by Darcy Burke
“I’m sorry. That you didn’t have a home,” she clarified softly, aching for the boy she hadn’t known.
He shrugged. “There’s nothing to be done about it, and things turned out all right in the end. I know she loved me—that I remember.”
Amelia smiled at him. That was really all that mattered.
“Welcome to my office,” he said grandly, sweeping his arm around the room as he turned toward her.
She could barely see a thing since it was dark, and the sconce from the stairwell didn’t lend nearly enough light. “Am I supposed to be impressed?”
He laughed, and she heard him striking flint. Soon a lantern on his desk was ablaze, splashing light around the cluttered space. It was an extension of his home, with a small fireplace, two mismatched wingbacked chairs flanking it, a long table shoved against one wall covered with artifacts, bookshelves, stuffed to overflowing, along the other wall, and a desk in front of them, stacked high with papers.
“Now that you can see it, you won’t be impressed at all,” he said with a healthy touch of humor.
“On the contrary. It looks like a scholar’s haven. When he’s weary of traveling, which apparently doesn’t happen often.”
He stared at her. “You understand me completely.”
She wasn’t sure about that. The intensity of his gaze unnerved her. But in the best possible way. Breaking the connection between them, she went to the table and studied the array of items scattered atop the wood. “What is all this?”
“Things I’ve found that need to be catalogued or studied.”
“You’ve found all this?” She reached to touch a bronze disk but stopped, thinking that she probably shouldn’t.
“Most of it. I should clarify—people also bring me things, but the bulk of it is mine.”
The sound of him moving something caused her to turn. He stood at the fireplace clearing off the mantelpiece. She watched as he lifted the top off the wood, making the mantel look like a long, slender box.
She walked toward him. “Is that a box?”
“Indeed it is. A secret box, so you mustn’t tell anyone.”
“You trust me with your secrets?”
He pulled a sword from the mantel and pivoted toward her. “I do.”
She gasped. “Is that Dyrnwyn?”
“It is.” He brought it toward the desk, letting the light from the lantern better illuminate the weapon.
“It’s beautiful. It looks heavy.”
“Ridiculously so, actually. I worried that box wouldn’t hold it, but I made sure it was reinforced.” He transferred the hilt into her hand. “Here.”
She closed her fingers around it, and her arm instantly dropped. “My goodness, is it made of lead?”
He laughed softly. “No, something else we likely aren’t aware of. Apparently, it weighs nothing when Kersey holds it—or seems to anyway.” He took it back from her, for which she was grateful.
“Extraordinary.”
He set it on his desk and went back to the mantelpiece, arranging everything the way it was before. “It amused me to store it here at the museum when the Order was so intent on keeping it away from here.”
She grinned, appreciating the irony. “Well done.”
He flicked her a smile as he finished up, then went to a trunk in the corner. Opening it, he pulled a blanket from the interior. “We’ll wrap it in this.”
He’d mentioned using it to persuade Kersey to help them. “Do you really think we need it? I worry about losing it again.”
He came back to the desk, carrying the blanket. “No one knows I have it.”
“Septon does.”
After laying the blanket out, he picked up the sword and set it on top of the wool. He turned his head to look at her. “You really don’t trust him, do you?”
“I’ve no reason to.”
He nodded and was quiet a moment before wrapping the sword with the blanket. “He won’t try to take it. I may be skeptical about his honesty and whether he’s told us everything he knows about the Order and their potential involvement with your grandfather, but in this, I trust him.”
She touched his arm briefly, drawing him to straighten and turn toward her. “I don’t want you to give up the sword. You said your sister spent her life looking for it, and you both believe it belongs here.”
“And yet, how can I deny it also belongs to Kersey?” He gave her a small smile. “Anyway, I hope I won’t have to. But if I do, I’d rather it go to him.”
“I’m confused about Kersey. Is he a friend or foe?”
Penn blew out a breath. “That’s a bit complicated. Until a month or so ago, I would’ve said friend. We grew up together—he’s just a few years younger than me—because our fathers are second cousins. My father liked for us to spend time with him because his father is such an ass.”
“That would be the Earl of Stratton?” she asked.
Penn nodded. “A worse excuse for a father doesn’t exist. In a way, I understand how Kersey took a wrong step here and there. Especially since he lost his wife not so long ago. She died shortly after they married. He was devastated.”
Amelia’s chest tightened. “How tragic.”
“Looking back, Kersey suffered a host of tragedies. His mother left him when he was nine or ten.”
To be with another man—she chose Septon over her son. Yes, that qualified as a tragedy in Amelia’s opinion. “Around the same age when your own mother died.”
His gaze flickered with a bit of surprise and something else, maybe gratitude. “Yes, but I had my parents after that. Whereas Kersey had his father, such as he is.” Penn shook his head. “My father made sure Kersey came to visit every summer, but Stratton put a stop to that when Kersey was about fourteen. We kept up a correspondence, however, and when he came to Oxford, I took him under my wing. I thought we were friends—in addition to being cousins, of course—but when I learned he stole the sword from my sister, I had to question the man I thought I knew. I want him to be a friend, but I don’t know.”
She moved a half step closer to him. “Maybe you’ll determine that when we find him.”
“I’m not sure I want to take you with me on that leg of the journey.”
She squared her shoulders. “We’re in this together. All this is a gamble.”
“It is.” He also moved closer, until they nearly touched. “Life is full of risk. That’s what makes it worth living.” He lifted his hand, and going very slowly, gently traced his finger along her jaw from cheek to chin.
Her belly tightened. They’d traveled this path before, coming very close to a kiss… Only to be interrupted by Septon. Would someone or something else come between them this time? She hoped not.
She did?
Yes, life was full of risk—and joy and wonder—and that was what made it worth living.
“Are you going to kiss me now?” she asked, sounding breathless to her own ears.
“If you’ll permit me.”
“Yes, please.”
His eyes slitted but didn’t fully close as he leaned forward. “Since you asked so prettily, how can I refuse? The truth is I can’t. I’ve been longing for this moment for quite some time.”
His words abruptly ended as his lips captured hers. His arms clasped her waist, and he pulled her against him.
She twined her arms around his neck, bringing her body flush to his. His mouth moved over hers, coaxing her—not that it took much effort—to kiss him back. She angled her head, sinking into him as heat raced through her body.
His fingers pressed into her back, and she responded by clutching his neck, her fingers delving into the hair edging his nape. He pulled back for a moment, and her eyes fluttered open in confusion. She’d rather hoped it would go on longer.
And then it did. He dipped his head once more and kissed her with a deeper hunger, his mouth opening against hers and his tongue licking along her lower lip. She gasped softly and allowed her tongue to meet his. His hold grew tighter, the
desire in her veins more intense. This was more than she’d imagined, more than she ought to indulge. What happened to keeping their relationship professional?
She eased her hands from his neck, sliding them down to his chest. He ended the kiss, pulling away slightly.
“So much for being professional,” she murmured.
His lips spread into a lazy, seductive smile that did nothing to douse her passion. “That was professionally outstanding.”
She cocked her head to the side. “What are you saying?”
His eyes widened. “Not that you’re a professional at that. Good God, no.” Color rose in his cheeks, and she had to smile at his reaction. “My apologies. I was attempting a jest. A very poor one.”
“Are you trying to compliment me?”
“Yes. With every fiber of my being. You are extraordinary.”
She pulled her hands from his chest and took a step back. “And you like to flatter me.”
“Only with the truth. Wait here while I get the heart.”
So she could touch it as he’d promised her that afternoon. “It’s not necessary. We should probably return to your house since we’re leaving early in the morning.”
“It’s absolutely necessary. We’re taking it with us.”
“We are?”
“I think we must. We may need it. I’ll leave a note for Burgess that I’m borrowing it. That will satisfy him.” He handed her his key. “Lock the door behind me. I’ll be right back.”
He was gone just a few minutes, during which she tried looking at the collection of artifacts on his table but was instead consumed with thoughts of his kiss. Everything would be different now.
Or would it?
Their attraction to each other had been simmering practically since they’d met. Did acting upon it change anything or simply embrace it?
A soft knock on the door interrupted her thoughts before she could answer, which she wasn’t sure she could. She went to the door and whispered, “Penn?”
“Yes.”
She unlocked the door and let him back inside. He was smiling a rather silly smile. “You called me Penn.”
Damn, she had. “It seemed…appropriate now. And yes, you may call Amelia when we’re alone.”
“Excellent. I shall hope we are alone quite often.” He leaned forward and pressed a swift kiss to her lips before depositing a heavy object—though not nearly as heavy as the sword—into her palm.
She looked down at the heart cradled in her hand and imagined her grandfather’s joy at finding it. Moving to the lantern, she studied it, seeing where the paint was chipped. “How can you tell it isn’t tourmaline?”
“I can’t for certain, but it isn’t the same color as the illustration in de Valery’s manuscript.” He picked up the sword. “Which was written using the sixth-century poem my parents found.”
“Does tourmaline come in many colors?” she asked.
“At least a few. I’ve seen pink, which is the color in the illustration, and green.”
If this were the real heart, she should be able to use it to make someone—Penn even—fall in love with her. If she was a descendant, which she wasn’t since Dyrnwyn was so heavy. “You said you tried it on someone, and it didn’t work. Isn’t that because you aren’t a descendant? What if we gave this to Kersey and he tested it?”
“Another excellent reason to find him as soon as possible.” He looked at her shrewdly. “You’re quite good at this.”
Pride swelled her chest. “Thank you. I am a member of the Ladies’ Antiquary Society after all.” At least she thought she was.
“Indeed you are,” he said with admiration. “Come, lady antiquary, let us be on our way.”
He extinguished the lantern, plunging them into darkness once more, and a moment later, they were outside his office as he locked the door.
“Ready?” he asked.
She clutched the heart tightly in her fist. “Never more.”
Chapter 9
The journey through the Cotswolds was beautiful, and though Penn had made it dozens of times, he felt as though he were seeing it through new eyes with Amelia. When they’d stopped for a brief refreshment, he’d convinced her to join him in his coach. Since then, the day had passed quickly as their conversation had mostly focused on Penn’s travels and exploits.
Egg was serving as coachman for the trip, a job he sometimes undertook on the rare occasion they took a coach instead of just horses. Penn typically preferred to travel lightly and quickly. The former ensured the latter.
However, this journey was different. He was content not to be in a rush and to enjoy his companion’s company. What the hell was wrong with him?
He should be eager to talk to his father about the dagger and the White Book of Hergest—and he was. Yet, he was also eager to spend this time with Amelia.
And that was troubling.
Why, because he’d dreamed of her the night before? Yes. When he dreamed of women, they were faceless, nameless, completely without an anchor in reality. Amelia was quite real and sitting next to him as they pulled into the yard of The Falcon.
As the coach rumbled to a stop, Penn realized he hadn’t discussed the particulars of their stay with Amelia. He turned to her as she yawned and stretched.
She blushed faintly. “My apologies. I’ll be glad to be out of the coach.”
He yawned in response, quickly covering his mouth with his fingers. “I will be too.” He grinned. “I stay here quite often as I travel between Oxford and my parents’ home in Monmouth. Mr. Jessup runs an excellent facility. There are four rooms, and I’ll ask for two of them.” He watched for her reaction, but there was none.
What had he expected? Disappointment? Did he think she’d wanted to share a chamber with him? Hell, he was the one dreaming of her, not the other way around. At least as far as he knew. She’d seemed to enjoy kissing him. Perhaps it wasn’t too far-fetched to think she might dream of him too—
“Penn?”
He realized, belatedly and embarrassingly, that he’d gone completely lost for a moment. “Sorry, what was that?”
“I asked if it would be improper that we’re traveling together.”
“Not at all. You have your maid, and since you’re a widow, I daresay there will be few eyebrows raised.” Honestly, he paid a minimum amount of attention to societal guidelines. He had no need for them in the life he led.
“I suppose that will suffice.”
Penn stepped out of the coach into the early summer evening. The scent of roses and sweet pea clung to the air, as did the chirps of a family of birds and the gentle wings of some flying insect. He turned to help Amelia down, then escorted her into the inn.
Mr. Jessup came from the back, his face splitting into a wide grin. He was short of stature with a balding pate and a generous sense of humor. “Good evening, Penn. It’s good to see you.” His gaze darted to Amelia.
“Allow me to present Mrs. Amelia Forrest,” Penn said, reluctantly taking his arm from hers. “She is traveling to Monmouth with me on an errand of intellectual investigation.”
Jessup’s dark brows collected over his eyes. “I see.” He executed a quick, smart bow. “Pleased to make your acquaintance, Mrs. Forrest. Do you have a maid with you? If not, my daughter could provide any assistance you may need.”
Amelia gave him a warm smile. “My maid is just outside, but I do thank you for your hospitality, Mr. Jessup.”
The innkeeper’s gaze moved past them to the door. “Ah, this must be her now.” He looked back to Amelia. “I’ve just the room for you. Cozy and inviting with fresh flowers Henrietta just cut.” He called out for his daughter. “Etta, come show our guests to their rooms.
Etta came from the kitchen, wiping her hands on her apron. She smiled at Penn. “Good to see you, Penn.”
“Good evening, Etta,” he said. “This is my associate, Mrs. Forrest.”
Etta dipped a brief curtsey. “Welcome to The Falcon.”
“Etta, please show
Mrs. Forrest and her maid to the room overlooking the garden.”
“Of course. Right this way.” She turned and went to the stairs in the back right corner of the room.
“Come and have an ale with me in the kitchen,” Jessup offered. “I should keep an eye on things while Etta’s upstairs.” He turned without waiting for Penn’s reply. Likely because Penn never refused his invitations to join him for ale.
Penn trailed him through the doorway that led to the kitchen at the back of the inn. Jessup stirred something on the stove before fetching tankards of ale for the both of them. He handed Penn his cup and offered a toast. “To a blessed summer.”
Penn lifted his ale in acknowledgment before taking a long, deep draught. He closed his eyes briefly. “Still the best ale in England. And Wales.”
“But not Scotland, eh?”
“Scotland too,” Penn said with a chuckle.
“On your way home, then?” Jessup asked. He was well acquainted with Penn’s travel patterns and knew that Penn spent a great deal of time on the road.
“For a bit.”
Jessup sipped his ale. “And your companion… She really just an ‘associate’?”
Penn ought to have expected that question. He and Jessup were friendly enough. He bit back the surprising answer that leapt to his mouth: for now. “Yes. I’m on the hunt for something.”
“As usual,” Jessup put in.
“As usual,” Penn agreed with a nod. “Mrs. Forrest has an interest in the same artifact, and we’ve been working together to find it.”
“Never seen you with a woman before. What does Egg think about that?”
“Egg is naturally disgruntled. You know that.” Penn flashed a grin before taking another drink of ale. “In truth, I think he might like her. She did tend a wound for him. As it happens, she knows a bit about healing.”
This gained Jessup’s attention—his brows pitched up, and he leaned slightly forward. “Does she? I wonder if she has any remedies to offer for my joints. Last winter, they ached terribly.”
“You can certainly ask her,” Penn said.
“I may do that.”
