Historical Jewels

by Jewel, Carolyn

  “The devil.” The earl sucked in a hissing breath. “Damn you to hell, Ned. Do you mean to break my ribs again?”

  Unperturbed, the man continued his examination. A red gash surrounded by very pink and puckered scar tissue ran from about four inches below the earl’s armpit forward and upward to nearly his nipple. “You should have had this looked at sooner.”

  “I did.”

  “By whom?” He sounded offended.

  “I don’t know. Some quack from Far Caister. Fitzalan sent for him.”

  “It’s not healing as quickly as it should.”

  “That’s why you’re here, Ned.”

  “Move so. A bit more, Captain.” He stopped short and bobbed his head. “I beg your humble pardon. My lord.”

  “Hell, Ned. Not you, too. Don’t you my lord me. I cannot abide that from you.”

  “I need a better look. I must be certain they’ve not left behind a bit of the bullet.”

  “You’ll not cut me open, you cursed sawbones.”

  With a start, she understood this wasn’t like seeing the swordsman. This was no dream or hallucination. She really was here. The moment could not be more improper. She’d blundered into Tiern-Cope’s private quarters, and he wasn’t dressed. She shouldn’t be here, let alone be spying on him. She had to leave, but she just couldn’t. The sight of Tiern-Cope in his naked skin paralyzed her. The muscles of his chest were every bit as defined from the front as from the back and they disappeared right down into the band of his breeches along with a narrow trail of dark hair. He was, simply, magnificent.

  “Enough, Ned.” He sighed and gingerly moved his arm. “I’ve had enough for now.” He reached for the shirt dangling from the back of a chair. Turning from the door, he drew it on but left it gaping open. “Besides, I’m better than I was. I’ve been walking to Far Caister and back every morning for the last week.”

  “Probably what set you off.”

  “Bollocks. I’ve had a belly full of laying about like an overcooked potato.”

  “Saving lovely ladies and their crippled mothers from fires. Aye, lad, you’ve been a worthless nit, you have.” Fansher turned, a grin on a weathered face browner than Tiern-Cope’s. “Later, then, Captain.” He moved out of sight. “My lord.

  “Don’t go. Not yet. I want to talk to someone with some sense. If I must converse about the weather or the color of Diana’s bloody eyes even one more time, I’ll puke.”

  Olivia didn’t dare move now, not when as much as a twitch from her might attract their attention. “When you’re a married man, I’ll pour us both a nice warm ale, and we’ll talk about the old days when we were young and foolish.”

  “Sod off, Ned. I’m still young.”

  “That you are, my lord.” Fansher reappeared with a bag in one hand. He retrieved his coat from a table. “I’ll set aside the lager.”

  “Stay. Ned.” His eagerness made him sound like the young man he was.

  “Are you really to be married? To Miss Royce?”

  “I don’t want to talk about that.”

  “Ah, now, what about Miss Willow?”

  “Now there’s a woman worth a man’s time. She’s the only one here worth talking to.”

  “Just your sort, I thought. Intelligent. Attractive, too.”

  “Jesus, yes.”

  “Why all this talk about you and Miss Royce if it’s bonnie Miss Willow who interests you? Do her headaches worry you?”

  “Can you help her?”

  “The lass was lucky to survive her injury. As for her memory—”

  “Never mind that.” He made a sharp gesture. “I don’t want her reliving what happened.”

  “You care for her that much, then?”

  “She suffered an unspeakable ordeal, Ned.”

  Fansher put his bag on the table and rested his hands on it. “Do you want my advice?”

  “Yes.”

  “Waste no more of your time with Miss Royce when it’s Miss Willow you want.”

  “Get out, Ned. You know the way.”

  With a laugh, Fansher bowed and left by another door.

  Once the doctor was gone, Tiern-Cope reached for the gaping fabric of his shirt, pulling it together the merest bit. Olivia followed the disappearing expanse of muscle. She saw herself caressing his chest, running her hands over skin and muscle. Her palms tingled as if she’d touched him. He sighed and threw himself on the chair, legs sprawled. The upper halves of his shirt fell open and Olivia saw nothing but golden leanness and the livid scar. Dream and reality bled one into the other. She didn’t know if she’d seen his bare chest before now or dreamed it. Did she recall the shape and feel of a man’s muscles moving under sun-touched skin, or was that something else she’d dreamed? Tiern-Cope stood, careless of his open shirt, as any man would in the privacy of his own quarters. Horrified, Olivia realized he was heading for the room in which she hid, and only his preoccupation with the fastenings of his shirt kept him from seeing her.

  The stairwell down which she’d come was too far. She’d never make it in time and besides, she wasn’t sure if she knew how to open the door from this side. She dashed to the only other exit. Thankfully, it wasn’t locked. She closed it as gently as she could.

  “McNaught.”

  She leaned against the wall and prayed for a miracle to transport her safely to her room. No such luck. She was in another hallway. Across from her, a niche contained a marble bust of Socrates. To her right, the hall terminated in darkness. To her left, another hall extended perpendicularly. Which way led out, she had no idea. Left then. Away from the darkness. She came to six stairs terminating in an alcove where pink roses decorated a walnut table. Cut from the greenhouse just this morning, by the look of them. Behind the flowers hung a gilt mirror. Her cheeks glowed as pink as the flowers, and her eyes were far too bright. Sinking onto a wooden settle nestled along the wall, she bowed her head to her knees and groaned. It hit her, then, what a wicked thing she’d just done, spying on the earl. Seeing him practically naked. Listening to his private conversation.

  “Sebastian,” came a masculine voice from the opposite end of the alcove. “We’re off.” Lord Fitzalan came up a flight of stairs, heading toward the earl’s quarters, which, apparently, one reached by the stairs where she now sat. Trapped.

  A shadow darkened the alcove. She snapped to attention. Tiern-Cope stood over her, one eyebrow arched. “What are you doing here?”

  Buff breeches hugged lean, muscled thighs. A clean white shirt, cravat, embroidered navy waistcoat and navy coat completed the picture of male beauty. The way he gazed at her so intently, she felt as if he were trying to read her mind. God help her if he could. Her pulse raced triple-time.

  “Well?” he said, tapping his fingers on his thigh.

  “I took a wrong turn.”

  His mouth quirked, but he did not smile. “Quite a wrong turn. Are you well enough to be out of your bed?”

  “You saved my painting.” Oh, Lord, where had that come from?

  He studied her, eyes moving over her from head to toe and back. “How did you get into my rooms without anyone seeing you?”

  “I was lost.”

  “What did you see?”

  “The portrait. I didn’t mean to.”

  “Where are you, Sebastian? Diana is waiting.” Fitzalan came up the last stair and stopped dead when he saw them. He smiled, and it was cool water to a parched throat after the burning look the earl gave her. His eyes shifted from Tiern-Cope to her. “Good afternoon, Miss Willow.”

  “My lord.”

  “I hope you are well, Miss Willow.”

  “I am now that I don’t smell like smoke.”

  “Your cousin is here,” Fitzalan said. “He’s been asking after you.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Come along, Miss Willow,” said Tiern-Cope as if it were the natural to find her sitting here. “No doubt the others are waiting for us.”

  Fitzalan inserted himself between her and Tiern-Cope. He
extended his elbow to her. “Yes, Miss Willow. Do come. We’re done with tea and Price is about to give us a tour of the castle.”

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  2:13 p.m.

  “The library at Pennhyll houses one of the greatest collections of books and manuscripts assembled in all of Britain.” Price’s voice resonated as he opened double doors that ran the considerable height of floor to ceiling. Olivia sighed with the envy that the sight of all those volumes always inspired. Miss Cage and her father, Mr. and Mrs. Leveret, and Mr. Verney and his wife added to the number of guests arriving for the St. Agnes’ Eve festivities. Alice, now Mrs. Verney, strolled arm-in-arm with Olivia. Mr. Verney walked with Fitzalan, Hew and the Leverets while Tiern-Cope escorted Diana, one hand fisted in the curve of his lower spine. His friend, Captain Egremont, walked just behind with Dr. Fansher. The arrival of Captain Egremont had Pennhyll in an uproar. Lord Tiern-Cope was going back to sea, and he could no longer afford patience in offering for his bride. Everyone expected Fitzalan would make an announcement about his sister and Tiern-Cope tonight.

  “Oh, now, this is lovely,” Verney said, looking over his shoulder. “What do you think, Mrs. Verney? Shall we redo our library?”

  “How you do go on, Mr. Verney.” Alice glanced at Diana walking on the arm of Lord Tiern-Cope and bent her head to Olivia. “He ought to order himself new boots, don’t you agree? Tasseled Hessians would suit him. Like Lord Fitzalan’s. Or your cousin’s.”

  Olivia couldn’t help a smile in return. “Perhaps a striped waistcoat, too, in gold and blue, I should think.”

  “Surely two more handsome men than Lords Tiern-Cope and Fitzalan there have never been. Both so tall and broad-shouldered. Ah, here is Mrs. Leveret. Dear Madam, how do you do? By the by,” Alice said, leaning toward Olivia. “I’m sure Mrs. Leveret does not mind if I share her wonderful news.” Alice tucked her arm under the older woman’s.

  “Indeed, not,” said Mrs. Leveret.

  “The school committee has taken a three year’s lease on the Lodge.”

  “That’s excellent news,” Olivia said. “Far Caister will have a grand school.” Relief flooded her. The school could not be opened a moment too soon.

  “Renovations begin Tuesday next.”

  “There’s better news yet,” said Alice.

  Olivia felt the weight of the world lift from her shoulders. At last. At long last. Surely, the school committee would agree to advance her enough of her salary to find new lodgings. “I should like to hear it.”

  Mrs. Leveret lifted her chin. “We have engaged our professor.”

  Her heart stuttered, but she smiled. “Have you?”

  “Shall I tell her, Mrs. Leveret, or will you?” Alice patted Olivia’s arm. “Such a thrill for us. I’m sure you’ll be as excited as I was when I heard.”

  For a moment, hope soared. But Mrs. Leveret aimed her smile at Alice, not her.

  Alice clasped her hands. “Mrs. Leveret’s nephew just down from Cambridge. Mr. George Marshall. We are most ecstatic to have his services, I can tell you. An exceptional man. Quite exceptional.”

  “I’m sure you’re right.” Olivia nodded. “I look forward to meeting him and helping in any capacity that I may.”

  “I think, Miss Willow,” said Mrs. Leveret, “that though we must thank you for your past efforts, my nephew, Mr. Marshall, has the school well in hand and no doubt has his own notions about its proper conduct.”

  “I am more than willing to assist, Mrs. Leveret.”

  “How kind. But with your mama so ill, I would not dream of imposing further. Mrs. Verney, will you come with me? I’d like a word with you.”

  “Of course.” Alice turned to Olivia. “I’m sure you’re as thrilled as I am about the school. Official at last. And a headmaster from Cambridge. What a condescension for us. How very fortunate we are, said I to Mr. Verney.”

  While Price pointed out the gothic arches above their heads and demonstrated the working of the ladder that reached to a height of twelve feet, Olivia walked to a set of mullioned windows overlooking the gardens. The extent of her latest reversal sank in. The earnings on which she had counted to meet her expenses had just vanished. She had no employment, and now, no prospect of employment at anything like the salary she needed. No way to pay Mrs. Goody, no money for lodgings and everything she owned burned in the fire, every pot or pan, every stick of furniture.

  She stared out the window. Panic welled up, a tightness in her chest, a prickle of anxiety that grew and swelled until she thought she could not bear it. Snow drifted past the diamond-paned glass. White-covered lawns extended for yards and yards in every direction. Farther away, mist shrouded the tree tops. Clouds gathered at the horizon, promising a storm. How marvelous to live such a life, where one might look out a window and know that as far as the eye could see and farther one still did not reach the limits of one’s possessions.

  Olivia left the window for a glass case containing a manuscript open to an illumination of the letter T. Next to that was a sheet of vellum on which gleamed the Tiern-Cope crest. The colors, cobalt and gold with reliefs of red and silver seemed as bright as the day they’d been inked. Above the shield arched the words Chomh Crua Leis An Iarann. Everyone in Far Caister know the translation of the Gaelic phrase. As Hard As Iron.

  She looked over her shoulder and saw Tiern-Cope had separated from Diana, and that Fitzalan, Diana and Miss Cage, with Hew as her support, were at the moment unaware that he’d left them. Like any good parent in the presence of three such eligible men, Mr. Cage was absorbed in a book. Light from the windows between shelves of books shadowed Tiern-Cope’s face in grave profile. The look of cold reflection much suited his temperament, she thought.

  He half-sat, half-leaned on a corner of a table, imagining, she supposed, Diana in the role of his bride. He shifted, taking no notice of her, or of Diana, for that matter. Today, though, he would announce his engagement to Miss Royce. He must, for unless everyone was much mistaken, Captain Egremont had brought his orders. Light flared around him so that all she saw for the instant he moved through the light was his outline against a snow-filtered glow.

  In the next glass case a banner, tattered at the edges, rested on a background of black silk. Woven of gold cloth it, too, depicted the Tiern-Cope crest. Below it lay a shaft of dark wood three or four feet in length, broken at one end, as if it had snapped under some terrible strain. Despite the centuries since the banner was sewn, the needlework retained an otherworldly brightness. The lion prepared to leap off the fabric, the unicorn just now reared up.

  A breath of cold air swept through the room and, with the shifting of light from the windows, stirred the hair on the back of her neck. She shivered. Her head ached worse than ever, the familiar pain along with a sense of fullness, a pressure behind her ears.

  “Still lovely, isn’t it?” a low voice asked. She turned and saw Tiern-Cope.

  “Yes.”

  “Did I startle you?”

  “No. All right. Yes, you did.”

  He smiled his slow, cold smile. With a nod of his head toward where Price demonstrated a secret passage that led to the upper floor of the library, he said, “I’ve had the tour before.” Fitzalan, Captain Egremont, Hew, Miss Cage and Diana were being allowed, one by one, to walk up the hidden staircase. “I’m told the Black Earl himself saved the banner you are admiring.”

  “Perhaps a Willow fought in whatever battle broke that pike,” she said.

  “Do you suppose he had red hair?”

  She smiled. “A Willow might have held the banner. But he would not have allowed it to break.”

  “Surely not,” he said. He stepped closer. “According to legend, had not the fourth earl been murdered, we might have been Kings.”

  “I believe that.” She traced on the glass the outline of the ragged banner. “Imagine the stories it could tell.”

  The earl smiled again, and his resemblance to his brother struck her. The man at rest might be his brother’s twin.
Except she found him far more compelling than Andrew. He bent closer. The air crackled with invisible energy. He, too, touched the glass, and his fingers brushed hers. A glancing touch, inadvertent. The contact made her heart thud. He wasn’t wearing gloves, and his fingers resting on the case were proportionally long for his hand. He’d held a cutlass in that hand. Those fingers had pulled the trigger of a pistol with mortal intent. “Do not romanticize war, Miss Willow. If that banner could speak, be assured it would tell horrible tales.”

  She moved her hand off the case because his hand was too close, but clipped the side of her finger on the wooden edge. A sliver jabbed into her finger, right through her glove. She yelped and pulled on the wood. It broke off. “Ouch.”

  “Allow me.”

  “It’s nothing. A splinter. I’ll soon have it out.”

  With a tilt of his head, he took her hand. “I said, allow me.”

  “I do not like managing men.”

  “If I were to manage you as I ought to, you’d understand what it means to be managed. And appreciate my present restraint. Now, hold still.” He drew off her glove and turned over her palm, angling toward the light to see the sliver lodged under the skin of her smallest finger. “Fitzalan will not stop staring at you when he thinks no one is watching.” He pinched the bit of wood between thumb and forefinger and pulled it out. “There. Hardly worth the name splinter.”

  “Thank you.”

  Still holding her bare wrist, his other hand touched her cheek so softly it was more a whisper of air than a caress. Olivia discovered she was standing right up against him. The entire time they’d been talking, he’d drawn her nearer or else she’d moved closer. She wasn’t sure which. The snow brought with it cold that swept through the windows. Dark clouds swirled in the sky so that the shadows constantly changed. The tip of his finger touched just below her palm. His fingers cradled the back of her wrist and a portion of her hand. “A grand passion, Olivia. Settle for nothing less.”

  “As if that matters.”