Page 6

6

Rogue. Scoundrel! Eva had never loved any gent, least of all Bram Webb, and for him to have bluntly told her such a thing in his office made her blood boil. Infuriating man! Apparently he hadn’t outgrown his arrogance. Were she not so desperate to dig up money, she’d not now be standing at the edge of the cursed acres, nibbling on her thumbnail while he conferred with three students in the middle of the churned-up field. Would he be able to manage this crew?

And even more maddening, just as when she’d been a young girl, she found it impossible to pull her gaze away from him. He stood with his hat in one hand, allowing his hair to run as wild as his adventurous spirit. Stubble lined his jaw, flaunting societal norms—as did his garments. His scuffed boots needed a stiff brush to revive the leather, and he wore the same fray-hemmed coat she’d seen him in yesterday. There was not one thing traditionally handsome about him, what with a scar on his cheek and a point to his chin, but he attracted attention all the same. The passion with which he spoke to the young men, his verve as he gestured his hand through the air, these marked a man who cared fervently about scholarship, which—though she hated to confess it—was a change for the better.

A rock skittered next to the hem of her skirt, and she turned. Sinclair strode her way, chuckling at something Bram’s uncle must’ve said, for that fellow grinned beside him with a twinkle in his eyes. Though she’d not heard the comment, she smiled as well. Regius Professor Pendleton’s merriment was contagious merely by virtue of being within ten feet of him. She’d only known the man for the better part of an hour now, but already she considered him a long-lost family member ... even if he was Bram’s relative. Which had been surprising. In all their younger years, Bram had never once mentioned having an uncle.

The man on the other side of Professor Pendleton was a completely different story—a gothic one, judging by his dark eyes and thin lips pinched like a clamshell. Did this Professor Grimwinkle never smile? Though, to be charitable, he might be so put out because of the amount of soil caking the bottom of his absurd wooden clogs. What a coxcomb. As much as she was loath to admit it, she was glad Bram and his uncle led the dig instead of this man.

“There’s a lot of potential here, Miss Inman.” Bram’s uncle flung out his arms as he approached, sunshine glinting off his spectacles. “My team and I are grateful to have the opportunity to explore what might very well be the greatest archaeological discovery of the ages!”

Professor Grimwinkle frowned as he vigorously brushed dust from his sleeves. “That is a bit presumptuous.”

Eva toyed with the stick she’d been holding. Clearly there was disagreement about the validity of the dig. Had she made the right choice to allow them here instead of planting the seed? “I hope it turns out to be profitable for us all.”

“Oh, my dear.” Bram’s uncle laughed at the blue sky, genuine delight rumbling out of him. “Unearthing the Holy Grail will be more lucrative than you can possibly imagine.” He squeezed her arm lightly. “Just think of not only the historical significance but the religious as well.”

Professor Grimwinkle snorted.

Eva angled her head. “You cannot be serious. Why would such a renowned artifact be found in the middle of a common English field?”

“It’s got to be somewhere, doesn’t it?” Bram’s uncle winked.

Ahh. So that’s where Bram’s impish sense of humor originated. A gust of wind blew in, and she clapped her hand to her bonnet as she turned to the steward. “Well, Sinclair, I should think such a discovery would end the absurd legend of this plot of land being cursed, don’t you?”

“I have to admit, miss”—he picked up a rock and pitched it onto a nearby pile—“we’ve met with no bad luck thus far.”

“Because there is no such thing as luck. God alone is sovereign.” She lifted her chin.

Yet if that was true, then why didn’t God simply bring her a fish with a coin in its mouth to pay the taxes? He’d done so for Peter. Then again, Peter was a saint—and she bore the responsibility of two deaths on her hands. Was it any wonder God had abandoned her to her own means?

“Well said, Miss Inman.” Professor Pendleton pulled off his spectacles and tucked them into the top pocket of his waistcoat. “Now that I’ve had a good look around, I think I can speak for the rest of the men when I say we’d like to get started straightaway. There are several hours’ worth of daylight remaining and setting up always takes longer than one expects. However, after rummaging in the wagon bed, it appears I’ve forgotten my field bag. Must’ve left it in your front hall. Would you mind if your steward here runs me back to the house in the pony trap? Unless you’d like to accompany me, that is. With my girth”—he patted his ample belly—“I don’t think all three of us will fit on the seat, and I’d hate to take the wagon with the excavation tools.”

“Sinclair is a better horseman than I. He’ll get you there and back faster than I could, so I suggest you hang on to your hat, Professor.”

“Ho ho! Thanks for the warning.” He snugged his bowler tighter as he strode away, his silvery hair eaten up by the brown felt.

Another gust of wind flew in, taking Professor Grimwinkle’s hat for a ride. Grumbling, he dashed after it while Eva poked at the dirt with her stick. Was there truly more treasure here? All she found were tufts of overturned turf, rocks, and a rather malnourished earthworm writhing from her inadvertent jab. Holy Grail indeed. A smile lifted her lips. Bram’s uncle was quite the jester.

“I didn’t know you had an interest in archaeology.” Bram’s deep voice reached her a moment before the tips of his worn boots appeared in her line of vision. “We could use such a lovely addition to our team.”

Lovely? Hah. Her nose was too long, her mouth too wide, and no true beauty sported such atrocious red hair. Dropping her stick, she rose and dusted her hands. “Sorry to disappoint, but digging for buried treasure is not my calling.”

Professor Grimwinkle returned, his hat jammed so tightly on his head that it puckered his brow. He fixed his dark gaze on Bram. “Archaeology is certainly not for everyone. Some men just don’t know when to quit.”

Bram’s jaw hardened, yet he said nothing. Why such tension? Did Professor Grimwinkle share her doubts about Bram’s abilities?

She attempted a laugh. “Well, I am sure I would never begin to understand all the facets of excavating for antiquities, but it appears Professor Webb has his students under control.”

Indeed, the young men were already unloading tools from the big wagon.

“Mmm. One can only hope. Now, if you will pardon me, I should like one of those students to drive me back to the manor. I have some business to take care of in town.” Without so much as a good-day, Professor Grimwinkle stalked off.

Rude man!

Eva’s gaze shot to Bram to gauge his response to such an affront.

A vein stood out on his neck, then vanished as he turned to her. “So what is it, then?”

“What is what?” She scrunched her nose, thoroughly confused.

“Your calling. You said digging for buried treasure isn’t it, so what is?”

What a question. She’d been sure of an answer once, a lifetime ago it seemed. She’d never felt more fulfilled than when volunteering with the Royston Relief Society. Helping those in need. Creating beauty from ashes when disaster struck those less fortunate. Now if she wasn’t careful, she and her sister would be the less fortunate. “I am a landowner, Mr. Webb, and that is no small career.”

“True, but I have no doubt you’ll make a success of it. And call me Bram. We are friends from childhood, are we not?” He winked just like his uncle. “Come. Would you like to see what we’ve already found?”

She licked her lips to keep from smirking. “You’ve hardly been here half an hour.”

“Is that all?” He pulled out a silver pocket watch and arched a brow at the time. “You’re right. I suppose I am just that good, milady.” He folded into a regal bow, sweeping one arm high up behind him, just as he’d done that time he’d tried to convince her and her friends he was a magician, only the rabbit he’d pulled from a hat hadn’t been his. When Mrs. Muggins found out he’d borrowed one of her hares, she’d whacked him with a broom.

Eva smiled at the memory. “Found the Holy Grail already, did you? Your uncle is certain it’s here.”

Bram’s wind-reddened cheeks drained of colour. Odd, that. She’d expected a snappy retort, not a silent offering of his upturned palm.

“The terrain is treacherous now that it’s been plowed,” he said simply.

Hiking her skirt to her ankles, she bypassed him. “I have walked this land all my life, Professor. I certainly don’t need your help.”

She marched ahead, stepping over mounds of turf and hopping across furrows gouged by the plow. Despite her sister’s pleading to come along, it was a good thing she’d held firm. Penny managed the house and yard like any agile twelve-year-old, but she’d surely have taken a tumble on this rough dirt—and the image of Penny crashing face first squeezed her heart.

A harsh puff of wind caught the scarf she’d tucked around her neck, the long tail of it flying off like a naughty sparrow. She reached for the fabric—just as her toe caught on a rock. Flailing, she pitched forward.

A strong arm wrapped around her waist, righting her world, shoring her up against a solid torso.

Bram’s.

She whirled away. Bad idea. Once again, she teetered on the uneven ground.

And once again, Bram grabbed hold of her, a mix of concern and amusement sparking in his eyes. They stood so closely, his breath feathered against her brow, and she inhaled his scent of rich tobacco and dampened soil. No, not soil. Something greener. Fresher. Moss, perhaps?

“As I said.” He angled his head to a playful tilt. “Treacherous.”

The land? Or the way her heart thudded against her ribs?

Capturing her hand, he firmly planted her fingers in the crook of his arm, then set off, whistling a cheery tune. Several times she nearly pulled away—and she would have, were she not so absurdly mesmerized by the feel of his muscles riding beneath her touch. This man was no gangly-limbed youth anymore. She’d been right to be cautious of him.

But now she must also be wary of herself.

“Mr. Barker,” Bram called. “The Samian specimen, if you please.”

A towheaded young man with enough curls to make a debutante jealous broke away from the other two students—one of whom she recognized from yesterday in the college corridor. Mr. Barker handed over a dirty piece of broken pottery.

Bram held it up as if it were the Queen’s tiara. “Behold.”

“That’s what you wished to show me?” Eva frowned. “My farmhand has a whole bucket of those bits by now.”

“It’s not a mere bit , Eva. See these floral motifs mingled with these geometric designs?” He brushed his thumb over the chunk of clay. Dirt flaked off, revealing a glossy red finish. “This is from the first or second century, possibly early third. Such pottery was crafted by Roman artisans. There’s treasure beneath this soil.” He grinned, the boyish show of pleasure almost as infectious as his uncle’s good humor. “I have a good feeling about this.”

“Well, hold on to that feeling, Professor.” She winked as saucily as he and his uncle. “For it may change when you see where you’ll be lodging.”

He’d stayed in questionable quarters before. Seedy inns. Shabby boardinghouses. One time in Tunisia, he’d slept in a hut made of hundreds of barrel staves lashed together. All had been palaces compared to the ramshackle workmen’s cottage on the Inman estate. Cottage, huh? More like a shoebox of spiders. Bram took a long drag of his cigar, grateful his uncle had granted him a reprieve from sweeping out the place. Judging by the hoots of laughter from inside the weathered walls, though, his students were having a cracking good time.

He blew one last puff of smoke, then ground out the butt with the toe of his shoe. After a quick readjustment of the lantern wick, he picked up his uncle’s notes lying beside him on the bench. While he’d have preferred his uncle had found that missing journal of his, at least the man had given a valiant effort to recreate what he’d felt were the most important leads. This rough sketch of Uncle Pendleton’s layout for Caelum Academia might not prove to be a solid fact, but at least it gave him an idea of how to proceed tomorrow. If the ground was pliable enough, they might—

He jerked up his head, listening hard. He could’ve sworn he’d heard someone approaching. From what he could see, the windows of the manor house were nothing but dark shadows. Perhaps on the front side, though, the sitting room was still lit. Even so, Eva would not venture out to pay him a visit, and neither the steward nor the farmhand had such light steps.

Setting aside the journal, he rose on silent feet. Much to his shame, he knew a thing or two about stealth. He crept the short length of the front of the cottage, then peered around the side. Hardly eight feet from him stood a young girl on tiptoe, ear pressed against the window glass. His lips twisted. With walls as thin as this cottage’s, she truly needn’t go to so much trouble to eavesdrop.

“You know,” he murmured, “if you stepped on that crate next to you, you could probably hear a lot better, though you’d get more of an earful if you simply knocked on the door and asked to come in.”

The girl whirled. “You scared the life from me! Who are you, and how did you creep back here so quietly?”

“Professor Bram Webb at your service, and I have years of experience sneaking away from my mother.” He stepped closer, examining the sprite. Dark tendrils escaped from a coiled braid at the back of her head, but other than hair colour, her wide mouth and long nose matched Eva’s. Why, dye those locks brownish red and he’d be transported back to a time when Eva had looked at him with admiration instead of indifference. Why had she not told him about the girl?

“Does your sister know you’re out here?” he asked.

“What makes you think I have a sister?”

Now that was interesting, not so much her evasive maneuver but the fact that she didn’t look him in the face. “Because you’re much like Eva Inman when she was a girl.”

“I am?” Her fingers flew to her face, exploring the contours of her cheekbones and jaw.

He dared another step closer, then sucked in a breath. Her gaze hadn’t met his because she hadn’t known where his eyes were, for the girl was clearly blind. “What are you doing out here?”

Her nose bunched all rabbity, a few solid sniffs blending with the laughter from inside the cottage. “You smell of cigars.”

“Good thing I was downwind of you, then, or you’d have run off the second I rounded the corner.”

“Dixon says tobacco is a filthy habit.” She lifted her nose in the same pert manner Eva had used on him earlier that day. “I agree with her.”

Saucy little pixie. He grinned. “Then you and Dixon will be happy to know I have none left, though I do wonder what Dixon might say about you stealing off into the night on your own. Do you wish to continue our conversation here like the wild beasts we both are, or shall we pretend to be civilized and retire to the bench I recently departed?”

“Humph. My sister was right.”

“About?” He could only imagine what Eva might’ve said.

“You do talk a lot. Though that could be to my advantage since I have some questions for you. Come along, then.” The girl marched past him, her hand only reaching out once to determine the end of the building.

He followed, marveling at the girl’s lack of inhibition in speech and in movement. He sank next to her on the bench, taking a moment to settle the lantern on the ground. Not that the light would matter to her, but an inadvertent jostle could send it tumbling. “So what would you like to know?”

“Everything. What is it like to be an archaeologist? Does the dirt smell differently as you’re about to uncover something? When you first hold a relic that’s been buried for centuries, can you feel a connection to the last fingers that held it? Can you practically taste a long-forgotten meal just by handling an unearthed bowl?”

He chuckled. “Those are big questions. Such an inquisitive mind rivals some of my best students. I daresay you have a bright future ahead of you.”

“I have a lot of time to think.” She shrugged.

“Well, well. You may look like your sister, but you’re surely not as timid.”

“Eva?” She laughed, girlish and bright. “My sister is far too much of a take-charge and mind-your-manners sort of person.”

Bram shifted on the hard bench. “She wasn’t always like that,” he murmured. Might things have been different between him and Eva now if he’d stayed in Royston? Would she trust him more if he’d never left? Hah! It was a good thing he had gone. If he’d remained any longer in this town he’d have either killed Trestwell or Trestwell would have done him in.

The girl leaned toward him, and he caught the faint scent of ginger drops on her breath. “What was she like?”

Memories surfaced like bubbles on a pond. Eva running down a hill with her long braid bobbing against her back, frightened of the toad he’d shown her. Or the time she’d burst into tears when one of the other boys had called her a rusty-topped bean pole. He’d tried to comfort her by sharing a biscuit he’d pilfered from the baker’s cart, but the treat had turned to crumbs in his pocket. And then there was the great snake-in-the-sack debacle. He never should have given it to her as a gift. She didn’t speak for a whole week—to anyone.

Bram rubbed his knuckles along his jaw. Now that he thought on it, yes, she had been a bit melodramatic for a child, but not without cause. “You’d better ask her.”

The girl’s lips pursed into a pout, but only for a second. “And you? What were you like?”

He smirked. Remembering Eva’s past was painful enough. There was no way he’d voice what an awful lad he’d been. “You’d better ask her about that too.”

She kicked her toe against the gravel, clearly displeased. “I think you’re very secretive, just like her. But no matter what my sister says”—her toe stopped, and she lifted her face toward him—“I’ve decided I like you.”

“Is that so? Well, you’re not so bad yourself, Miss Inman.”

“You can call me Penny. But not poppet. Only my sister gets that privilege.” She stood and offered her hand. “Good night, Professor Webb.”

“And you may call me Bram but not badger.” He gave her a hearty shake.

“Badger?”

“It’s what your sister used to call me. Good night, Penny.”

With a song on her lips, she strode toward the house, sure of every step as she sang. Which left him to wonder. If Eva hadn’t bothered to mention her sister, being the delight that Penny was, what else was she not telling him?