Lord of Fortune

by Darcy Burke

  She narrowed her eyes at him. “I don’t think that’s something I wish to share with you. I believe our association has reached its natural conclusion.”

  He took a step toward her, and she came off the bed, a burst of energy shooting through her. “I don’t think so,” he said softly, but with distinct intention. “Your grandfather had secrets, and I’d like to help you unravel them.”

  She scoffed at him. “Only because you think it will help you.”

  He squared his shoulders, facing her from just a few feet away. “I won’t lie to you. Yes, it would help me, I think. I’m going to find the real heart, whether you share information with me or not.”

  His pledge reminded her that they were at cross-purposes. “You may not lie, but you’ll withhold information.”

  “Not if I think it’s important to your safety.” Cross-purposes, but in an apparently friendly way—if he were to be trusted, and she wasn’t sure that he was.

  She folded her arms over her chest. It was the only thing she could do to put something between her and him. She couldn’t back up, not with the bed behind her. And why did she want to retreat? There was something predatory about his demeanor, but not threatening. It was…unsettling. But not unpleasant. Damn.

  She lifted her chin. “You aren’t going to find the heart because it’s already been found.”

  He lifted a shoulder, his gaze boring into hers. “Perhaps, and if that’s the case, so be it. I can’t say I’ll mind working with you.”

  Was that supposed to be a compliment? A flirtation? No, it was an honest statement. She wasn’t sure this man flirted. Regardless of what it was, a delicious shiver raced down her spine.

  “I haven’t agreed to that,” she said.

  “No, but if you want help finding out what else your grandfather didn’t tell you, I’m offering my assistance. Starting with the letter he sent to Burgess. I’ll share it with you.”

  “If I agree to work with you?”

  He gave a single, slow nod. “It won’t be so bad.”

  “What do you expect me to do?”

  “I’d like access to your grandfather’s things—books, letters, anything you may think is important. Or not. Everything, actually.”

  Reviewing his library and small collection of antiquities was precisely what she intended to do. Which didn’t mean she was ready to share them. Maybe she’d find the answers she sought without seeing the letter he’d written to Burgess. “I’ll think about it.”

  The tension in his frame—and there’d been a great deal of it—loosened. But not entirely. His eyes gleamed before he turned from her. “Do that. Good evening, Mrs. Forrest.”

  When the door closed behind him, Amelia sagged against the bed. What a puzzling, unnerving man.

  And attractive.

  Shaking that assessment from her treacherous mind, she went to her bag and pulled out her grandfather’s journal. She’d brought it with her because it contained a picture of the dagger. She opened to the page and traced her fingers over her grandfather’s drawing. He’d written nothing about it save the illustration. It was damnably frustrating.

  She flipped a few pages and read the entry she’d committed to memory.

  The Order will stop at nothing to find the treasures. Why? They proclaim they are protecting them, but there is something off. If only I’d been able to read the book. I feel certain it would provide the answers I seek.

  She’d wondered at what the Order could be, but after today, she thought she knew. Those men could be from the Order, whatever it was. If they wanted the treasures so desperately, it made sense that they would take one at gunpoint.

  Did Bowen know anything about this Order? Or the book her grandfather referenced? She’d been on the cusp of asking him, but couldn’t bring herself to expose all her secrets. They were engaged in some sort of dance of information.

  And maybe something else?

  No. They were interested in these artifacts that were important to her grandfather. Nothing more.

  Could she bring herself to work with him?

  She wasn’t sure. Just as she wasn’t as sure as she wanted to be that the heart and dagger her grandfather had found were the real artifacts. And that made her angry.

  No, for now, she would cling to their authenticity. Penn Bowen was wrong. He was also arrogant and smug.

  And attractive.

  Stop that!

  He was wrong, and that was all that mattered.

  Chapter 3

  Typically up at dawn or shortly after, Penn was surprised to be jolted awake by the sound of movement in the hallway. He’d intended to be waiting downstairs when Mrs. Forrest descended for breakfast, assuming she planned to have breakfast before departing. He wanted to know the results of her deliberations and whether she would agree to give him access to her grandfather’s things.

  Penn leapt from the bed and hurriedly washed and dressed. Egg was oblivious to Penn’s actions—and noise—but then he’d imbibed enough last night to ensure he slept until mid-morning at least.

  Rushing down the stairs, Penn came upon Mrs. Forrest seated at the table in the common room. Her green eyes flashed with surprise as they met his.

  “Good morning, Mrs. Forrest,” he greeted, placing his hand on the chair opposite hers. “Do you mind if I join you for breakfast?”

  “I suppose not.” Her tone was tinged with regret, and he suspected she’d been hoping they wouldn’t cross paths this morning. But then if that had been her intent, why not leave immediately? Again he wondered where she lived. Perhaps she needed sustenance before embarking on a long journey.

  He sat down and offered her a pleasant smile. “Do you have a full day of travel ahead?”

  She narrowed her eyes briefly but was prevented from answering by the arrival of the innkeeper with a plate of ham, eggs, and some rather scorched toast. Her expression softened into a smile as she looked up at Mr. Tarleton. Penn was unaccountably jealous of the man.

  “Thank you. The toast is perfect.”

  She liked burned toast?

  The innkeeper turned a cheerful grin toward Penn. “Can I get you something, Mr. Bowen?”

  “The same as Mrs. Forrest, although if you could toast the bread just a bit less, that would be lovely.”

  “Of course.” Mr. Tarleton inclined his head and took himself off.

  Mrs. Forrest tucked into her meal without giving Penn a second thought. Perhaps she was in a hurry after all.

  “You didn’t answer my question.” Penn doubted she would, but he had to try. She might think their association was finished, but he was convinced to the contrary. Her grandfather had possessed knowledge of the heart and dagger—even if his artifacts were fake—and Penn meant to obtain it.

  She glanced over at him. “No, I didn’t.”

  Penn let out a frustrated breath. “Mrs. Forrest, we can help each other.”

  She swallowed a bite of eggs and pierced him with a dark stare. “How can you help me?”

  “Your grandfather’s letter, remember?” Since it seemed that wasn’t enough to entice her, Penn pressed forward. “In my field of work, I research, I dig, I find answers. I will help you determine what your grandfather was doing with this fake heart and dagger.” He knew that troubled her.

  She gritted her teeth. “They aren’t fake.”

  He relaxed back in his chair, confident he’d found a way in. “If you are so confident, don’t you want me around so that you can crow that you were right all along?”

  She stared at him a moment, her features relaxing—not in the way they’d done with Tarleton, but they lost a bit of their animosity. “I know what you’re trying to do.”

  “Find answers.”

  She leaned forward, her gaze glued to his. “And if you find the real heart”—the disbelief in her tone was palpable—“what will you do with it?”

  “Put it in the museum, of course.”

  “Where the heart my grandfather found currently resides. You’ll discredit
him.”

  Penn stifled a scowl. She’d managed that rather neatly. “I will do my best to ensure your grandfather retains some credit for the entire affair.” Penn had no idea what that would be, but he was certain the man would somehow help them, even from beyond the grave. He’d known enough to find a fake heart and a fake dagger, and the fact that he’d put one in a museum and kept the other hidden was a mystery begging to be solved.

  And Penn couldn’t resist a mystery.

  Playing his trump card, Penn removed a piece of parchment from his coat. “Allow me to prove to you that I’m earnest in discovering the truth—whatever it may be.” He unfolded the paper and laid it flat on the table before sliding it over to her.

  Her eyes rounded briefly before she snatched up the paper. Now her features betrayed the most vulnerability she’d ever displayed. She held the parchment lovingly, her lips parting as she scanned the letter.

  Penn had read it a dozen times. Aside from providing the location of the cave where the dagger was hidden and urging his friend Burgess to keep the artifact safe, it mentioned protecting his family, which at the time had included his son and granddaughter, from the Order. Penn watched her reaction carefully.

  She read it a second time, more slowly, her gaze trailing over the paper before she set it back on the table beside her forgotten breakfast. “Thank you. May I keep it?”

  “Yes.” That was all she had to say?

  Picking up her knife and fork, she returned her attention to her plate.

  Penn wasn’t going to let the matter go. There was too much at stake. “Since you don’t seem the least bit inquisitive, I have to assume you know all about this ‘Order.’ Would you mind enlightening me?”

  She gave him a shrewd look. “You’re telling me you don’t know about the Order?”

  He’d meant it when he’d said he wouldn’t lie to her. Not unless it would keep her safe. And while he’d no reason to trust an organization that prized secrecy and the suppression of knowledge, he didn’t think they posed a threat. At least not yet. “I didn’t say that. I want to know what you know.”

  She stared at him a moment, and then the warm lilt of her laughter unexpectedly filled the space around them. “If this is how our partnership would work, I think my reticence was well-founded.”

  “Does that mean you’re considering a partnership?”

  “On the contrary. I think this only demonstrates that it wouldn’t work—for either of us. Not when we’re intent on keeping our guards up.”

  She had a point. He ought to have just come out and told her what he knew of the bloody Order instead of trying to learn what she knew first. “I am used to dealing with individuals with far less scruples than you. Forgive me for not giving you the benefit of the doubt.” He inclined his head. “Let me begin again.” He glanced at the letter next to her plate. “Your grandfather mentioned the Order. Are you familiar with that organization?”

  She hesitated, and his frustration grew. “A bit,” she said at last. “A very little bit. I’ve seen it referenced elsewhere—don’t ask me where just yet. I may be considering a partnership with you, but that doesn’t mean I trust you.”

  “Of course not,” he murmured in a mix of admiration and irritation. “Are you aware the full name is the Order of the Round Table?”

  Her gaze flickered with interest. “I am not. The Round Table…as in King Arthur?”

  “Yes. The Thirteen Treasures were items gathered by Arthur and his knights for one of their own—Gareth—so that he could win his bride.”

  “And the heart and the dagger are treasures.” She set down her fork, apparently ready to completely abandon her meal. “The heart is anyway. I’m not sure the dagger is considered one of them or if it and the heart constitute one of the thirteen.”

  “There is some dispute as to what makes up the thirteen, and in some versions, the heart doesn’t even exist.”

  Now she looked truly surprised. “I didn’t realize that. I grew up listening to the legend of Ranulf and Hilaria. She used the heart to make Ranulf fall in love with her, but he loved another and didn’t wish to fall prey to the heart’s spell. So he had a witch enchant a dagger to use against the magic of the heart, thus preventing him from falling in love with Hilaria. The witch’s spell is supposedly carved into the dagger. Were you able to read it?”

  “I didn’t have a chance.” Bitterness made the words come out harder than he’d intended. Softening his response, he said, “You know the story well.”

  “Well enough to know that Ranulf was an idiot,” she said somewhat crossly. “He married the selfish and prideful Maud, while Hilaria married his younger brother, who’d fallen madly in love with her. Hilaria grew to love him too, and they lived happily ever after. Ranulf regretted his choice, as well he should have.”

  Penn enjoyed watching her animated expression change as she’d relayed the tale. “You’re a romantic.”

  Her brow pleated for a moment. “Not particularly.”

  He wasn’t sure he believed her, but he’d have to take her word for it since he barely knew her. Though he hoped they were rectifying that.

  He did?

  Did he hope to know her better? Certainly, if it meant gathering information he needed to find the real heart and dagger. As to that—he needed to convince her to accept his partnership, especially if the Order was involved. “The Order’s primary objective is to keep the Thirteen Treasures—and really anything to do with them—from being found or publicized. They want them to remain a legend.”

  “But one of them is in a museum.”

  He lifted his right shoulder. “Or not.”

  She rolled her eyes and pursed her lips. “Does the Order agree with that assessment?”

  “I can’t say for certain—let me be clear: I am not a member. Members are, for the most part, descendants of the knights.”

  “How can that be possible if it’s all a legend?”

  “The Order wants everyone to think it’s all a legend. I didn’t say they believed that.”

  Mr. Tarleton returned with Penn’s breakfast. Thankfully, the toast wasn’t blackened.

  After the innkeeper left, Mrs. Forrest shook her head. “That seems ridiculous. What is their reasoning?”

  “That the treasures are too powerful, that if they were to be found, they would cause strife and conflict.” He sliced off a piece of ham and brought it to his mouth.

  “War?” She stared at him a moment, and her shoulder twitched as if she suppressed a shiver. “My grandfather told me once that he gave the heart to the museum because it was far too valuable to keep. He feared someone would steal it.”

  Penn relaxed slightly. Her sharing such a thing with him was progress.

  Her brow furrowed once more and stayed that way as she spoke. “What he said in the letter… Was he afraid of this Order? Do I need to be concerned?”

  It was the perfect opportunity to bind her to him, to encourage her reliance, but he’d also said he wouldn’t lie. “You do not need to be afraid. Concern, or wariness, is always a good thing. Even if you decide to associate with me.”

  She gave him a dark but curious stare. “And what do I need to be wary about with you?”

  He didn’t think she meant any sort of innuendo, but his brain took that route automatically. Lout. “I don’t plan to steal anything from you. I merely want to share information so that we may get to the heart—pardon the pun—of the matter.”

  She rolled her eyes again, but this time, the edge of her mouth ticked up with humor. He suppressed a smile before taking another bite of ham.

  After he swallowed, he said, “I only meant that being guarded will serve you well. That said, you can trust me.”

  She let out a short laugh. “One of the first things you said to me was that you didn’t trust me, and now you expect me to trust you?”

  He had said that, blast. And he’d meant it. Did he trust her now? Not completely. But then the list of those he trusted completely was quite s
uccinct—his parents and his sister. “How about we give it a try?”

  There was something about her… Something he wanted to discover. She, like all women, was a mystery. The difference was that he wanted to investigate this one.

  She studied him, her eyes narrowing slightly before she answered. “I’ll think about it. Where can I find you if I decide I wish to share information?”

  Damn. He’d hoped he’d persuaded her completely. “I’ll be near Bath at a friend’s house.” His father’s friend, Baron Septon, lived several miles outside Bath. He was a leading antiquary—if not the premier antiquary in all of the United Kingdom.

  “Bath?”

  Her instantaneous response and the surprise in her reaction provoked him. “Do you live nearby?” He would bet his collection of Roman coins she did.

  She hesitated, perhaps debating whether to reveal the truth, but ultimately did so. “Just outside.”

  His lips curled into an appreciative smile. “How fortuitous. It is all but guaranteed we shall meet again.”

  A scowl flickered across her features, but she tamped it down. “Nothing is guaranteed, Mr. Bowen. I should think yesterday’s events would be a perfect example.” She rose from the table, and he jumped to his feet with her. “I’ll send word if I wish to speak with you.”

  “I’ll try to be patient.” And he’d fail, but he wouldn’t tell her that.

  “Good day, then.” She started toward the door, but turned and said, “I do hope Egg is feeling better today. Make sure he uses the salve.” Then she departed the inn, and Penn quashed the urge to watch her leave, or worse, follow her.

  There was no need. He knew where to find her. He’d give her two days. Including today? He forked a bite of eggs without answering himself, thereby giving himself latitude. Two days. He could wait that long to continue his quest.

  And what if she refused him? What if she never meant to see him again?

  Well then his quest would simply become far more challenging, because he planned to win her over.

  Penn never surrendered.