The Songbird's Seduction (16 page)

And she was just the person to do it.

Tap! Tap! Tap!

Once more, Lucy came awake with a start. Something, or someone, was rapping somewhere. Loudly. She pulled the blanket up and struggled to a sitting position. Pale, early morning light drifted in from the bedchamber’s single window.

Tap! Tap!

Where . . . ? She frowned and peered out of the clouded glass. Over a hundred years of the house settling had raised the landscape to the point where the ground outside was just under the window sill. Consequently all she saw was a pair of trouser-clad legs above feet encased in serviceable-looking rubber Wellies and a tanned, strong hand curved over the top of a stout-looking stick. The stick rose to rap on her window again.

“Miss Eastlake? Are you awake?” asked a voice muffled by the thickness of the cottage walls. The man bent at the waist and squinted, trying to look inside.

Archie!
She scooted out of bed, flinging the blanket over her
shoulders and pushing back the latch on the cottage window, throwing it wide open and in doing so nearly hitting him in the shins.

He jumped back, startled.

She peered up, giving him a saucy grin. “Just what are you doing peeping into a lady’s bedchamber, Professor Grant?”

Bright red color flashed up his neck and filled his face, and Lucy decided right there and then that nothing could be more appealing than a blushing pirate. And he did look piratical this morning. Deliciously so. The wind had invested a bronzy hue to his face and tousled the loose black curls back from his forehead. He hadn’t shaved and his hard angled jaw looked blue-black with a nascent beard, making the cleft in his chin even more apparent.

“I didn’t mean to . . . that is, I . . .”

She waited patiently, charmed, wrapping the blanket closer as she sat down on the open sill. She wondered how long it would be before he was accustomed enough to her teasing that he could complete a full sentence in response.

His mouth flattened, but more from exasperation with himself than her, she’d wager. “A messenger brought news of the ferry a short while ago. I wasn’t going to wake you but then, when I started out on a walk, I realized you might want to know.”

“Know what?” The wind whipped a strand of her hair across her face.

“The ferry was damaged on some rocks coming in last night. They’re working on repairs now but it will take at least a day before they anticipate we can leave here.”

She stared at him, torn between offering a prayer of thanks for this small delay and ingratitude that it was only a day. But then, he had said “at
least
a day.” The important thing was to take every advantage of whatever Providence offered and in this Lucy knew herself to be expert.

“I’m sorry, Miss Eastlake.”

Apparently, he’d mistaken her silence for dismay. “That’s all right.” She released a small, brave sigh. “We’ll muddle through.”

“That’s the spirit.” His tone suggested he thought she was being uncommonly gracious by not putting up a fuss.

“Thanks. And
please
, call me Lucy. After yesterday, I am sure we know each other well enough for you to use my Christian name.”

“I suppose you’re right.” Without seeming to think about it, he reached down and tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear. “Well then, Lucy, there you have it. We won’t be leaving any time soon.”

He smiled brightly. Indeed, he looked quite pleased.

“Mrs. Beaufort will make you something to eat when you’re ready. And don’t let her convince you that you’ll need to pay extra; she specifically said room
and
board.”

“Won’t you be joining me?’

“No. I’ve already eaten. I’m going to take a walk along the cliffs and stop at any crofts I find. Mrs. Beaufort tells me there are at least a dozen on this side of the island alone.”

The prospect seemed to make him positively giddy. He beamed with enthusiasm. Hmm. Perhaps he had some sort of mania for crofts? Not that it mattered—she knew scads of odd people. Some might even point at her family for examples.

“How delightful. I love a good croft. So crofty. I should think there are some wonderful examples throughout the island.”

“Really? I’ve never noticed that one croft was substantially different from the next.”

No mania for crofts, then. Maybe cliffs? “They probably aren’t, I just like them. But not as much as I like a good bracing walk along a cliff. One never feels so alive as when one is staring down a two-hundred-foot precipice.”

“Oh?” He was regarding her with some concern. “You don’t feel compelled to do anything other than
stare
down them do you?”

“Heavens no. Why would I?”

“I don’t know. You seem peculiarly ardent.”

“
I
seem peculiarly ardent? What about you? You were practically giggling as your recited your plan to go lurking about the cliffs and sneaking up on a dozen unsuspecting crofts.”

At this he actually laughed, a deep-throat rumble of mirth that seemed to surprise him. “It’s not the crofts I’m interested in, it’s their tenants.”

“Their tenants?” she repeated blankly.

“Yes. Do you realize this island has been inhabited for over a thousand years?”

She shook her head.

“It has. The inhabitants here are the only known people to speak an ancient Norman dialect called Sercquiais. Mrs. Beaufort claims her family has been on this island since the fourteenth century. The
fourteenth
. She told me that the oatcakes she served me this morning came from a recipe handed down since that time.”

Lucy, whose vague recollection of Mrs. Beaufort’s biscuits last night could in no way account for Archie’s enthusiasm, continued to regard him blankly.

“This is a microcosm, Lucy. I could travel to islands in the middle of the Pacific Ocean or to the Arctic sea and not find a genetic pool as concentrated as this one. It’s magnificent!

“The oral traditions and customs that have been kept alive here may well predate the Roman occupation. I would not be surprised to find reference to Taranis in some form or other.”

She had no idea who Taranis was but contrived to look astonished.

“You haven’t a clue who Taranis is, do you?”

She frowned. Had she lost her acting skills along with her dinner last night?
Somehow
he’d known she was pretending to be impressed, just like she suspected he’d known she was lying about knowing French. It was an ability she found both off-putting and mysterious.

“I realize it might not sound impressive to a layman but to someone in my field the chance of adding to the canon on British Iron Age culture is too good to pass up.”

“Your field?”

“Yes. Cultural anthropology.”

“
Golden Bough
sorts of things?” she asked, naming the recently published book on comparative religions that had London society in an uproar.

If he was surprised she knew about
The Golden Bough
, he didn’t show it. That pleased her. “Some. Basically it’s studying the relative development of people. I’m sure you’d find it dull. Most folks do.”

“I think I’d find it plenty interesting. You’re trying to figure out how people got the way they are, right?”

He slowly nodded.

“How a bloke speaks and moves and acts would not only tell you a lot about him but the people and place he came from, too, right?”

He was studying her closely. “Yes.”

“Well then, how could I find it dull? It’s what
I
do, Archie. I read a libretto and decide how a song ought to be sung by first figuring out who the character singing it is. That includes where she came from and
who
she came from. A person doesn’t just burst into song for no reason, you know. She comes from some place. Some place that has fashioned her and which she has to some degree fashioned.”

“I had no idea your craft involved such sorts of analysis.”

She rather liked his calling what she did “her craft” and gave him a nonchalant smile. “Now you do. So, how do you mean to go about finding this Taranis.”

“Oh, I don’t expect to
find
him. That would be asking a bit much. But I might uncover some hint of his presence, like footprints in the dust. In some cultures the best metaphorical footprints
a previous culture leaves can be found in the stories handed down from one generation to the next. I intend to interview the islanders, get them talking.”

“Then we best get going.”

“We?”

“Yes. I’ll go with you.”

He hesitated. “I’m not sure that’s such a good idea.”

“It’s a wonderful idea. I’ll help you.”

He was looking decidedly uncomfortable. “It’s a generous offer, but really, I can’t accept.”

“Yes, you can. I’ll be dressed and ready to go in two shakes.” She hopped up and started to close the window. He caught it halfway. “Lucy. I don’t know how to say this. I know you mean to help but I’m afraid you’ll . . .”

“What?”

“Not help,” he finished lamely.

She burst out in a little trill of laughter. “Of course I will, Archie. You’ll see. I have a positive knack for putting people at ease.”

He groaned. She ignored it.

“You stay there. I’ll be ready in five minutes.” Without waiting for a real invitation, as she was fairly certain none would be forthcoming, she pulled the window shut and dragged the curtains over it.

She dropped the blanket from her shoulder and looked around, realizing that she didn’t have any clothes. All of her things were waiting for her in Saint-Malo. The things she’d had on yesterday were unwearable.

She opened the bedroom door and peeped out. The main room had been separated into two areas, one for cooking and the other, a sort of parlor, for everything else. Mrs. Beaufort stood at a stove against the wall, hands on her hips, glaring at something popping and sizzling in a cast-iron frying pan.

At the sound of the door, Mrs. Beaufort glanced over at her shoulder.

“I kin clean yer dress fer two bob.”

Lucy’s eyebrows flew up. “Two bob? That’s ridiculous.”

Mrs. Beaufort shrugged and turned back to the stove. “Suit yerself.”

“I shall clean it myself.”

“And what will you wear in the meantime?”

Lucy scowled. She hadn’t thought of that.

Mrs. Beaufort looked over her shoulder at her. “Lucky fer you, my Kate’s aboot the same size as you. Ye’ll find sometink in the chest at the foot of the bed.”

“Thank you.”

“Five bob for the brown one and—”

“Five bob! But that’s outrageous! I could buy a brand-new skirt and petticoat for that price in London.”

Mrs. Beaufort regarded her stonily. “But we ain’t in London, are we? Six bob if ye fancy the green skirt and blouse.” She turned her back on Lucy. “Breakfast is on the table. Only three pence—”

“Mr. Grant informed me it was already paid for.”

The woman muttered something about “pinch penny Londoners” under her breath and went back to glaring at her skillet.

Lucy didn’t make it out the door in the promised five minutes. A sniff of her person made it obvious that she couldn’t go anywhere without a quick sponge bath. In the process of that she realized that her hair was the worst offender and . . . well, she hoped Archie could appreciate that twenty minutes to bathe, wash and comb out one’s hair, and brush one’s teeth was an amazing accomplishment. Especially since she’d spent five of them haggling with Mrs. Beaufort over the price of soap.

She flew out of the door in her newly purchased green skirt and moth-eaten jumper. If Mrs. Beaufort estimated her Kate was
the same size as Lucy, the woman needed stronger spectacles than were currently available, because the Beaufort’s daughter was at least four inches taller and ten wider than she was. She’d been forced to use the curtain tieback for a belt and a shoelace she pilfered off a boot in the closet to tie back her hair, but at least now she was ready to follow Archie to, well, anywhere.

Archie sat on the ancient stone fence that followed the lane leading to the Beaufort farmhouse, one leg dangling, whittling away on the stick he carried. The wind nickered and fussed, the promise of rain hanging in the nickel-plated sheet of sky. He felt more than heard Lucy’s approach. Not surprising, as she seemed as much an element of nature as the wind or the surf, just as capricious and unpredictable, following some odd inner logic of her own.