by Lynn Kurland
What he ate for lunch, he couldn’t have said. He consumed it without haste, but without tasting it, either—which could have been considered a good thing given its prepackaged nature. He was too busy watching Tess. She looked up from the notes she was making in the guidebook, froze, then blushed.
“Stop that.”
“I’m not bolting,” he pointed out.
She took a deep breath. “What are you doing, then?”
“Looking.”
“And?”
He took his own deep breath. “Liking very much what I see.”
She pushed the guidebook toward him. “I’m going to go powder my nose.”
He watched her bolt—a novel occurrence in and of itself—and studied the book in front of him. It was interesting, but it was suddenly quite a bit less interesting than the sensation he suddenly had.
That he was being watched.
He would have said being aware of that was a habit he’d developed in the current century, but the truth was, the instinct was purely medieval. Learned from his father, honed by his brothers, perfected by himself in skirmishes he truly preferred not to think on.
Odd how that sort of thing came in handy in the present day.
He continued to feign interest in the book, but he was in truth taking note of everyone in the little outdoor seating area and wondering why he’d been stupid enough not to have done the like sooner. He saw nothing untoward, not even when he stretched and then used the excuse to carry the remains of their lunch to the rubbish bin to have a closer look around.
There were none in the little outdoor patio but a handful of tourists brave enough to venture out into the cold and a pair of pensioners and their wives no doubt determined to have their money’s worth from their Trust pass.
“John?”
He was certain he’d jumped, but he ignored it. He turned around and smiled at Tess. “Nothing.”
“I didn’t ask you if it was something,” she said slowly.
He took her hand. “Let’s go find a darkened corner, shall we? Perhaps in the garden where we won’t be pestered. I believe I have some sort of business with you that doesn’t involve paneling and creaking wooden floors.”
She looked at him as if he’d lost his mind. He wasn’t entirely sure he wasn’t well on the way to it.
He took a deep breath, then let it out slowly. “Let’s walk, if you don’t mind. I’m restless.”
“Sure,” she said easily.
He kept her hand in his, partly because he liked holding it and partly to keep her close enough to him that he could protect her if need be, though from what he couldn’t have said. A disgruntled employee who’d watched them peer too closely at a sixteenth-century relic?
“I forgot my purse,” Tess said suddenly. “I’ll run back—”
“I’ll come with you,” he said without hesitation. He put on a soothing smile. “Because I want to.”
“Whatever you say,” she said, giving him that look again that said very clearly she wasn’t at all confident in his hold on reality.
He wasn’t about to explain himself. He simply walked quickly back to the loo with her, then waited for her whilst she went inside. She came back sooner than he’d expected, but empty-handed. He frowned.
“Find it?”
“No,” she said slowly, “it was gone.” She shrugged. “There wasn’t anything in it. Five quid and some lip gloss.”
“No identification?”
“I thought they could just look me up in Burke’s Peerage if they needed to,” she said lightly, but she seemed a little unsettled.
He was, too, actually.
“John.”
He realized he wasn’t paying her any heed. He had also pulled her behind him, which he hadn’t realized he’d done until he’d been forced to turn around and look at her. “Aye?”
“You’re acting a little suspiciously.”
He blinked. “Do you think I nicked your purse?”
“Of course not,” she said with a bit of a laugh. “I’m just wondering why it is that you seem to be looking over your shoulder.”
“I’m not.”
“You are. You also keep pulling me behind you.”
“I’m trying to keep you out of the sights of those Trust busybodies.”
“I don’t think so.”
He swore, because it was a bad habit, then took her hand. “I’m just wondering if that lad who tried to kiss you in your passageway might have been a little more irritated than he let on at my instruction.”
She looked at him in surprise. “Really?”
“Really.”
“John, maybe you just don’t look in the mirror often enough, but if I were a jerk you’d come close to punching, I don’t think I would be coming back for a second helping.”
He put his arm around her and sighed. If she only knew just how dangerous a time she lived in. At least in the thirteen century, he could have protected her with a sword. Now, what was he to do? Swear and hope for the best?
“I might have an overactive imagination,” he conceded, finally.
“And where did you come by that?”
“My misspent youth,” he said, hoping she wouldn’t ask him to elaborate. He kept his arm around her shoulders and walked with her back to his car. He opened the door for her, saw her inside, then shut the door and took a minute or two to look around him.
There was nothing.
He considered, then walked around to the driver’s side and slid under the wheel. He started up the Vanquish, half expecting it to explode, then sat back and let out a long, slow breath.
“John, you’re starting to make me nervous.”
He looked at her and smiled briefly. “Not enough sleep last night. Not to worry.” He paused. “Would you mind if I did come and stir sauce for you tonight?”
She studied him in silence for a moment or two. His first instinct was to either deflect her obvious curiosity or shift uncomfortably. He chose to do neither. He was a knight of the realm, after all, and beyond squirming. Hedging, however, was another thing entirely, and he fully intended to engage in it when he’d caught his breath.
“Are you bringing your lute to play for me after the guests leave?”
He laughed a little in spite of himself. “You, Tess Alexander, are a difficult woman.”
She reached out and tucked a bit of his hair behind his ear, then pulled her hand away quickly, as if she thought she shouldn’t have. He caught that hand before it escaped too far, then kissed it before he released it.
“Aye, I will,” he said easily. “If you insist.”
“Very generous of you.”
“It is, isn’t it?” he agreed.
“You could play just for me while I stir, I suppose,” she said thoughtfully, “but then you might draw all the guests kitchenward.”
“And then I would be forced to share you with them more than I like,” he agreed. “Let me get you home, then I’ll run and fetch my gear. I’ll see what instrument comes first to hand.”
“And tights as well?”
He shot her a look. “Jeans, you hussy.”
She smiled and buckled herself in. He supposed she was wise to do so. He didn’t like the fact that someone had stolen her purse, no matter what it had contained. Perhaps she deserved nothing less for having been distracted enough to leave it behind, but that fact that it had been hers and he had felt someone watching them . . .
He shook his head and concentrated on getting them back to Sedgwick in one piece. Perhaps it was coincidence. Perhaps he had simply spent too many years listening for the crack of a twig or the glimpse of a shadow that might contain an enemy. The morning’s events were nothing more than coincidence.
Surely.
Two hours later, he was standing in his bedchamber, looking into his closet, and feeling as if he’d been kicked in the gut by an enthusiastic stallion. In fact, he had to lean over with his hands on his thighs to catch his breath.
His sword was gone.
>
And there had been no sign of a break-in.
Coincidence? He seriously doubted it. He straightened and went to look about the cottage once more, on the off chance that he’d missed something. He checked both doors and every window—including the one over his bed that wasn’t quite shut.
Which was not at all how he’d left it.
He looked on the bedspread and saw faint indentations, but nothing that he could have used to tell him anything except that his thief had rather large feet. He didn’t even consider calling the bobbies. They would have wanted all sorts of details he wouldn’t have wanted to give, beginning and ending with why he had a trio of swords propped up in the back of his closet.
Well, a brace of them only, now.
He stood in the midst of his bedchamber and folded his arms over his chest so he could scowl and think a bit. Nothing else was missing; he knew that from a cursory glance around. It wasn’t that he had anything of value save his cars, and he’d had the priciest with him, leaving the others still safely tucked in their bays. The tools in his shop were worth something, but he wouldn’t know if something were missing there without a serious search.
He considered, then walked into his closet, pulled aside the false front he’d built into the back and opened the man-sized safe he had there. His lute and two guitars were inside, untouched. He considered, then took his remaining medieval sword and stashed it inside. The fit was tight, which was why he’d never kept it in the safe, though now he wondered why not.
The Claymore was too tall to fit, so he supposed he had no choice but to simply take his chances with it. It was a reproduction, so the thought of losing it didn’t trouble him overmuch. The realization that he’d been robbed of the sword his father had given him upon the occasion of his knighting, however, was substantially more gut-wrenching than he would have suspected it might be.
His father had given him his other sword as well, so perhaps he was being overly sentimental where he shouldn’t have been. It was metal, nothing more, and the gems were useless to anyone who might have wanted to sell them. They were faceted with the tools of a medieval gemsmith. To recut them to modern standards would have radically diminished their value.
Nay, the worth to him was in the memories attached to the sword. He’d cherished the blade, even though his father had gifted it to him a year to the day before he’d thrown him out of his hall—
He wrenched his thoughts back to the present, which wasn’t, as it happened, much more of a pleasant place to be than loitering uncomfortably in memories of his past.
Who would want a sword?
More curious still, why would anyone have thought he might possess one?
The only person who had seen him with a sword in his hands was Doris Winston, and he immediately dismissed her as a suspect. Even the lad who had accosted Tess might have fancied a more authentic-looking blade, but he wouldn’t have known to look for it in a closet. If that fool had been bent on revenge, he would have likely trashed the entire cottage.
Nay, there was something else afoot.
He shut and locked his window again only to discover that the lock was broken. He cursed succinctly, then went and fetched a small crowbar from the shop. He wedged the window shut, hoping he wouldn’t soon have a fire and need to escape. He collected his preferred guitar for classical pieces, then locked up the safe and replaced the false front. After a final look about his house, he locked the door behind him and walked away. The Claymore would either be there when he returned, or it wouldn’t.
He thought that perhaps he should have taken Grant’s suggestion to hook up the surveillance cameras. Too late now.
He wondered if Tess had them in her hall and if not, would she think him daft for suggesting she have them installed first thing Monday morning.
He drove to Sedgwick with less apprehension about the keep and what it represented than great unease over what he might be drawing to it with his presence. He could only assume that whoever had nicked his sword was lying in wait for him, not Tess.
Though the loss of her purse couldn’t be discounted.
He sighed, parked well away from potential door damage, then fetched his guitar and made his way across the bridge and into the courtyard. He didn’t bother with the front door, though he did take the opportunity to look rather thoroughly about the courtyard for anything untoward. He saw nothing, but that didn’t mean he wouldn’t have another look later.
He walked into the kitchen to find Tess and Peaches up to their elbows in supper.
“Oh, good,” Peaches said, sounding vastly relieved, “the cavalry has arrived.”
John tucked his guitar into the corner, shrugged out of his jacket, and walked over to the stove. “What’s amiss?”
Tess looked rather less serene than she usually did. Copious amounts of hair had escaped her clip, and she was slightly out of breath.
“The caterers mistook tomorrow for today, and we have nothing to eat.”
“Bangers and mash?” he suggested.
She glared at him, and he held up his hands in surrender.
“What can I do?” he asked. “Run to the market?”
“They’re closed,” Peaches said gingerly. “Tess is whipping up some pasta, and we have enough salad things to make do. I’m working on dessert.”
He considered. “I could go entertain them for a bit, if you thought that would do any good.”
Tess closed her eyes briefly. “Thank you.”
“Of course.” He motioned for her to turn around, then he pulled out her clip and did his best to gather up all the hair that escaped from her chignon. He clipped it to the back of her head, kissed the top of that head, then went to fetch his guitar. “Are you sure you can manage, just the two of you?”
“Unless you have a catering staff hiding in your shop,” Tess said, blowing the hair out of her eyes, “I don’t think we have a choice.”
John considered, then pulled his mobile out of his jacket and stepped outside to make two phone calls. He left the sisters to what would be a blessedly brief stint by themselves before true reinforcements came, then made for the great hall.
He looked at the guests milling around, apparently quite happy on their own, and set his guitar down near the hearth. He was in the process of fetching a chair when he heard someone call his name.
Dave Thompson, as Fate would have it.
It was a very small world.
He put on his best company manners and walked over to shake hands with one of England’s most successful businessmen. The man had his fingers in so many pies, John half suspected he likely didn’t remember them all. Then again, knowing Dave as he did, the blighter could likely recite on demand exactly where every shilling of his substantial fortune was residing.
“Dave,” John said politely, “what a pleasant surprise.”
Dave laughed at him. “Pleasant? Who are you kidding? Kenneth let me hear the raw track with all your warm-up vulgarity. I know exactly what you think of me.”
John smiled deprecatingly. “I didn’t want to ruin my reputation as a hard-bitten grunge-band bassist by letting anyone know I play the guitar, much less anything more esoteric.”
“It’ll be our secret.”
“Until you spread it around,” John said dryly.
Dave put his hand companionably on John’s shoulder. “John, my friend, this might come as a bit of a shock, but there are people in the world who actually want me to produce their records.”
“Bad manners are part of my charm.”
Dave laughed. “So I’ve seen.” He looked around the hall, then back at John. “This is a lovely place. What, may I ask, are you doing here?”
“Friend of the owner,” John said easily. He paused. “How would you like to do me a favor?”
“Ah, you in my debt,” Dave said, rubbing his hands together with an evil chuckle. “Ask away.”
“Miss Alexander’s caterers mistook the date and have left her doing all the prep herself. I called in a f
ew locals to help out, but I don’t suppose you could smooth things over with the rest of this rabble until we can set things right, could you?”
“Are you going to help by allowing them to listen to the finest jazz guitarist in all the UK?”
“He couldn’t be here, so you’re stuck with me,” John said with a brief smile, “but yes, I’ll do my best.”
“Then I’ll see what I can do for you whilst you consider just how heavy a price I’ll exact from you when I’m at my leisure,” Dave said pleasantly. “And you know, John, if it’s too much trouble, we could just order takeaway.”
“No need,” John said. “Tess is a fabulous cook, though you may not see much of her as hostess.”
“I’ll put on an apron and do the honors,” Dave said. “Go play, my boy, and I’ll see to the rest.”
John was happy to do so. He caught sight of Tess on the edge of the great hall and walked over to her. It was only as he saw her that he realized he’d forgotten what he’d seen at his house. He wasn’t at all sure he would tell her about it, but he would most certainly make sure he had a closer look at her hall before he left her for the night.
He took her by the arm and pulled her down the passageway. He smiled.
“Not to worry. Dave, the blighter who left that lute for me at Studio Five, is one of your guests. He offered to pitch in and distract your guests until supper is ready.”
“What sort of Faustian bargain did you make with him for that?” she asked breathlessly.
“He’s still considering the price,” John said dryly, “but I’ll pay it willingly. And so you know, Adam’s abandoning the pub to help out. Doris Winston is bringing a pair of her granddaughters to carry supper out to the table.”
“You’re a lifesaver,” she said, with feeling.
“We’ll see how grateful you are later, when I’m free to take advantage of it.”
She took his hand and squeezed it. “Thank you, John.”
He heard voices from the kitchen and knew help had arrived, and not just to save Tess from overwork in the kitchen but he himself from doing something stupid such as pulling her into his arms and kissing her. He settled for kissing her hand very briefly, then sent her off to the kitchen to supervise whilst he went about the purchase price of her peace of mind.