by Cate Dean
After a long, painful grovel session with Geoffrey, he spent his first three days sitting outside the main tent, able to watch the students and young archaeologists work. It helped that he could share their excitement with each new discovery—at least, from a distance. Geoffrey had forbidden his presence within five feet of the edge of either hole.
In addition to the catalog, he had started a detailed summary of every artifact. It helped to take his mind off Maggie and Kit, and gave him a chance to completely examine each item without Geoffrey questioning his motives.
The recent attack had set him back days; now, the damp air and cold days worked against him, wiping out the rest of the progress he had made during his time in Holmestead. None of it mattered; Maggie and Kit’s safety were far more important than how quickly his leg healed.
He had retreated inside today, with the threat of rain. An ancient space heater helped keep the interior of the tent warm, and a thick wool blanket covering his legs chased away the remaining chill.
“Professor?” Sandra, one of the students who had just joined the dig, pushed through the flap of the tent, brushing light blond hair off her cheek. “Sir Geoffrey is looking for you, Professor.”
Martin raised his eyebrows. “Sir Geoffrey?”
Sandra shrugged, and gave him a sweet smile. “He demanded we call him Sir, which seemed easier than shouting his last name every time we needed him.”
With a sigh, Martin shook his head. If word got back to the right ears that Geoffrey had given himself a title, he would have more to worry about than his obvious concern that Martin would take all the credit for the dig.
“Where is he?”
“Out by the secondary dig, Professor.” She rolled her eyes. “He insisted I tell you to make haste—his words, not mine—because someone of his importance did not have all day. Again, his words.”
“Thank you, Sandra. I will be along shortly.”
He waited for her to leave before setting the blanket aside and pushing himself to his feet. It would not do to groan in front of an impressionable student. Once he felt steady, he grabbed his cane and limped out of the tent, headed for the second, smaller hole at the far end of the site.
Geoffrey stood next to one of the younger archaeologists, both of them arguing, their voices carrying on the wind.
“I told you not to make any decisions without my express consent!”
“I refuse to go hunting for you every time I have a new find.” He crossed his arms, and Martin could see his frustration, even from a distance. “I am a professional, with more than a few digs to my credit. I would appreciate being treated as such, and not as if I am one of the student volunteers.”
Before Geoffrey could open his mouth to reply—or in his case argue—the man swung down into the hole.
Geoffrey glared down at the man’s back, then turned his anger on Martin. “What the bloody hell took you so long?”
Martin swallowed the remark he wanted to make, and answered, his voice mild. “I came as soon as you summoned me, Geoff.”
Geoffrey’s nostrils flared. “What am I paying you for, Pembroke?”
“Exactly what I am doing. Cataloging the finds, and organizing them for transport. May I return to it? I wouldn’t want to waste your money standing around listening to you shout for no reason.”
He turned and limped away while Geoffrey sputtered, groping for a response.
That outburst may cost him, but it would be worth the price. He had been waiting far too long to put the obnoxious archaeologist in his place.
Of course, part of him flinched at the rude words. His mother’s training still left him feeling guilty when he stepped out of what she had always called her box of manners. Step out of that box, and one became a manner-less heathen.
He smiled as he remembered her lectures, something he had not thought of in years. His smile faded as the weight of her loss dragged at him, in a way it had not since meeting Maggie. His mother would have loved being here, and he would have loved sharing each new discovery with her, poring over them, talking about the people who had owned the items, used them on a daily basis.
Burying himself in work seemed even more appealing.
“Best get back to it,” he muttered, “and out of this blasted wind.” His leg agreed, and shot a nasty jolt of pain through him for good measure.
He halted, clutching his cane until the pain subsided. Tomorrow, once Geoffrey had left for his weekly trip to London, Martin would head into Canterbury, have a local doctor take a look at his leg. Until then, ibuprofen would get him through the rest of the day.
The questionable warmth of the tent felt heavenly after exposure to the bitter cold air. He turned up the ancient space heater, prayed that it would last another day, and settled in to continue his list. Hunting for a new heater would be his second errand tomorrow.
After he realized he was squinting at the paper, he lifted his head and discovered the sun was setting. He turned on the LED lantern Maggie had given him as a gift when he first headed here, silently thanking her again for her practical streak.
The sounds outside his tent had died off, since the students went back into the city at the end of the day. Martin and a couple of the younger archaeologists were the only ones foolish enough to spend the night here. If Maggie learned that he stayed in a small tent instead of in a warm room back in the city, she would—
Glass shattered, startling him out of his thoughts. He cursed under his breath, guessing one of the archaeologists dropped a lantern, or a glass, both of which were in short supply out here.
The pained cry cut him off. Someone had done more than simply drop a glass.
He pushed to his feet, grabbed his cane, and limped as quickly as possible out of the tent. The sound had come from his left, and the only possible location was the storage tent, standing on its own.
More glass shattered, and he forced his legs to move faster.
When he reached the tent, he halted, noticing that the flap had been left open. The anguished moan from inside banished the detail from his thoughts.
He limped inside, scanning the tent. A huddled figure caught his eye, and he headed for the far corner, using the cane to lower himself.
“Are you all right?” The single lantern hanging from the ceiling caught on strands of blond hair. Familiar blond hair. Martin reached forward, his heart pounding. “Sandra?”
“Help me...” Her whisper faded when she lifted her head. “No—please don’t hurt me again—please—no—”
“Sandra, it’s Professor Martin. I’m not going to harm you, I merely want to—”
She crawled away from him, her raw voice spiraling to a scream.
Martin stood, afraid that any male could be triggering her fear, if she had been attacked by a man.
“What in all the hells—” Geoffrey stepped into the tent, his narrowed gaze skating from Martin to Sandra, then back again. “What have you done, Pembroke?”
“I heard glass shatter, and found her like this.”
“Of course. Perfectly good reason.” He sounded almost—gleeful. Aside from his current grievances, Martin knew he was still angry over the Yorkshire dig—and that the blame for the theft had fallen on him, since Martin had been off site at the time. “I rang the local police. Why don’t you stay where you are, so they can question you once they arrive?”
Martin ignored him and used the cane to lever himself up. “I will wait outside, since my presence seems to be agitating her. Please stay here with her. I don’t want her alone.”
He limped past Geoffrey and out of the tent.
Flashing lights warned him before the local police car skidded to a halt and two men hopped out. One headed directly for the tent, and the other for Martin.
“Professor Martin?” He held out a gloved hand. “DI Chamberlain. Pleasure, sir. Love your documentaries.”
His compliment had Martin blinking. He recovered, and shook the man’s hand.
“Thank you. I do enjoy sharin
g my obsession with like-minded people.”
“What happened out here?”
“I heard glass shatter, then a cry, and came to investigate. I found one of our student assistants in the storage tent, but she panicked before I could assess any injuries.”
“My constable will attend her, and call in help if we need it. You said you heard glass shatter? Where were you?”
Martin pointed to the small tent. “That is where I stay if I spend the night. I was working on my notes when I heard the disturbance.”
“No one else about, then?”
Martin stilled. The Detective Inspector’s voice was mild, but he studied Martin with an intensity that reminded Martin of another investigation. One that ended with him in a cell.
“I thought one or two of the other archaeologists were here, and that they had dropped something in the storage tent. But it seems I was the only one foolish enough to stay on a cold night. I was surprised to find Sandra still here.”
“I see.” DI Chamberlain tucked both hands in his coat pockets. “And why did you stay on such a cold night, Professor?”
“It was easier for me.” Not to beg a ride from Geoffrey, or one of the students. “My notes are here, and with everyone gone, it is blissfully quiet.”
“I imagine so.”
Martin flinched as he realized his mistake.
He opened his mouth to explain, then thought better of it. DI Chamberlain studied him, as if waiting for him to confess. Finally, he broke the awkward silence.
“Please stay close by, Professor, until my investigation is complete. Again, it has been a pleasure.” He walked toward the storage tent, leaving Martin to curse himself silently, before he headed back to his tent.
No use standing out in the cold and making his leg ache more than it already did.
He had just settled himself when the tent flap opened and DI Chamberlain ducked inside.
“Forgive the intrusion, Professor, but I am afraid I will have to bring you back with me.”
Martin closed his eyes briefly. “What for, Inspector?”
“The young lady has identified you as her attacker.”
Ten
The ringing phone woke Maggie out of a restless sleep.
Heart pounding, she grabbed the handset off the bedside table and answered it.
“I’m so sorry to disturb you, Maggie.” Ian’s voice had her sitting up, her fingers clutching the phone. “Martin has been taken to the station in Canterbury.”
No—no, no, no—
This couldn’t be happening again.
“Why?”
“One of the students was attacked, and identified him.”
“That’s ridiculous.”
“I agree, but they had no choice, not with a victim ID.”
“Where, Ian?”
He hesitated, then let out a sigh. “Do you have a pen?”
Maggie jotted down the address, sliding off the bed as she ended the call. She pulled her nightgown off and threw on the first pair of pants she grabbed, along with a warm sweater.
“Kit,” she muttered, and headed to his room.
It was too late to call anyone, so he was coming with her. Part of her knew she would look more sympathetic holding a baby, when she asked to see her husband.
“Damn it—”
She stopped outside Kit’s room and braced her hands against the wall.
This wouldn’t end like Martin’s first arrest—with him as the prime suspect in a murder.
It couldn’t.
***
Martin heard Maggie’s voice before he saw her.
“Thank you again, DI Chamberlain.”
“It has been a pleasure meeting the woman who restored Blakeney Manor. Your husband will have to stay here, in Canterbury, until this has been sorted.”
“I understand.”
When Martin limped out to the waiting area, Maggie’s back was to him, but he saw how stiffly she held her shoulders.
“Ah,” DI Chamberlain waved him over. “Here he is now.”
When she turned, Martin was only partly surprised to see Kit in her arms. His presence would make Martin’s plan easier.
“Maggie.”
She nodded to him, then turned back to DI Chamberlain. “Thank you, for taking the time to see me.”
“A pleasure, Mrs. Martin. I wish it had been under better circumstances.”
She smiled, but even from here, Martin could see it was forced. “I’m glad you enjoyed the grand reopening of the manor. Ready to go, Martin?”
She walked to the door before he had the chance to answer.
When he joined her on the dark, empty sidewalk, he leaned on his cane and took her hand. “I want you to take Kit and return to Holmestead.”
“Not a chance. Not without you.”
“Maggie—”
“We’re in this together, Martin.” She squeezed his hand. “We’re not leaving you.”
“Yes, you are.” He braced himself, eased his hand free, and continued. “It is too dangerous for you to stay.”
“I plan on taking Kit home, then coming back on my own—”
“No, Maggie.”
He shoved down the fear that threatened at the thought of her being anywhere near the site. Or him. Whoever had attacked him in the gardens at Blakeney Manor had obviously followed him to the dig site. The assault on Sandra only made him more determined to keep Maggie well out of this.
“I want to help you with this.”
“You will go back to Holmestead, and you will stay there.”
“Really.” Her eyes narrowed, and he was afraid he had not been abrupt enough. “You don’t need me to bail you out if this goes sideways, and you end up in a cell.”
“No.” He gave her the hard look he had always reserved for disappointing students. “Go home, Maggie.”
“Don’t do this, Martin.” The pain in her voice clawed across his heart. “Please let me help.”
“Your help will hardly be useful.” He added insult and kept going, hating himself before he even spoke. “Stay away from here, and stay away from this investigation. The local police hardly need you poking about, getting yourself into trouble.”
She stared at him for endless moments, and he knew if Kit had not been in her arms, he would be receiving an ear blistering string of curses about now—if not the outright slap he deserved.
Finally, muttering under her breath, she moved forward until there was no space between them.
“Don’t think I don’t know what you’re doing, Pembroke Martin.” He flinched, and understood he had not only angered Maggie, he had hurt her. She never used his first name. “But if you want to shut me out, then you just got your wish.”
Before he had the chance to think about apologizing, she turned on one heel and stalked down the sidewalk, not looking back.
“Forgive me, love,” he whispered, his heart aching at merely the thought of her, of Kit.
It was safer for both of them if he dealt with this alone.
***
Too angry to see straight, Maggie nearly ran into the tall figure standing near her Rover.
She halted, instinctively moving Kit to her left hip, and turned so her right side faced the stranger. Several pubs lined this part of the street, and the presence of other people was the only reason Maggie had walked for several minutes, trying to calm herself, instead of heading straight for the Rover.
“Miss Mulgrew?” His voice sounded familiar.
“Who’s asking?”
“Forgive me. I must have startled you badly, showing myself in the middle of the night like this.” He raised his eyebrows at a passing group, his nostrils flaring when they started singing—a wildly inappropriate song that had her fighting a smile. When he turned back to her, any annoyance was gone. “I am Geoffrey Drummond-Doddington, the archaeologist your husband works for.”
She relaxed. “It’s a pleasure to finally meet you. Martin has told me about you.” Very little of it flattering.
<
br /> He lifted his chin. “I have tried to be a good influence on Pembroke, share my knowledge with him. I am on my way to the station, to provide a character reference for him. In spite of his shortcomings, Pembroke has the capacity to be a good archaeologist.”
“I—thank you.” Geoffrey was proving to be as pompous as Martin had always described him. It must have grated every time he used Martin’s first name. She had done it out of anger, but she had a feeling Geoffrey did because he knew how much it annoyed Martin. “I need to get home.”
“You are not staying?”
He didn’t need to know that Martin had ordered her to leave.
“Home is close enough that I can come back when I’m needed.”
“That would be Holmestead, am I correct? Sounds—quaint.”
Maggie had the feeling he didn’t mean it as a compliment. “We like it.”
A smile crossed his face, and came off as condescending. “I imagine so.”
“People look out for each other.” She wasn’t sure why she told him, but he nodded, his smile warmer.
“As they should.” He tipped an imaginary hat. “Good evening, Miss Mulgrew.”
“It’s Mrs. Martin.”
“Of course, my mistake. I will see that your husband is not railroaded by this clearly false charge.”
He strode down the sidewalk before Maggie could respond.
She looked after him, bouncing Kit on her hip when he started to fuss. “Your dad was right. He is an arrogant, pompous man.”
With a sigh, she turned toward the Rover, exhausted at just the thought of driving home.
After tucking a wide awake Kit into his car seat, she slid into the driver’s seat and fired up the engine.
Martin wanted her to go home, she would go home.
That didn’t mean she’d stop investigating.
***
Martin thought the night could not get any worse.
He turned out to be wrong.
Geoffrey waltzed into the police station just as DI Chamberlain was getting ready to release him. For now.
“I demand to see who is in charge of this travesty.”
Martin shook his head, and moved to step between Geoffrey and DI Chamberlain.
“Please,” Chamberlain said, laying his hand on Martin’s shoulder. “I have handled my share of better than thou types.” He strode forward, meeting Geoffrey halfway. “Mr. Drummond-Doddington. I will be happy to speak with you, once I’ve finished with Professor Martin.”
