by Cate Dean
Written on the Wind
Maggie Mulgrew Mysteries Book 2
Cate Dean
Copyright, 2016
All Rights Reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form without written permission of the author, except for use in any review. This is a work of fiction. The names, characters, locales, and events are either pure invention or used fictitiously, and all incidents come from the author’s imagination alone.
Sign up for Cate’s list: http://catedeanwrites.com/join-my-list/ to learn about new releases.
Table of Contents
Copyright Page
One
Two
Three
Four
Five
Six
Seven
Eight
Nine
Ten
Eleven
Twelve
Thirteen
Fourteen
Fifteen
Sixteen
Seventeen
Eighteen
Nineteen
Twenty
Excerpt from Spirit of the Season
List of British Slang
Written on the Wind
About The Author
One
“So.” Spencer Knight boosted himself to the mahogany counter in Maggie Mulgrew’s antique shop, and gave her a grin that told her she wasn’t going to like what he said next. “How long is Professor Sexy staying?”
She was right.
Instead of reacting to his comment about Martin, she kept calmly unloading the box she bought at the church charity sale this morning.
It felt like she’d stolen the items, since she paid less than twenty pounds for the entire box. She planned to leave a large donation later today. The seller had practically shoved the box at her as she walked by his table, and refused to take it back once she had it in her hands.
Odd, but then, she expected that, living in her adopted home. Even Lilliana Green, the level-headed owner of The Tea Caddy, had her quirks.
Maggie loved being part of it all.
She finally responded to Spencer’s constant throat clearing. “Can you take these,” she handed him the few London souvenirs from the box that would appeal to her customers. “And set them up in the modern Holmes section?”
“What is this—punishment for using the S word?”
“Yes.” She smiled at him as she pushed him off the counter. “Now, go earn your generous salary.”
“What I do for love.” Spencer leaned over the counter and gave her a loud kiss, before he sighed dramatically and tramped across the shop. Maggie gave in and laughed; her oldest and best friend knew how to make her laugh, especially when she needed it most.
Right now, she needed it.
Professor Pembroke Martin Deauville, the youngest son of the Earl of Berkshire, had been distant since their confrontation with Edward Carlisle and former Police Constable Drew Cooperman. Martin may live just above the shop, but even when they stood in the same room, he felt miles away.
Maggie thought it might have something to do with losing his position at Oxford, but he seemed relieved to be free. In fact, he had already been on two different artifact hunts in the last month, and had been successful both times. She also knew he had another documentary in the works, so that could account for his distraction.
Martin appeared in the shop, as if thinking about him pulled him from the flat upstairs. Spencer waved at him, no longer surprised when he showed up, slipping out of the door almost hidden in the corner of the shop.
Taking a deep breath, Maggie plastered a smile on her face and moved around the counter.
“Good morning, Martin. Have you had breakfast? I brought some scones from—ˮ
“I need to speak with you, Maggie. Alone.” Something edged his quiet voice that she’d never heard, even when he had been the prime suspect in Angus Fitch’s murder. Desperation.
“Of course.” She pulled her Kelly green wool coat off the rack just inside the back room. It was cold out today, with the wind blowing off the water. “Spencer—can you watch the shop for a few minutes?”
He grunted, still working over the display. Maggie knew he’d jump to help anyone who walked in, so she led Martin outside, butterflies batting at each other in her stomach. Those butterflies multiplied when Martin didn’t take her hand like he normally did when they walked together.
Instead, he had both hands in the pockets of his tweed jacket, his gaze on the bottom of the high street. Maggie struggled to keep up with his long strides, skipping every other step. When he finally noticed—it was so unlike him to be unaware of his surroundings—he slowed, looking at her for the first time since they left the shop.
“Sorry, Maggie.” He ran one hand through his wavy, dark brown hair, a sure sign of nerves. The wind whipping up from the harbor tossed it around his face, and tried to yank Maggie’s wild red hair out of her braid. “I was going to talk down at the promenade, but perhaps we should go inside.”
“There’s the gazebo. It will be empty this time of the morning.”
He nodded, and didn’t say another word as they headed down the gently sloping high street.
The white and blue painted wood gazebo stood in the center of the promenade, the raised boardwalk stretching out on either side of it. Glass windows had been added years ago, to allow those sitting inside a respite from the nearly constant wind off the Channel.
Martin stood to one side, letting Maggie step in first. She sat on the wood and wrought iron bench that curved around the interior wall, not surprised when he didn’t join her.
They may have only been dating for two months, but she felt closer to him than any man she had ever known. The distance he had put between them the last few days hurt, so much more than she expected.
“Please tell me what’s wrong, Martin.”
He swallowed, staring out at the water. “I should have told you this from the beginning, Maggie. But I didn’t want to lose you.”
She slipped her hands in her coat pockets, so he wouldn’t see that they shook. “Tell me what?” When he hesitated, she stood and moved to his side. “Believe me, with my vivid imagination, the truth is far less horrifying than all of the scenarios in my head.”
He flashed a grim smile. “Not this time.” After another long silence, he started talking, his voice low and flat. “I told you, when we first met, that I fell in love with the past during a trip to Egypt. It wasn’t my first trip over, but my third trip, after my first year at university, left a stain on my soul.”
Maggie took his hand, sure that he would pull away. He twined their fingers together, and held on like she was the one stable bastion in his world. “What happened?” She spoke quietly, watching him.
He took off his wire rimmed glasses and tucked them in his pocket. Without them, he looked vulnerable—even more so now, his face pale, his grey blue eyes dark.
“I was part of a dig, near the Valley of the Kings. You would not have recognized me then, Maggie. I was a different man—young, arrogant, full of myself. I knew more than the experienced archaeologists running the dig, at least about the minor noble they expected to find in the tomb. Since I had spent most of my time outside Cairo during my first visits, I did not know about the dangers of the site, and how quickly a normal dig can become treacherous.”
She tightened her grip on his hand when his voice cracked, and waited for him to continue. After he swallowed a couple of times, he did, his voice raw.
“I sent two of the local boys into the tunnel we were widening. I almost fit, but my shoulders were too wide to go any deeper. I was impatient, and I ignored the pleas of the men who had worked in and around the Valley most of their lives. Like I
said, I was arrogant.” He closed his eyes. “That arrogance nearly cost those two boys their lives.”
“Martin.” Maggie had to connect with him, to keep him from withdrawing into his pain. She cradled his cheek with her free hand, waited for him to meet her eyes. The grief in his tore at her heart. “What happened next?”
He took a deep, shaky breath. “Part of the tunnel collapsed. I froze, Maggie—completely and utterly. The other men started to dig the boys out, and I finally pulled myself together to assist. One of them was badly injured. The injuries finally crippled him.” He eased his hand free and backed away from her. “I will understand if you want me gone. I can pack and be out of the flat by—ˮ
“Stop.” She stalked forward until she trapped him against the wall of the gazebo. “Do you think I’m so shallow, that a mistake you made when you were a teenager would have me rejecting you?”
“It has before.”
She wanted to punch the women who had hurt him. “Did you send those boys in, knowing there was a chance the tunnel would collapse?”
“I didn’t believe the men. But I should have, Maggie. I should have listened to them—ˮ
“What did you do after the collapse?”
“I brought both boys to the doctor in charge of treating the Brits on the dig, and demanded that he take care of them. I even used my father’s title as a threat. The doctor was offended that I didn’t think he would treat the boys, and his actions lessened the severity of their injuries.”
“And what happened next?” She knew he would downplay, but she wanted him to say it out loud.
“I’ve been sending them a stipend ever since, to atone for what I did.”
“You’re helping them live a better life, years after what happened.”
“I owe them, Maggie.” He scrubbed at his face, and she saw the grief ease a little. “Both of them still work for me, when I need experts on tunnels.”
“And why are they experts?”
He sighed. “I put them through school.” A smile tugged at his mouth. “They both excelled, and run digs all over Egypt.”
“So, their lives didn’t turn out so badly after all.”
“But Aalim has a bad leg, an injury that he will carry the rest of his life, because of me.”
“Martin.” Maggie took his hands, tightening her grip when he tried to pull away. “We all have something in our past that haunts us. Decisions we made that we will always regret. You acknowledged your mistake, made amends, and helped those boys create a good life for themselves. You also left out that you were sending them money while you worked your own way through school.” She squeezed his hands. “What you did, and how you took care of them, made you the man you are. A good man, with a good heart.”
“Maggie—” He pulled free—then pulled her into his arms, holding her tightly. “I was expecting—”
“You thought I’d walk away.”
“Other women have. I simply stopped becoming involved.” He sighed, his breath ruffling her hair. “It was easy to hide in my work. Until I met you.”
She leaned back until she could meet his eyes. “I’m glad you came out of hiding.”
Just as she stood on tiptoe, he lowered his head, meeting her halfway. Their kiss felt like coming home.
Maggie pressed her face into his shoulder and just breathed in his spicy, warm scent, relief spreading through her. She was so afraid this would end with Martin walking away from her. His confession shocked her, but she knew he shared it to test her, probably chase her off.
She had more staying power than that, thanks to her parents.
With care, she eased out of his arms and took his hands, so he didn’t think she was pushing him away. Her thumb ran over the nasty scars on the back of his left hand.
“How did this happen?”
He looked down at his hand. “While I was digging them out. I was frantic, and did not notices the gashes until after I brought the boys to the doctor.”
“What gave them away? The pain?”
“Not exactly.” He smiled. “My adrenaline was too high to feel pain. I finally noticed after blood soaked the leg of my trousers.”
“How many stitches?”
“Thirty, between the two.” His smile faded. “The wounds became a constant reminder of what I had done, and what I owed to them—”
“Martin.” She let go of his hands and framed his face. “You made it right. By looking after them, and helping them find professions they could be proud of, you did more than most would have. Take the credit for that.”
He looked surprised—like no one had ever pointed that out to him. “I—yes, I will.”
“I need to get back to the shop.” She smiled up at him. “Spencer will think I’ve deserted him.”
“Maggie.” Martin rested his forehead against hers—quite a feat, considering he was almost a foot taller. “Thank you.”
“Thank you for telling me. I don’t care what your motivation was,” She freed him and headed for the door to the gazebo. “I’m going with it’s because you trust me.”
His shout of laughter made her smile, and she knew they were going to be okay.
Two
The box was waiting for Maggie when she and Martin returned, just like she’d left it.
“Not feeling motivated, Spence?”
Spencer leaned on the counter and flashed her his grin—the one that usually got him out of trouble. “I figured you would want to finish unearthing whatever treasures you bought.”
She laughed. “Good answer.”
Martin excused himself and headed for the door to the flat, and she caught Spencer looking after him. “What was the talk about, Mags? You’re not crying into a beer, so I am assuming it ended well.”
“Hilarious, Spence.” She moved around the counter, laid her head on his shoulder. The toll from their emotional conversation slapped her. “Help me with this box, okay? Then I’m going to close up early.”
Since it was Monday, she could afford to close up. The tour buses converged in the morning on Mondays, and were long gone now.
“You got it, love.”
They tackled the box, pulling out more cheap, dusty souvenirs, and a few items she could actually sell. Martin showed up when they reached the bottom of the box, his gaze moving to the one item Maggie knew would interest him—a small jade vase. She decided to surprise him with it as a gift.
Spencer pulled out the last item. A square, fabric wrapped object. He hefted it, letting out a low whistle. “I would guess book, but this is heavy for such a small book.”
He handed it to Maggie, and she carefully unwrapped the thick blue and gold damask. Inside was a book, like Spencer guessed. An old, leather bound book, the brown cover dark with age.
“Martin—can you look at this?”
He nodded. “I will need a pair of gloves.”
She handed him a pair of the white cotton gloves she always kept behind the counter, and grabbed a pair for both her and Spencer. Martin slipped on the gloves before he accepted the book, and took his time as he studied every inch of the cover, then the binding. Maggie wanted to shout at him to hurry when he finally opened the cover. A folded piece of paper fell out, landing on the counter.
Spencer snatched it up before she could even start to reach for it, and carefully unfolded the heavy, yellowed paper.
“Whoa,” he whispered, his eyes widening as he read it. Without another word, he handed the paper to Maggie.
She read it once, then cleared her throat and read the note out loud.
“Hold these books close ~ they are the key that will unlock the treasure you have worked so hard to acquire. Whether you deserve that treasure is for Fate to decide.
And she may not be kind, as you murdered me to make it your own.”
A chill touched the back of her neck, like an icy hand. She jerked around, and caught a glimpse of the ghost she had recently learned about, and finally met face to face.
This couldn’t be related to her�
��whoever she was. Could it?
Maggie shook off the thought, and held her hands out for the book. Martin carefully laid it in her palms, keeping the damask between her gloved hands and the book.
“It is heavy.” She looked over at Martin. “Explanation, Professor?”
He smiled, his first real smile in some time. “The pages are double the thickness, and the cover is the thickest leather I have ever seen on a book. It is meticulous, the binding as close to perfect as a professional bookbinder.”
She looked up at him. “This wasn’t professionally bound?”
“The stitching is too uneven.” He tilted the book up, so she could see the stitches along the top of the spine. “Bookbinders took pride in their work. The quality is good, but not up to the standard I normally see.”
Maggie took a closer look, and saw what he meant. The stitches were farther apart, and not a uniform size. She set the book on the counter and turned the page; what should have been the title page was blank.
“That’s odd.” She carefully closed the book. No title on the front, or on the spine. She turned a few of the pages, only half surprised to see the cramped handwriting. “It’s a journal.”
Spencer leaned over her shoulder. “Any deep, dark secrets in there? The directions to this treasure?”
She patted his cheek. “Nothing so exciting. It looks like,” she read a few lines, and opened to the middle of the journal, reading a few more. “It’s a household log. See—the entries are separated by date.”
Martin joined them, brushing his finger down the page as he read.
“13, July, 1829.
Nothing remarkable today. The house is run so well by the indomitable Mrs. Sever that I find myself with little to do, beyond dressing for my husband’s infrequent appearances. The walls feel as if they are closing in on me. I thought that marrying, and living in the country with my beloved Jeremy, would give me more freedom than my family’s small house in the village. Instead, I find myself more confined than ever. If Jeremy does not return from his business in the city tonight, I may go mad with it.”
“She sounds really unhappy,” Spencer said. “I don’t know that I’d complain about someone else doing all the work for me.”
