Page 3 of The Lovers (Echoes from the Past #1)
TWO
Surrey, England
Quinn threw another log on the fire and went to pour herself a cup of tea.
A steady rain had been falling since the night before, bringing with it a howling wind and a bone-chilling damp, which seemed to seep into the stones.
The room was lost in shadow, the lowering sky and pouring rain having leached all light out of the October afternoon.
But the fire glowed in the hearth, casting shifting shadows onto the stone walls and filling the room with a welcome warmth, the crackling of the logs momentarily blocking out the moaning of the wind.
Quinn sat down on the sofa and wrapped her hands around the hot mug.
The heat felt good, so she held the mug for a few minutes without drinking, absorbing the pleasant warmth, which brought her a welcome sense of comfort.
Despite the cold and the rain, it felt good to be home, even if that home wasn’t quite as she had left it.
She’d returned to England only a few days ago, landing in Heathrow on a golden autumn morning.
She’d collected her cases from the carousel and made her way out the door toward the queue of taxis waiting at the curb.
She filled her lungs with crisp air and smiled at the brilliant foliage, which stood out in jarring contrast to the cobalt blue of the cloudless sky.
After months of relentless heat and merciless sun of the Middle East, it was lovely to feel a cool breeze on her face and the nip of the coming winter already in the air.
Quinn looked as if she’d just come back from a tropical holiday, her face and arms tanned to a golden glow.
Still, the six months she’d spent on a dig in Jerusalem had left their mark, both physical and emotional, and she was relieved to be home at last. No one paid her any attention as she waited patiently in line for her turn at a taxi.
To anyone who bothered to notice her, she was just an average young woman, casually dressed in jeans, T-shirt, and a worn leather jacket.
Her dark hair was pulled into a messy bun atop her head, and her face was devoid of any makeup, except for some lip balm she’d put on before disembarking the plane.
She looked like any other tourist, but in archeological circles she was a star, at least until the next big find.
Unearthing the Roman sword dating back to the Great Revolt of 66 CE was a tremendous coup.
The sword had been discovered lodged in the drainage system running between the City of David and the Archeological Garden, and it was found only a few feet away from an ancient stone depicting a menorah.
The menorah had been etched into the stone with something crude and sharp, like an old nail or a chisel, but it was close enough to Temple Mount to be of tremendous interest and confirmed what the original menorah might have looked like.
Researchers from the Israel Antiquities Authority put forth various theories on the significance of the find.
Quinn had to admit that she had been more interested in the sword.
It was still in its leather scabbard, which was miraculously well preserved.
The scabbard kept some of the decorations from being obliterated by time and the elements, allowing a glimpse into Roman craftsmanship of the period.
The sword likely belonged to a simple infantryman, but it was so much more than a sharp hunk of metal.
It was not only a tool but also a work of art, a lovingly crafted weapon that would have been treasured and well maintained by its bearer.
The sword would remain in Jerusalem, but Quinn had published her findings and had agreed to interviews with CNN, the British Archeology Magazine , and the Archeological Journal , scheduled back-to-back for the day after her arrival.
The sword might be thousands of years old, but the news of its discovery would fade fast, and the interviews had to be published while public interest was still at its peak.
And now she was finally at home, having fulfilled her obligations and free until the spring semester began just after the new year.
She’d intended to pick up a few classes at the institute, devote time to research, apply for new grants that would fund the next dig when they came through, and spend time with Luke.
At least that had been the plan while she was still in Jerusalem, but things had changed.
It felt strange to walk into the house and face all the empty spaces.
They glared at her like hollow eye sockets, eerie and blank.
Luke had cleared out before she returned, partially to avoid awkwardness and partially because he’d been in a rush to leave.
He hadn’t even given her the courtesy of breaking up with her in person.
He’d dumped her via text, telling her that he had accepted a teaching position in Boston and would be gone by the time she returned.
This was no longer their house, their little love nest, but it was still her home and, despite the sadness that filled the quiet rooms, she loved it.
Quinn snuggled deeper into the sofa and gazed with affection at the familiar room.
The house had once been a private chapel, built by some devoted husband for his devout Catholic wife, but it had been confiscated by the Crown during the Dissolution of the Monasteries and allowed to fall into disrepair once everything of value had been stripped, sold off, or melted down.
It stood empty for centuries, forgotten and desolate, before being offered to Captain Lewis Granger, a distant cousin of the family that still owned the estate at the beginning of the nineteenth century .
The young captain had been embroiled in a scandal involving the young wife of a well-respected general, dishonorably discharged from the army just before Waterloo, and sent home to England.
He had disgraced himself to the point where he could no longer show his face in London, at least for a time, and so he appealed to his cousin, begging for sanctuary, which Squire Granger reluctantly offered.
Lewis Granger might have been a libertine and a gambler, but he had a penchant for architecture and history.
He turned the ruin into a home, rebuilding the crumbling structure with his own two hands and the help of a few lads from the village, who were more than happy to earn a few quid during a time when well-paying jobs were scarce and returning soldiers tried to pick up the pieces of their lives and find any employment going.
Squire Granger had been so impressed with Lewis’s efforts that he bequeathed the chapel to Lewis in his will, and it had remained in the family until the last descendant sold the house to Quinn three years ago.
Niles Granger was a young man who was thoroughly at odds with Lewis’s legacy.
His spiky hair was dyed platinum blond; he wore unbearably narrow trousers and horn-rimmed spectacles, proclaiming himself to be a hipster and an artist. Niles had no interest in history or architecture, and he wanted nothing more than to get away from all that “old shite,” as he so eloquently described it.
He unloaded it gleefully and never looked back, using the profits to buy a dilapidated loft with space for a studio, where he created works of unfathomable modernity using splashes of bright colors, bits of trash, and phallic symbols strategically displayed for maximum shock value.
The rest of the estate had been bought years earlier by an eccentric millionaire who converted the huge manor house into Lingfield Park Resort.
Despite its proximity to the resort, Quinn’s house felt completely private.
The chapel was nestled in the woods at the edge of the property; none of the guests ever ventured in that direction, warned off by the Private Property sign nailed to a tree and a lack of a walkable path.
There was a narrow lane, just wide enough for one car to pass on the other side of the house, which led into the village, but the lane saw so little traffic that Quinn felt as if she were living alone in the woods.
Now, three years later, Quinn was still charmed by the stained-glass windows set high in the stone walls and vaulted ceilings painted with an image of the heavens.
Not much had remained of the original chapel, but there was something about it that always made Quinn feel welcome and at home.
She supposed it was all the hopes, dreams, and prayers that had been absorbed by the stones over the years.
Prayers didn’t just dissipate into thin air—they soaked into the walls, buttressing the structure with their strength and healing energy.
As an archeologist, she found it immensely appealing to live in a place that was imbued with so much character and steeped in history.
When originally built, the chapel had been one large open space, but Lewis Granger had divided it into two rooms, the back room serving as a bedroom and furnished with an antique four-poster bed and carved dresser, which Niles had been only too happy to throw in as part of the deal.
The dark wood was polished to a shine, the bed hangings made of embroidered damask in mauve and gold.
Once that bed had been the center of Quinn’s universe, the place where she spent lazy afternoons with Luke as they made love, shared their dreams, and made plans for the future.
Now the bed was used only for sleeping and reading when sleep wouldn’t come.