The Spy’s Convenient Bride: The Macalisters, Book Five

by Taylor, Erica

  “Then I must have looked at a different note, because ‘go to Canterbury’ was not the message I received.”

  Luke chuckled. “No, I imagine it wasn’t. I haven’t yet shown you how to read beyond the words.”

  They moved down the rows and towards the walls where panels of stained glass caught every color in the morning light, sending a spattering of colors to the ceiling above.

  There were panels of just about every scene in Christianity, and as many marble tombs scattered throughout the structure, but still Vivian had no idea what could possibly have been left by Redley.

  Luke paused before a chapel just outside the choir, a haunted look coming over his normally jovial face. “Trinity Chapel, where the shrine of Thomas Becket once stood.”

  She glanced at him peculiarly, wondering why this spot could pull such a dark look across his face.

  “His tomb was smashed to pieces,” Luke told her. “Where his remains ended up, no one can say for certain. Some say Henry VIII had them incinerated 300 years later.”

  “That would have scandalized the sixteenth century Catholics. Though, I’m sure all sorts of things did.”

  “A sort of cult crept up around his name.” He wasn’t looking at her, his gaze focused on the space of marble stone. “Henry VIII probably had the remains burned so people wouldn’t collect them as magical relics. See here?” He pointed to depressions in the stone paving. “Worn from centuries of praying pilgrims.”

  Vivian glanced about as though the ghostly figure of Thomas Beckett was about to appear out of thin air. “Do you think where he was murdered it is marked?”

  Her question seemed to shake him from wherever his thoughts had taken him and his gaze cleared as he glanced at her. “It is not. I’ve asked.”

  “You’ve been here before?”

  He shrugged. “I’m not just a pretty face, love. I’ve always been fascinated by Thomas Beckett and Canterbury Cathedral.”

  He moved away from the Trinity Chapel, his curious reaction to Thomas Beckett just adding to his confusing behavior and outrageous claims. Had she known he was full of such absurdity she might not have married him.

  Vivian held back her laugher as she moved away from the chapel.

  Who was she kidding? She would have married him even if he had two heads, a tail and claimed to be the Prince of Hell. He held the deed to her home, and her freedom for the rest of her life. It certainly had nothing to do with the mop of dark curls that were insolently softer than they looked, or the sparkle of mischief permanently fixed in his gaze. Or his devil-may-care smile that did nonsensical things to her thoughts.

  No, she’d married him to gain a house. End of conversation.

  She stopped before a large series of stained glass windows above one of the alcove chapels. It was the Jesse tree, a depiction of the ancestors of Christ.

  “The tree rises from the ashes of Jesse of Bethlehem,” Luke said softly. “Does it seem meaningful?”

  “It’s beautiful. There is a similar set of art glass at Wells.”

  “Is there?” His brows pinched together, as he looked closer at the stained glass. It rose above the effigy of Saint Anselm. “Did you tell Redley about wanting to go to Wells?

  “I did. Is that meaningful?”

  Luke was pensive. “Saint Anselm is, for sure, as is the connection to Wells. See if we can find another Saint Anselm. It’s likely in glass.”

  It took another twenty minutes or so, as there were many panes of stained glass to search, but finally Vivian found one. She pointed upwards at the long pane depicting Saint Anselm.

  “Look who we have here with him.” Luke pointed to the fellow in green, the glass directly to the left of Saint Anselm’s red coat. “Lanfranc.”

  “A friend of yours?”

  “Quite, actually. He’s buried here somewhere; we need to find his tomb.”

  Another search of the entire sanctuary turned up no such tomb, and Vivian was coming to believe her new husband had simply lost his mind.

  “He is here somewhere,” Luke muttered to himself.

  “Lanfranc or Redley?”

  “Both,” Luke replied absently, looking around the sanctuary. “The crypt then. He must be in the crypt.”

  Grasping her hand, Luke pulled her to the other end of the cathedral, where a set of steps led down from the choir.

  Vivian tugged on his hand. “Luke, we can’t go down there.”

  “We must, I am afraid.” He pointed to the steps below. “See? The dust has been disturbed. Someone has recently been down there.”

  “Yes, likely the bishop or some assistant.” Traipsing down into the crypt of Canterbury Cathedral did not sound like her idea of a joyous time. “Luke, there are likely spiders down there.”

  He started down the steps. “Probably.”

  “Not funny.”

  “Not trying to be funny.” He turned and offered his hand to her. “I promise to protect you from the spiderwebs.”

  She did not appreciate his teasing. She squared her shoulders and crept down the stairs, ignoring his hand as she passed by him.

  As she reached the bottom, her boot was silent on the stone steps, and the smell of dust filled her senses. It was cold, the cooler air owing its dampness to the depth they’d traveled into the ground, and likely a source of water deep beneath their feet.

  A match flared as Luke struck it against the stone wall, lighting a torch he carried in his hand.

  “Where did you get that?”

  “From the wall.” He indicated where the torch had been tucked into a holder along the wall. “Did you think I’d been carrying it in my pocket all this time?”

  “Not much would surprise me at this point,” she said with a sarcastic shrug of her shoulder. “Lead with the light so we may find this tomb you seek, and we can be gone from here before the Archbishop finds us.”

  “The Archbishop isn’t here,” Luke replied, illuminating the first sarcophagus they came to. “He’s in London. I had to apply to him for our special license.”

  “Then let us be done with this before he retracts it.”

  “You worry too much,” Luke said and moved to the next one.

  “I worry the proper amount. What happens if someone finds us?”

  “We talk our way out of it.” He illuminated another sarcophagus. “What is the worst they will do? Arrest us for trespassing in a tomb?”

  “Yes.”

  “I am an earl, Vivian,” he laughed, glancing at the next sarcophagus. “They don’t arrest earls. Ah ha!” The light lit up the sarcophagus before him, LANFRANC carved onto the bottom of the sarcophagus near the statue’s feet.

  “Lan…frank?” Vivian guessed the pronunciation of the name.

  “Len-frick,” Luke corrected as he passed her the torch. “Or that’s how I’ve always pronounced it.”

  “How are you certain this is what Longfield meant for you to find?”

  Luke felt along the edge of the sarcophagus lid, trying to get a fingerhold. “Because I am Lanfranc.”

  “Something else that makes no sense.”

  “My first name is Lanfranc,” he explained as he moved around the sarcophagus, searching for a way to move the lid. “But I’ve always gone by Luke. The only people who know this are my siblings and Redley. Redley insisted on having a saint name too, though it was more done in jest. He chose Saint Anselm. There was a Saint Anselm in Wells and here, and beside him, Lanfranc.” He finally found a fingerhold on the lid of the sarcophagus. Bracing his foot against the sarcophagus behind him, he leaned against the sarcophagus of Lanfranc, and pushed the top of the effigy. It slid a few inches to the side.

  He bent to peer inside. Without comment, he handed her the torch again and thrust his hand into the sarcophagus. Vivian knew there were likely only bones inside, but to think Luke was rummaging about in his namesake’s remains made her shiver.

  His eyes lit up in the torchlight and he pulled his arm from the depths of the sarcophagus, to reveal a smal
l package wrapped in brown paper. He passed the package to her and slid the lid back into its place.

  “Let’s see what Redley left us,” Luke muttered as he unwrapped the twine from the package. The paper fell away to reveal a brown leather notebook, a large gold signet ring knotted to its spine. He untied the ring from the string and slid it into his pocket before he flipped the journal open. The pages were filled with nonsense, some sort of made-up language as it wasn’t something Vivian understood.

  “It is in code,” Luke explained, noticing her confusion. “We will need to translate it.”

  Vivian sighed, growing tired of these games. “Lovely. Another thing that does not make sense.”

  Chapter Eleven

  Luke was too tightly wound to sleep, as if all his nerves were coiled, ready to spring. He knew he needed to rest, as the twisting in his stomach was a clear indication he’d pushed almost as far as he could go. A quick nap at a coaching inn and he would be right as rain.

  Watching his new wife, however, he realized that wasn’t likely to happen. He might be able to function well on a few hours of sleep, but Vivian would likely need a proper respite. She’d looked exhausted as she helped him search the cathedral one last time. For his first day of husbanding, he had done a poor job at making sure his new wife was properly cared for.

  There was something about Vivian he just could not place, something about her didn’t make sense. The things she knew how to do— scan a crowd, hide in the shadows, remember minute details as if she’d had the same training he had. She’d confronted highwaymen. She’d known just what joints to apply pressure to. Something about her was not as it seemed.

  From the onset, when he thought she might be a figment of his imagination, he’d been more interested than he should be. Had he known then the sort of woman she was he might have run for the hills, but truthfully, he would have likely fallen at her feet. Luke was not a strong believer in fate, but there was no other explanation to how she came into his life. That she was willing to put up with his irregularities and this outlandish venture was statement enough. She’d crawled through a crypt with him. That was sign enough he’d found a remarkable woman. He’d be an idiot to let her go.

  And yet, he hesitated to give himself permission to fall tumbling over the cliff in love with her. He could sense it was coming, felt the easing of the tension in his heart, the indifference he’d carried since Colette’s death.

  His hesitation towards her was silly. She was legally his wife. She felt like his wife. The Wells wedding had shaken him, scared him into realizing this marriage meant something, try as he might to deny it. She meant something.

  His willpower to remain aloof and detached was fading, quickly. His irrational want of her only intensified his need to touch her, taste her. What he’d sampled already he could not get enough of. A powerful need for her burned in his blood. He’d never wanted someone like this before in his life, never wanted to completely possess, and be completely possessed by another person. It was terrifying and exhilarating all at the same time.

  Lusty feelings for one’s wife was acceptable. Loving feelings for one’s wife just would not do. Too much was at stake. Too much counted on him convincing the Prince Regent he could manage an earldom, estates, a wife, parliament, and being a spy. Redley was at stake.

  And Vivian didn’t want his love, did not want his longing looks with stars and hearts ready to budge out of his eyes. He was a means to an end, and he was fine with that. Stick to their agreement. Remain impartial. No feelings. No attachment. And no commitment outside their six-month agreement. That was how he would win his position back. That was how he would survive this.

  “It seems there is nothing more here for us to find,” Vivian stated as they neared the sanctuary, the wrinkles in her grey-blue dress evidence enough he was a lousy husband. She glanced at him, scrutinizing his face. “Are you all right?”

  The question tore at him. Here he was realizing his shortcomings as a husband and she was worried about him.

  “No,” he replied, barely trusting his voice. “Hungry?” It was nearing eight in the morning, and they’d not slept, nor eaten, since the day before.

  Her eyes lit up at the mention of food. “I could eat something. And sleep for a bit.”

  He led her from the sanctuary, past the rows of columns stretching upwards like rows of trees. He’d never really cared for cathedrals before, never really thought much about them. But hearing Vivian’s exuberance for Wells, and seeing her reaction to Canterbury was like seeing them anew through her eyes.

  He settled her in the carriage and they were soon on their way. He watched her face as Canterbury Cathedral faded from view. “I should apologize. I have been a rather neglectful husband to you. Day two and I’ve barely let you sleep nor provided you with a meal.”

  “I’ve survived worse,” she stated, pinning him with her green gaze. His heart clenched at the thought, of her huddled with her mother for warmth, no wood for their fire or food for their table.

  “I promised you answers, and I intend to give them.”

  She waved him off. “After I sleep, please. I can handle a few more hours not knowing what this is all about. I fear the answer is convoluted and I doubt I could keep up right now. Not without a nap first.”

  He grinned. “Nap first. Answers later.”

  “Promise?”

  “I haven’t lied to you yet.”

  “You say that and yet you’ve said many outlandish things. Not all of it could possibly be true?”

  Luke shrugged and looked out the window as the town of Canterbury passed them by. “None of them were lies.”

  “That’s not the same thing.”

  “Is it not?”

  Her brow furrowed but she relented with a deep sigh. “I need sleep and tea to keep up with your riddles, Lanfranc Macalister.”

  “And you will get them both, Vivian Macalister.”

  She regarded him for a long moment, not offering much of a reaction to her change in name before looking out the window.

  Quan found them a coaching inn on the edge of town, closest to the main roadway. Luke settled their accommodations under a name that was not his own, Walter Reynolds.

  They stood in the main taproom, not as empty as Luke would have expected for before nine in the morning. Most were travelers down for their breakfast. A husband and wife argued quietly with their daughter to eat her porridge. A woman listened as her companion read to her from Sense and Sensibility. A man with bright blond hair was slumped against the wall, closest to the fire.

  Luke narrowed his eyes, wondering if he was seeing things, or if Redley was seated in the taproom.

  “Luke, our rooms are ready,” Vivian said and Luke turned to where she stood a few paces away. He looked back to where the man sat near the fire, but he was gone.

  Perhaps he needed sleep more than he realized.

  Their rooms were well appointed and clean and featured a large bed swathed in sunlight.

  “Who is Walter Reynolds?” Vivian asked

  Luke did not meet her inquiring gaze. “He was an archbishop of Canterbury from the 14th century. I don’t want Poppins to know we are here just yet. A false name seemed prudent.”

  Quan came in with her small valise and Luke’s satchel bag.

  “And the reason I was only allowed a nightgown and a change of clothing?”

  “In the event we need to leave quickly.”

  With a sigh, she looked away, not arguing.

  Luke could only imagine what this all looked like, and he hoped he hadn’t lost her yet. He likely appeared deranged, or paranoid. Maybe she would just think him overly cautious. Once he explained everything she would understand. Hopefully.

  Quan sent him a quizzing look, but Luke shook his head. “We will rest here until tomorrow. I need to decipher what Redley has left in this journal. Please see that the horses are watered and fed. And keep everything ready to go.” Just in case, but Luke didn’t need to add the warning. Quan h
ad been with him long enough to know what to do.

  Quan left without comments, but Luke could see them racing through his gaze.

  “I’m too tired to care that I am to share that bed with you,” Vivian said, gazing longingly at the bed.

  A tray of food was brought in and he was saved from further discussion.

  “What about naming the house in London something with Macalister?” Vivian suggested. “Macalister House?”

  Luke shook his head. “As the duke, Andrew has a claim on all things Macalister.”

  “That seems unfair. It is your name as well.”

  Luke shrugged. “Never really bothered me.”

  They ate with light conversation, mostly odds and ends about growing up with large families, favorite books, plays they’d seen. Simple, easy conversation steered them away from anything of substance.

  A maid stepped in to aid Vivian in undressing and to clear away the dinner tray. Luke took the opportunity to check the taproom again, in the event Redley was waiting for him.

  “You need something, sir?” a young woman asked as she cleared away dishes from the tables.

  “I thought I saw a friend in here earlier. Brawny, light blond hair, ice blue eyes. Did you see him?”

  The woman shook her head. “No one like that here, far as I remember. And I’ve been here since the sun came up.”

  “That’s unfortunate. I’d have liked to speak to him. I’ve a new shipment of pineapples coming in I thought he might be interested in.”

  The woman blanched. “Pineapples? What are you on about?”

  It was worth a shot.

  “Nothing,” Luke said with a shake of his head. “Never mind.”

  Maybe he was losing his touch, or perhaps he just needed sleep.

  By the time Luke returned to their rooms Vivian was fast asleep beneath the thick quilt. Discarding his clothing, except his drawers, he slipped in beside her and fell quickly asleep.

  * * *

  He came awake slowly, a tingling sensation tracing circles across his skin. It was dark, which was backwards, as they’d slept since earlier in the day. Vines of starlight twirled through the hair on his chest, down the ridges of the muscles lining his stomach. He reveled in the sensation, and other parts of his body responded in a similar fashion.