by Cate Dean
“That’s the plan.” She glanced over at him. Sunlight glinted off his glasses, so she couldn’t see his eyes, but his mouth was set, like he was bracing himself for bad news. She stopped the Rover and turned off the engine. “Head to the lounge. I’ll meet you there.”
He nodded, climbing out of the passenger side. Her heart pounded as she watched him limp to the back door, leaning on his cane. He knew something was wrong; that what she had to tell him wouldn’t be good.
“Stop procrastinating, Maggie,” she muttered. She climbed out and opened the back door, unstrapping Kit and lifting him out of his car seat. “There’s my good boy. Ready for a nap?” He gurgled, and she laughed. “You’re getting one, whether you’re ready or not. We had quite the adventure, didn’t we?”
She just hoped that Kit wouldn’t remember it.
After putting him down, and rubbing his back until he drifted off, she headed to the bedroom, took off her coat, and pulled out the wrapped bundle she’d tucked in the pocket before Ian arrived. Bracing herself, she carried it downstairs and walked into the lounge.
Martin sat in the upholstered chair at the end of the coffee table. Maggie halted; he always sat on the sofa, shoulder to shoulder with her. His obvious need to distance himself hurt.
“Tell me, Maggie.” His quiet voice held none of the animation that lit her up.
“Martin—”
“Sit, and tell me.”
Swallowing, she lowered herself to the edge of the sofa, set the bundle on the coffee table. Martin focused on it, his hands clenched into fists, pressing into the arms of the chair.
“The man spoke to me, before he died. He was warning me, Martin. Warning you. He—” She reached out, wanting to take his hand, stopped at his icy gaze. “He said that your life was in peril. That you needed to leave, to hide.”
He raised an eyebrow, looking intrigued instead of as terrified as she tried not to feel. “My life is in peril? Did this good Samaritan give you a name?”
“Clive.”
Martin shocked her by letting out a shout of laughter. “That old thief. I am sorry, love. I never meant to startle you. Clive Everly and I met not long after I returned from Egypt. I had heard rumors that he had died years ago.” He shook his head. “As much as I liked him, the man always looked after himself first. If he came to warn me, it was not out of the goodness of his heart.”
“Martin.” She was starting to feel more sympathy toward a stranger than her husband. “He died coming here to warn you.”
He cleared his throat. “Forgive me, Maggie. Dealing with Clive has always needed a pile of doubt. We have run into each other occasionally, but I walked away from whatever friendship we might have had a long time ago.” He waved to the wrapped bundle on the coffee table. “Shall we open the mystery package?”
“I’ve been dying to since he gave it to me.”
Maggie stood and picked up the bundle, holding it out to him. Once he took it, she perched on the edge of the coffee table, anxious—and more than a little worried about what was in the bundle that Clive had died to bring to Martin.
He untied the heavy twine, then slowly unwrapped what looked like worn brocade. Nestled in the blue and gold cloth was a small box. Judging by the stunned look on Martin’s face, she guessed it wasn’t an ordinary box.
“Martin?”
“I didn’t expect—how the bloody hell did he acquire it?” Using one corner of the brocade, he carefully wiped the top of the box—and Maggie got her first good look.
“Is that—”
“The Roman seal box.” He held it up, letting her see it clearly. “The same box that was stolen from the Yorkshire site.”
Five
Martin sat in his new office, at the desk Maggie had donated from her shop's inventory, looking out the window. Locals bustled past, huddled against the cold wind. His leg throbbed, and he shifted it, readjusting his foot on the padded stool—another gift from Maggie. The pain reminded him that it was past time for his painkillers.
He had stopped taking the prescription Dr. Smith had given him, settling for the ibuprofen he could buy at the chemist. Even that would stop, as soon as the pain became manageable.
For the third time, he rearranged the items on his desk, trying to figure out exactly what he was going to do with himself until he was fit enough to return to the dig.
“That may be some time yet, old man.” Referring to himself with one of Spencer’s nicknames produced a bit of amusement, which faded quickly.
Having so much idle time left him out of sorts.
“You used to beg for a bit more, and now you have nothing to do once you have an abundance?”
It was time for the bout of self-pity to end.
He pulled a fresh tablet of paper and a pen out of his desk, then started brainstorming potential topics for his next documentary. That stopped when he realized he wouldn’t be able to handle the physical aspect of a single idea.
“When did I become useless?”
“Never that, Martin.” Maggie’s voice brought his head up, and lifted some of the despair. She strode forward and leaned over the desk to cradle his cheek. “You’re too important to us to ever be useless.”
“You caught me in the midst of a bit of self-flagellation.”
Her smile warmed him—and her kiss helped him push his current dilemma to the back of his mind. She sounded as breathless as he did when she pulled away. “I came to see how you were settling in.”
“Well enough, considering I have little to occupy me at the moment.”
“I can give you the store inventory.”
He raised his eyebrow, aware she was teasing him. “I am not quite so desperate.” Yet.
“Are you already done with the apothecary jar?”
“It has been close to a week, love. I finished my summary and sent the jar to Spencer three days ago.”
“Oh.” She sat on the edge of the desk, fiddling with the pen holder she had gifted him. “I know this isn’t easy for you, Martin, but I’m glad you’re home. Both Kit and I are.”
“Where is he?”
“With Lilli. She nearly yanked him out of my arms when I walked into The Tea Caddy, swearing it had been ages since she last saw him.”
“Our son seems to be popular.”
“He is.” She leaned in and gave him a quick kiss. “He inherited his father’s charm.”
Martin slid his hand into her hair, keeping her in place. “That sweet charm is all yours, Mrs. Martin.”
“Then you can take the credit for his devilish side—and the fact that he tries to dig every time he’s near the ground.”
“Does he?” That did please him, and conjured images of Kit at his side, sharing his passion for the past. “I will have to encourage his interest.”
“Only if you’re there to keep him from digging up my garden, or my flowers, or the rocks lining the—”
He burst out laughing. It felt good, after months of enduring Geoffrey Drummond-Doddington and his oversized ego. Maggie grinned at him, amusement lighting her clear blue eyes.
Heaven help him, he loved her.
“Thank you,” he said. “You were the tonic I needed today.”
“Glad I could help.” Her smile faded, and she laid her hand over his heart. “If you’re feeling restless, I’m sure Spencer could use help with his latest exhibit.”
He lowered his hand to hers, his interest piqued. “What would that be?”
“Something about the Roman occupation. I’m surprised he hasn’t asked you about it before now.”
New purpose pushed away the earlier hopelessness. “I will speak with him, see if I can offer any of my expertise.”
“There he is.”
Martin blinked. “What?”
“The archaeologist I fell in love with.” She stood, kissing him before she headed to the door. “Don’t let him lose himself again.”
He watched her leave, staring at the door long after it closed. With Maggie and Kit in his lif
e, he could be happy, find a new purpose if his current injuries sidelined him for good.
The thought hurt, but not as much as he expected.
“I will take the blows as they come.”
“Talking to yourself again, Pembroke?” Geoffrey stood in the doorway, a smirk on his face. “It is a habit that could land one in hot water.”
“What do you want, Geoffrey?” Martin managed to keep most of the anger out of his voice. They had not parted on good terms. The fact that Geoffrey planned to keep the dig open through the winter had led to more than one argument.
Geoffrey lifted his chin. “I came with a job offer, but perhaps I will find someone more amenable.” He turned to the door.
“Wait.” Martin ran one hand through his hair, certain he would regret his next words. “What is the job?”
“Cataloging the finds at my Canterbury dig.” He smiled. “I understand it is beneath you, as a professional, but with your current circumstances,” he waved at Martin’s leg, propped on the stool under his desk, “I thought perhaps you might be willing to accept.”
Martin was tempted, if only to be part of the discovery, the thrill of revealing the history, the secrets buried with those who had once kept them.
“I would have control over how items are catalogued,” Martin said, “and how long the students work each day. The weather is turning, Geoffrey,” he cut off the man’s argument. “They are volunteers, not slave labor.”
Geoffrey glared at him. “I am the archaeologist in charge, Pembroke.”
“Of course.”
Geoffrey’s features smoothed, his temper fading. “As long as you remember that, I will allow you to handle the students—and the cataloging process.” He waved his hand when Martin opened his mouth. “I do trust you with that much, given your reputation.”
“Thank you.” He let sarcasm edge his words.
“You are most welcome, Pembroke.” Geoffrey’s smile told Martin that he was ignoring the sarcasm, or hadn’t recognized it. “The sooner you can begin, the sooner we can—”
“I am afraid I can’t accept.”
“What?”
As much as he wanted to, even with Geoffrey’s condescending attitude in the bargain, Martin knew he would suffer out at the dig. Never mind what Maggie would have to say about it. Her words to him a few minutes ago sparked an inspiration—and a way to remove Geoffrey without an argument.
“I appreciate you thinking of me, but I have another job offer, one I’ve decided to take.”
Rage flashed across Geoffrey’s face, taking Martin by surprise. The man had a temper, but it had always sputtered out at the righteous anger stage. The rage disappeared quickly, replaced by disappointment.
“I see. It must be prestigious, to pass up what I am offering you.”
“Not quite, but just as fulfilling.” Now all he had to do was ask Spencer if he actually needed help.
Is there no way for me to convince you, Pembroke?”
Not using his hated given name would have been a good start.
“I am afraid not.”
“Well, then. I must get back, before one of those idiot students breaks a priceless find.” He paused after he opened the door. “If you find this other job of your less—fulfilling than you expected,” he curled his lip, as if anything not involving him could hardly be as rewarding. “You know where to find me.”
Martin waited until the door closed before he picked up his mobile. He paused, then tapped in Spencer’s number.
“Hey, Professor. How can I help?”
“I understand you are putting together a new exhibit—”
“If you’re about to offer your expertise, the answer is yes.”
Relief spread through him as he smiled. “I was, and thank you. I am sitting in my new office at the moment, feeling quite useless.”
“Come on down to the museum. I’ll scrounge a comfortable chair for you.” He sounded genuinely pleased. “If you manage to stop by The Tea Caddy on your way here, I might even be able to find a padded stool.”
Martin laughed, knowing what Spencer would want without asking. “I believe I can do that.”
“Brilliant. Thanks for offering to help.”
“My pleasure.” Another idea flashed in his mind, and he unlocked the bottom drawer of his desk. The seal box sat on top of a box of file folders, nestled in the brocade Clive had wrapped it in. “I may have another offer for you.” He nodded to himself, knowing it would be the best solution—and the safest place for the box. “An addition to your exhibit.”
“Now I’m intrigued. Do you have this addition with you?”
“I am looking at it right now.” He smiled at the enthusiasm in Spencer’s voice. “I will bring it with me.”
“See you soon. I’m on the second floor—just take the lift and look for the mess.”
Martin ended the call and picked up the seal box, wrapping it in the brocade before he tucked it in his jacket pocket. It had been too long since he stood on the other side of the process, and looked forward to assisting Spencer.
Helping with the exhibit would allow him the chance to offer his knowledge, and keep up his convalescence without slowly going mad.
If he ever wanted to walk without a limp, he needed to give himself time to heal—and that meant staying away from cold dig sites. No matter how long it took him to get better, he was willing to make the sacrifice.
He wanted to be strong and whole again. Not only for himself, but for Maggie, and for Kit.
Six
Maggie was thrilled to find out that Martin had taken the initiative and asked Spencer about helping with the exhibit.
Every morning for the last three days, Martin woke early, the smile she had missed lighting his face. She and Kit were in the kitchen when he joined them, moving slowly, his cane tapping the floor.
“Something smells delicious.” He leaned down to kiss her, then kissed Kit’s forehead, staying out of porridge throwing range. “Good morning, Kit.”
Waving the extra spoon in his hand, Kit chattered at him.
“Someday,” Maggie said, “that will turn into actual words.”
“I look forward to it.”
She smiled at him as she stood and moved to the stove. “What’s on the agenda for today?”
“The final touches on the exhibit. You will be quite proud of Spencer; he has done a brilliant job highlighting the Roman occupation, while making it accessible for those who don’t know much about the history of that time period.”
“You should tell him yourself. He’d be thrilled to know what you think.”
“And I would spend the rest of the day hearing just how thrilled he is.”
She burst out laughing, then headed over and hugged him from behind. “I’ll save you from the torture and tell him myself.”
“Bless you.” He gripped the arm of the chair, waving away her help before he lowered himself, using the cane as support. “I will take whatever it is that is leaving my stomach growling.”
“A cheese and spinach omelet.” She moved back to the stove and slid it on to the plate she’d already set on the counter. “Did you want some tea?”
“Earl Grey?”
“What else?”
He smiled at her over his shoulder. “Then, yes, I would love some.”
Maggie grabbed the pot she had just made and poured some into his favorite mug. She didn’t realize how much she’d missed this playful side of Martin. It had been too long since he had teased her, or smiled so easily.
She planned to make sure it was a regular occurrence from now on.
***
After a delicious breakfast, and a warm goodbye kiss from Maggie, Martin took the Rover and drove down to the museum.
He would have walked, but a cold wind whipped off the Channel, and he knew better than to expose his leg to such weather.
After he parked the Rover next to the loading dock, he eased out of the driver’s seat, using the cane to steady himself. Unfortunately,
practice was making it easier to maneuver with the cane.
He punched in the code that opened the small outside door, and made his way across the dock, the tap of his cane on the cracked concrete echoing in the open space. The door at the far end led to a storage area, and several restoration rooms.
Some of the staff waved at him as he made his way to the door leading into the museum itself. He took the lift up to the second floor, and found Spencer on his back, under one of the display cases, cursing in a loud voice.
“Anything I can do to help?”
Spencer cut himself off. “Do you know any reliable electricians? The lights just gave out on me.”
“What about Henry Manning?” The village handyman was usually able to handle about any job that came his way.
“I asked.” Spencer let out a long sigh. “He has a job over at one of the new restaurants on the high street, and won’t have time to even come take a look.” He slid himself out from under the case and sat. “There should be another one in storage, but that means cleaning it, and starting over with the display.”
Martin took a minute to study the case. “Have you thought of using portable light sources? I used them for a temporary display in Cairo, when I needed—”
Spencer cut him off by hugging him. “Brilliant, Professor. Bloody brilliant. Stay right here!”
He sprinted across the huge room, and Martin smiled, shaking his head at Spencer’s enthusiasm. While Spencer was off hunting down a new light source, he took the time to study the artifacts.
They were an eclectic mix, but told a story that would resonate even with the visitors who did not enjoy much in the way of history. There was a spot for the seal box, front and center; that would not be added until the morning of the exhibit. For now, it was safely locked in Brent Newcombe’s office safe
Spencer returned, carrying several lanterns. “These are all battery operated. From the gift shop,” he said, grinning as he held them up. “From the Roman section.”
“They will do nicely.” Martin had been pleasantly surprised by the authentic souvenirs the shop offered. “What can I do to help?”