian had no intention of sitting still for any tea and cakes. Brandishing a wooden sword, he had yelled something like, “I’m Black Jack Reade, and you’re my prisoner.”

To his surprise and delight, she had responded with,
“You’ll have to catch me first.
” And then she ran away. Naturally, Christian gave chase, but she was fast, for a girl. He finally found her under the massive lilac bushes at the back of the gardens, one of his own favorite spots. Impressed with her daring and her hiding skills and her good taste, nevertheless he dashed in, sword in hand, and claimed her.

“And what do you do with your prisoners, my lord pirate?” she had asked, not one bit intimidated by his swagger.

“Why, I usually make them walk the plank,” Christian had replied. “But you being a girl and all, I expect I shall have to ravish you!”

“And how do you do that?” she asked.

“Why, I kiss you, of course,” Christian replied, laughing his bold pirate laugh. But it had faded away as he looked at
her, cheeks flushed, hair like spun chocolate, silky bits flying away
from her face, and her eyes…
They were the color of the lilacs themselves, soft and sweet and bluer than blue. And in that moment she was the first girl he had ever really noticed, ever really looked at, certainly the first one who made his pulse pound.

Surprisingly, she did not demur as he leaned close, but only watched him with rather wide-eyed fascination. And so he had kissed her. His first kiss. It was just a brush of the lips, but he thought his heart would fly from his chest. He pulled back slowly, reluctantly, and saw that she had closed her eyes. Watching her open them had been what he now recognized as an erotic experience of the first order. Of course, he didn’t know it at the time; he knew only that she suddenly was beautiful and he wanted to give her the world.

And, then, startled at the discovery of his vulnerability, he had reverted back to the game. “You’re my wench now!” he had shouted, standing up to brandish his sword.

Christian half winced, half smiled at the memory of his young bravado. He had turned round and round and collapsed in a heap beneath the lilacs, their fragrance heady and sweet. Her voice, low and pleasing, followed him down. “Very well, my lord pirate,” she said. And she, too, lay back, and they looked up into the
branches above, locked in their
own world until her parents called for her.

When she left, Christian had darted into the house, taking a place at one of the long windows, where he watched their carriage move away. His parents were outside, tendering farewells, but his grandfather was seated by the fire, and Christian remembered with startling clarity how he had turned toward the earl with utmost seriousness and announced, “I’m going to marry that girl.”

“Who? Parkinson’s daughter?” his grandfather had said, never for one moment dismissing Christian’s youthful determination.

“Yes,” Christian replied.

“Good choice,” his grandfather had said, nodding.

The poignancy of the memory washed over him, catching at his throat and squeezing at his chest. That was why she was familiar. Those eyes! Who could ever mistake them? And, abruptly, he realized why his grandfather had sent him to Sibel Hall. The earl had remembered her name. The old man wasn’t growing senile at all, but was sharper than ever.

And now, the child Christian had once kissed stood before him, a woman full grown, and he cursed himself for not recognizing her the moment he’d seen her, for letting years of wary bachelorhood make him too blind to see that he had found her again at last.

“I’ve been talking to your grandfather, and apparently I owe you my thanks,” she said, presumably driven to speech by Christian’s long silence. “He says you scoured the countryside before settling on the cottage that Mr. Smythe conveniently offered me.”