by Olivia Drake
Her heart tripped over a beat. She felt compelled to touch the misshapen orb with her fingertip. It seemed so tiny for something that could kill a person. “So the poacher fired this with his rifle.”
“No.” Lord Simon gave a decisive shake of his head. “It’s too small for the bore of a rifle. This ball came from a pistol.”
Chapter 16
A pistol! A giddy sense of relief washed through Annabelle. Then the rifle that had been lashed to the back of his saddle meant nothing. Nothing at all. Lord Simon had carried the gun with him only for the hunting party at Lord Danville’s estate.
Yet the news didn’t entirely exonerate him. She had to be careful not to take him at his word, for he might be leading her astray. He had reason to plot the duke’s death. And for all she knew, he might have kept a smaller weapon secreted in his saddlebags.
“Do you mean … a dueling pistol?” she asked. Didn’t many wealthy gentlemen own such a set? Annabelle wasn’t certain, though she’d read about men challenging each other to duels over insults to their honor.
Lord Simon deposited the ball in an inner pocket of his coat. “There are many types of pistols. However, what’s intriguing is that hunters generally use a rifle. The aim is more accurate when firing at a distant target.”
Her heart tripping over a beat, she gazed at him through the veil of her lashes. “Are you suggesting that the gunman wasn’t a poacher, after all?”
“I said generally. A pistol may have been the only weapon the scoundrel possessed.” Lord Simon spoke distractedly, the frown on his sun-darkened features indicating he was intent on his private thoughts. “Wait right here. Now that we have two points of reference, the trajectory will lead me directly to the spot where he was hiding.”
Starting at the oak, he marched in a straight line up the slope and past the place where she’d been standing when the shot had been fired. He continued onward several yards, then slowed down to peer closely at the undergrowth as he mounted the hill.
Annabelle anxiously watched him. Had he found something yet? Or were his actions an elaborate scheme designed to deceive her?
Only time would tell. In the meanwhile, she distracted herself by making a circuit of the ancient oaks. Despite being on an incline, the ground in this area was level except for a waist-high mound covered in thick vines, rather like an overgrown altar. With the leafy branches overhead and the trees marking the four corners, Annabelle felt as if she were standing in a cathedral designed by a nature deity.
What an odd fancy!
She glanced up the hill to see Lord Simon moving higher toward the castle. Where was he going? Had he found a trail left by the gunman?
Too restless to stand still, she continued walking around the perimeter of the oaks until she had made a full circle, arriving back at the place where Nicholas had dropped out of her sight. Here, he had stopped chasing the rabbit when he’d spied his little treasure lying on the ground.
On impulse, Annabelle crouched down to view the scene from his diminutive height. How different the world looked from a lower vantage point. It brought the surroundings into sharper focus. Thick piles of leaves and humus carpeted the earth, perfuming the air with a rich scent. A short distance away, a spider spun a web between the dried branches of a fallen limb. Shafts of sunshine cast a soft buttery light over the gentle mound in the center of the oaks.
Something glinted beneath the tangle of vines. She scooted closer and gingerly parted the vegetation, peering deep within the foliage.
Then she reached in and pulled out … a gardening trowel.
In great surprise, Annabelle turned the small implement over in her hands. It appeared to be rather new. Surely it would be pitted with rust if it had been abandoned here for many years. Had someone lost it recently? Or concealed it on purpose?
But why would anyone hide such a tool? The middle of a forested slope was hardly the ideal place to garden.
Mystified, she glanced around, looking for evidence that someone had been digging in the vicinity. Her gaze sharpened on the spot where Nicholas had been standing. In several places, crumbs of dirt lay atop the foliage as if the leaf mold had been shoved aside, and then manually moved back into place to camouflage the area.
She used the edge of the trowel to scrape away the natural debris. Quickly, it became obvious that the earth beneath the covering had been disturbed, for the hard surface was broken and powdery. Someone had been digging here quite recently. But for what purpose?
There was one way to find out.
She glanced up to see Lord Simon nearing the top of the hill. To pass the time until his return, she decided to scoop out soil from the area. Scraggly roots impeded her excavation, and for a few minutes she turned up nothing but pebbles and an occasional black beetle.
Then a dull glimmer caught her attention. Reaching into the hole, she plucked a small object out of the loose dirt. It looked to be a very filthy coin.
Buried treasure?
Intrigued, she rubbed her thumb over the surface to clean off some of the grime. The object appeared to be made of gold, but it didn’t resemble any recognizable British coin. When she tilted it to the sunlight, the well-worn markings showed a stylized horse surrounded by leafy foliage. The other side depicted a mighty stag with antlers.
How very odd. If the artifact was indeed currency, there was no numerical value stamped into the metal. Nor were there any words to use for the purpose of identification.
The tramp of footsteps signaled Lord Simon’s return. Reminded of his quest, Annabelle scrambled up to greet him. “Did you see any sign of the gunman?”
“There was a place just off the path where he must have been lying in wait. The foliage was crushed there—” Lord Simon broke off, staring down at the shallow hole and the pile of soil beside it. “What the devil have you been doing?”
“Someone hid a trowel beneath the vines over there.” She made a vague wave at the mound. “When I looked around, I noticed there were signs of excavation beneath the leaves. And see what I found buried in the dirt?”
She handed him the coin. One eyebrow raised, he turned over the piece while examining it in the light filtering through the trees. “How extraordinary.” His voice held a note of excitement that she’d never heard from him before. “It appears to be quite ancient.”
“Nicholas found a small bit of metal here, too,” she said. “He bent down to pick it up at the very instant the shot was fired.”
Lord Simon glanced sharply at her. “And that’s why you thought he’d been struck.”
“Yes. Do you suppose that’s a Roman coin?”
He shook his head while gently rubbing his thumb over the image. “It looks Celtic to me. I’ve seen similar pieces in museums. The Celts were the native people in Britain at the time of the Roman occupation.”
“They were pagans who worshipped nature,” Annabelle added with growing enthusiasm. “Their priests were called Druids. Cicero wrote about them, as did Pliny the Elder.”
For the first time that day, a smile touched Lord Simon’s lips, giving a hint of the attractive man behind the misogynist. “Did you read that in the original Latin? If so, I’m most suitably impressed.”
She colored slightly under his scrutiny. “Yes, well … do you suppose it’s possible this was once a holy place to the Druids? An outdoor church, perhaps? These oaks look quite prehistoric.”
“They do, indeed.” Lord Simon walked slowly around the quartet of massive trees, pausing to stare up into the gnarled old branches. “The Celts had a particular affinity for oaks. They believed that a nature deity resided in each one. To this day, we Cornish have a superstition about cutting down oaks. It is considered to be bad luck.”
“This little clearing looks rather like an outdoor cathedral, don’t you think? The trees mark the corners.” She placed her hand on the central mound. “And here is the altar.”
“Very observant, Miss Quinn.” His gray eyes alight, Lord Simon glanced around as if seeing the
area for the first time. “As a boy, I roamed all over these woods. Odd how I never took any notice of this particular place.”
“Someone else must have noticed, though,” she said, taking a step toward him. “Someone who hoped to dig up buried treasure.”
His face sobered. “Quite so. Where exactly did you find that trowel?”
She pointed to the base of the altar. “Right there.”
Lord Simon circled the mound, pushing the vegetation aside in places. Suddenly, from the other side, he pulled forth a full-sized spade that had been concealed beneath the vines. “It seems our mysterious digger came well prepared. I must say, this explains quite a lot.”
“What do you mean?”
He propped the spade against the mound. “Just as I suspected, there was never any poacher. And once I saw where the bullet had struck, I knew that Nicholas could not have been the target, either. He was too far away from the gunman. Therefore, I could only conclude the villain was aiming at you.”
Annabelle was almost too flabbergasted to speak. Of all the statements he could have made, that was the last one she’d expected. “At me? Why?”
“I didn’t know the answer until you found it right here. The gunman must be the same person who hid the shovel and spade.” His gaze bored into her. “That shot was meant as a warning to frighten you away from this place.”
* * *
Lord Simon refilled the hole and layered the area with dead leaves until it appeared undisturbed. He also replaced the spade and trowel where they’d been found beneath the vines. After determining that nothing more could be accomplished at the moment, he took Annabelle’s arm as they mounted the steep hill to the path.
“I’ll station a sentry to watch the site from a distance,” he told her. “At no time will it be left unguarded. With any luck, the villain will return and he’ll be apprehended.”
That reminded Annabelle of something. “A few weeks ago, one of the kitchen maids mentioned seeing a ghostly light here on the slope after dark. She was certain it was piskies.”
“Piskies! Alas, I doubt the little creatures carry pistols.” Chuckling, he guided her around a patch of brambles. “That tells me something, anyway. Our villain has been doing at least some of his work at night. I may just take a shift myself this evening.”
“But you’ve a houseful of guests to entertain.”
“Everyone is leaving on the morrow, so I imagine they’ll opt for an early night.” His jaw tightened. “If indeed there are ancient artifacts buried on this land, they belong to the Duke of Kevern. As the boy’s guardian, I fully intend to prevent them from being stolen.”
Seeing his resolute expression, Annabelle felt a seismic shift in her heart. His determination to protect Nicholas’s legacy held the unmistakable ring of truth. Dear God, how wrong she’d been to suspect Lord Simon. How could she have ever thought him so dastardly as to hide in the bushes and fire a bullet at his own nephew?
She had wanted to believe the worst of him, that was why. After all, he had shunned Nicholas for reasons she found intolerable. But it was a vast leap from disliking a child to murdering him.
Now she would have to live with the discomfiting knowledge that Lord Simon deserved an apology that she didn’t dare to voice. Her position as governess might very well be in jeopardy if ever he learned of her low regard for his character.
Annabelle averted her eyes so he wouldn’t see her guilt. There would be time enough later to flay herself in private. For now, she needed to concentrate on the mystery.
As they crested the hill and started along the path that led to the castle, she asked, “Who in the area has an interest in Celtic history?”
“I’ve been wondering that myself,” he said. “Unfortunately, the answer is—everyone. The locals still celebrate pagan feast days like Beltane and Samhain. And you can’t travel half a mile without meeting a farmer or a shepherd who believes in the old superstitions.”
“If the people here have such esteem for the Druid ways, it seems they’d hesitate to disturb a holy site.”
“Not everyone has scruples when tempted by buried treasure. However, the scoundrel might be an outsider who learned of it from one of the locals. I’ll make inquiries to see if there’s anyone new in the neighborhood.”
The perpetrator had to be someone utterly ruthless. Now that Annabelle had had time to absorb the shock, she could better appreciate her lucky escape. The bullet had passed within inches of her head. What if her foot hadn’t slipped? What if she hadn’t leaned against the tree trunk? She might have been seriously injured—even killed.
Grateful to be alive, she drew a deep breath of salty air. Her straw bonnet had slipped off earlier, with only the tied ribbons securing it at the nape of her neck. A lady would have donned it again, especially in the presence of a gentleman. But Annabelle wasn’t feeling very proper. The brush with death had shaken her to the core, and now she wanted to savor the simple joys of sunshine on her face and the sea breeze stirring her hair.
If she dared to admit it, the vibrancy inside her also had much to do with the man walking beside her. She was very aware of his hand cupping her arm as if he thought her a fine lady, his social equal.
If only that were true.
A pulse of longing assailed her depths. Against all wisdom, she wanted to experience his embrace again. This time she would slide her arms around his neck and tilt her mouth up for his kiss …
The notion was as sinfully irresistible as the man himself. Glancing his way, she caught Lord Simon gazing at her with a hooded expression. The wind had tousled his dark hair and lent him the rakish air of a pirate. Was he thinking about ravishing her?
The raucous cry of a gull broke the silence. Shocked at her own wicked thoughts, Annabelle averted her eyes. Nothing could ever come of such yearnings. Unlike Lady Milford, she could never indulge in a liaison without facing a life of ruin. Annabelle didn’t have a doddering noble husband who’d given her carte blanche to carry on an affair with a royal prince. She could depend upon no one but herself.
Lord Simon’s voice intruded on her thoughts. “It would be helpful to see the artifact that my nephew found,” he said. “I’d like for you to bring it to my study as soon as possible.”
In her present frame of mind, Annabelle had little tolerance for his avoidance of Nicholas. “Better yet,” she countered, “you could come straight upstairs to the nursery to see it.”
“Then you trust me to be near Nicholas?”
“What do you mean?”
He cocked a sardonic eyebrow. “You believed I was the gunman. Don’t bother to deny it. I saw your horrified expression when you spied my hunting rifle.”
So he had known all along. Aghast, Annabelle hardly knew how to respond. She could tell little from his expression except that he had the heartless look of a tomcat toying with his prey.
But she would not play the mouse.
She slowed her steps and turned to face him squarely. “Yes, I do admit that the notion entered my mind. I had to consider all possibilities in order to safeguard the duke. I’m sorry if that offends you, my lord, but my first duty is to protect him. And since I’ve yet to see you display any affection at all for him … well, I could only think the worst.”
Lord Simon listened in tight-lipped silence. With a slight tug on her arm, he urged her to continue walking down the path that skirted the east wall of the castle. “You’re as blunt as Clarissa,” he said. “At least I can bid her adieu on the morrow.”
“Then you’ll not send me packing, too?”
“No, I need you … to watch over Nicholas. You’ve done a fine job with the boy. It’s clear he’s fond of you.”
His praise warmed her more than it ought—perhaps because she’d so seldom had anyone compliment her. And what had that pause meant? Annabelle didn’t wish to know. “It isn’t difficult to win the affections of a child,” she said. “One needs only to be kind and loving, and the sentiment will be returned tenfold.”
&n
bsp; “Come now, you belittle your abilities.”
“No, it really is that simple. His Grace would grow fond of you, too, if only you gave him a chance.”
“I know nothing about children,” he said dismissively.
“Nonsense. You were a boy yourself once.”
“Not like Nicholas. I was boisterous, outspoken, and always embroiled in some sort of mischief. Many a time I slipped out of the nursery to avoid doing my lessons.”
Annabelle could imagine him sneaking through the secret tunnels as a means of escape. “You must have been a trial to your governess.”
“It seems that’s a talent I’ve never lost.”
One corner of his mouth curved in the raffish smile he used on all the ladies. Truly, he posed a far greater danger as a charmer than when he was angry. The best cure for her wayward attraction would be to force him back to a serious discussion.
“Just because you engaged in more tomfoolery,” she said, “doesn’t mean you’ve nothing in common with His Grace. He enjoys the same things as any boy—playing with toy soldiers, reading adventure stories, searching for flotsam on the beach.”
“He’s far too shy and quiet. It’s impossible to know what he’s thinking.”
“That’s a poor excuse for avoiding his company.” Afraid she might never have a better chance to break through to him, she dared to add, “I’m beginning to believe that underneath all that manly bluster, you’re something of a coward.”
“A coward!” As if burned, he let loose of her arm and took a single step backward. “By God, if you were a man I’d call you out for such an insult.”
Annabelle’s heart beat faster. But she wouldn’t quail under his furious glare. Nor would she retract her statement. By his own actions, Lord Simon had demonstrated that he couldn’t face the pain of the past. He had shunned the duke’s company because Nicholas resembled the woman who had spurned Lord Simon so long ago.
On impulse, Annabelle placed her hand on his sleeve. His arm felt as hard and rigid as the man himself. Lowering her voice, she said, “I cannot pretend to know how painful it must have been for you to lose the woman you loved. But you’re too mired in the past, and it will be an even greater tragedy if you fail to forge a bond with Nicholas. He’s a wonderful little boy who deeply admires you.”
