by Olivia Drake
“Admires me,” he repeated in a tone heavy with skepticism.
“Yes. He always plays with a particular cavalryman from the set of soldiers you owned as a boy. It cannot be merely a coincidence that he chose that piece as his favorite.”
His face cast in stone, Lord Simon appeared unmoved by her avowal. His silence destroyed any hope she had of convincing him. He had no intention of softening toward Nicholas.
Ever.
Her throat felt thick with unshed tears. It was too much on top of all the other distressful events of the day. Taking back her hand, she gave vent to her frustration. “Oh, how can you be so hard-hearted? If only you could see how blessed you are to have family in your life. I would give my soul to have a nephew like Nicholas to love.”
Turning her back on the man, Annabelle marched down the path toward the front of the castle. A servant was supposed to wait to be dismissed, but she’d broken every rule already, so what did one more matter? If her recklessness earned his wrath, then so be it. He took Nicholas for granted and she simply couldn’t tolerate the injustice of it any longer.
As she neared the portcullis, Lord Simon caught up to her. She could see him out of the corner of her eye, though she refused to acknowledge his presence. Talking had accomplished nothing. She might as well go back to pretending he didn’t exist.
But he demanded her attention.
“We’re about to have company,” he said as they entered the courtyard. “My guests are returning from their sojourn in the village.”
Annabelle had been too wrapped in turmoil to take much notice of the outside world. Now she detected the distant rattle of carriage wheels coming from far down the drive. As she picked up the gunnysack, she said coolly, “Then I’ll leave you here to greet them. Good day.”
He caught hold of her arm before she could depart. His gaze locked to hers. The icy wrath had vanished into something stark and raw, something that resurrected a foolish hope in her.
“They can fend for themselves,” he said. “I’m going up to the nursery with you.”
Chapter 17
As Simon followed Annabelle up the narrow flight of stone steps, he stared broodingly at her flawless hourglass figure. The sway of feminine hips, the glimpse of lush breasts, provided a distraction from the chaos of his emotions. Lust, he understood. It was all the other feelings she’d stirred in him that he could do without.
He was a damn fool for letting the woman get under his skin. The instant she’d started her tirade out there on the path, he should have commanded her to stop.
Not that she would have obeyed. Annabelle didn’t seem to grasp the fact that she was merely the governess. She had a reckless disregard for his authority. She was determined to interfere, poking and prodding into his private affairs.
I’m beginning to believe that underneath all that manly bluster, you’re something of a coward.
His pride still smarted from that bayonet thrust. He’d been blindsided by her frank appraisal of his actions. She had ripped open old wounds and refused to back down even in the face of his fury.
Most galling of all, she was right. He had lacked the courage to face the pain of the past. Ever since he’d returned to Castle Kevern after an absence of ten years, he had held himself aloof from Nicholas. He’d been too ready to punish an innocent boy for the sins of his parents.
Yet of all the things Annabelle had said, the one that had jolted Simon the most was her last statement before storming off toward the castle.
If only you could see how blessed you are to have family in your life. I would give my soul to have a nephew like Nicholas to love.
Weeks ago, Annabelle had mentioned that she’d been orphaned at a young age. Simon had thought little of it at the time. But today, the eloquent longing in her voice had blunted his rage and caught at his heart. She knew what it was like to grow up alone and lonely—and she didn’t want Nicholas to suffer the same fate.
She cared more for the boy than Simon did.
An uneasy shame nudged at him. For the past year, he had deluded himself into believing he was fulfilling his responsibility to his nephew. Out of selfishness, he had robbed Nicholas of the time and attention he deserved. In denying him affection, Simon had abdicated his duty to provide for the needs of his family.
The realization was a bitter pill to swallow. By his own neglect, he had created a situation he didn’t know if he could fix.
Reaching the top of the stairs, Annabelle headed down the dim corridor to the nursery. She didn’t look back, didn’t even acknowledge his presence. Clearly she had her doubts as to his ability to change his ways.
Simon intended to prove her wrong—somehow. Despite the havoc she’d wreaked in his ordered life, he felt a reluctant admiration for her audacity. She had confronted him not out of a shrewish desire to maneuver and manipulate, but because she truly wanted what was best for Nicholas.
For that same reason, she had gone into the forest with Simon even while suspecting him to be the gunman. She’d been ready to risk her own life to protect the boy. Only once had he seen a crack in her strength. While describing the moment of the gunshot, she had been visibly shaken. He had taken her into his arms—and promptly forgotten his resentment of her for misjudging him.
God! Beneath her prickly temperament, she was so warm and soft—and that bullet had come dangerously close to killing her. The need to protect her burned inside Simon. If it took his last breath, he intended to hunt down the gunman and wring his neck.
But first he had to right another wrong.
Feeling like a prisoner on his way to the gallows, he followed Annabelle through a doorway and into the schoolroom where an array of little tables and chairs stood empty. The smell of chalk dust and book bindings brought back memories of his childhood. Through the bank of windows, a gull sailed freely against a slice of blue sky.
How he envied that bird.
“His Grace is waiting in here,” Annabelle murmured. She proceeded down the passage that led to the bedchamber he and his brother George had once shared.
Simon’s steps slowed of their own volition. Odd that he could lead a charge into battle, yet feel so loath to visit a young child. This wouldn’t be like the weekly meetings when Nicholas answered regimented questions about schoolwork and then recited what he’d learned that week. Today, Simon somehow had to befriend his nephew.
He needed to prove to Annabelle that he wasn’t the monster she believed him to be.
His jaw set, he stepped into the bedchamber. It looked much as he remembered with the canopied bed that had been his brother’s, the pair of chairs flanking the fireplace, the battered trunk in the corner where he’d once kept his toys. The only thing missing was the cot where he’d been relegated as the second son instead of the favored heir.
Nicholas knelt on the window seat with his back to the door. He was marching a toy soldier up the leaded glass of the window—at least until he looked over his shoulder at them. Slowly, he sank back onto his heels to watch them warily.
Annabelle addressed the stout nursemaid who sat in the rocking chair, her stubby fingers plying a needle and thread along the hem of a baggy white garment. “Elowen, you may go down to the kitchen now and prepare the duke’s tray.”
Elowen set aside her mending, then bobbed a curtsy and lumbered out of the bedchamber.
“Darling,” Annabelle said to Nicholas, “your uncle is here to see the little treasure you picked up on the hillside. Now, if you will excuse me, I’ll leave you two alone.”
Leave them? Simon had been counting on her to smooth over any awkward silences in the conversation.
As she turned to go, he blocked the doorway. “I want you to stay.”
“No, my lord.” Those gorgeous blue eyes held a sympathetic look at odds with her steely tone. “I won’t be used as a crutch. I’m afraid you’ll have to manage this on your own.”
She brushed past him, and he clenched his teeth to keep from snapping at her. A crutch! Damn it
all, he’d show her he was not so craven as to dodge a simple chat with a child.
How hard could it be, anyway?
Hunched on the window seat, Nicholas had made himself as small as possible. He tilted down his chin as if hoping to avoid notice. Every now and then, he sneaked a glance at Simon.
As always, Simon felt a twist in his gut to look at him. By God, the boy resembled his mother. They shared the same blond hair, the same green eyes and delicate facial structure, though in manner they were vastly different. Where Nicholas was painfully shy, Diana had relished being the center of attention. She had teased and flirted and driven Simon half mad with lust. She had led him on with kisses and caresses and hints of accepting his ardent offers of marriage, only to spurn him the moment his titled brother had arrived in London for the season …
The old bitterness threatened to choke Simon. Nicholas should have been his child, not George’s. How dared the two of them die and leave Simon to care for their son.
You’re too mired in the past …
Annabelle’s voice echoed in his mind, spurring him to march across the bedchamber to his nephew. “You found something out in the forest. I’d like to take a look at it.”
Nicholas eyed him apprehensively, then reached into his pocket and slowly extended his open palm. A bit of metal gleamed there in the sunlight. His head hung low, he whispered, “I—I didn’t steal it, sir.”
“No one said you did.” Simon tried to see matters from the boy’s perspective. Realizing how testy he sounded, he made an effort to moderate his tone. “Did you think I meant to punish you?”
Nicholas moved his thin shoulders in a shrug.
“You may lay that worry to rest. I only wanted to examine this.” Careful to make no swift movements, Simon took the relic from Nicholas’s small hand. “May I join you?”
Nicholas scooted to the farthest edge of the window seat, leaving room for Simon on the cushion. He sat down, grateful to have the artifact on which to focus his attention. The piece was slightly bigger than his thumbnail. Fashioned of gold, it was embossed with wavy lines that were clearly part of a greater design. The one rough edge indicated that it must have broken off of a much larger object.
An object that likely dated back almost two millennia to the time of the Celts.
He burned to know what else lay buried beneath the soil on the hillside. This piece and the coin seemed to indicate that more treasures awaited discovery. He wondered if the mound in the center might not be an altar, as Annabelle had thought, but rather a burial site. The notion invigorated his imagination. How incredible it would be to unearth the tomb of a Celtic king or a Druid priest. And what an ironic twist of fate, too. When he’d received notice of his brother’s death, Simon had been in Dover, about to embark upon an expedition to Greece and Turkey to seek out antiquities. He’d never imagined that a cache of artifacts lay hidden right here on Kevern land.
With his forefinger, he absently traced the engraving on the gold. How long had the intruder been digging in that spot? Had he just begun his search? Or had he already extracted the bulk of the treasure? A cold anger gripped Simon. The bastard had been trespassing on the ducal estate, stealing property from right under his nose, even daring to fire a warning shot at Annabelle and his nephew.
If indeed it had been merely a warning.
Simon couldn’t shake the gut feeling he’d had out in the woods during his examination of the scene. From his reconstruction of the bullet’s trajectory, Annabelle might well have been struck had her foot not slipped.
He tamped down the rise of horror. Better he should figure out what had happened. Why would the villain seek to kill her? A murder would only draw people to the hillside, thereby increasing the possibility that someone might stumble across the holy site. It made no sense.
He could only conclude that the gunman either had been extraordinarily inept with a pistol—or completely deranged. Simon would far rather it be the first. It stood to reason that a bumbler could be caught more easily than a madman. As soon as he was done here, he intended to question the staff, to try to find out if anyone had been seen roaming the woods …
“Is it a pirate treasure, sir?”
Nicholas’s tentative voice broke into Simon’s dark thoughts. It took an effort to drag himself back to the present. His nephew sat watching, a spark of earnest hope in his eyes. For an instant, Simon saw himself in the lad. At the age of eight, he would have believed the same thing on discovering a gold artifact out in the forest.
“So you’ve heard tales of the pirates who once roamed this coast.”
Nicholas gave a small nod. “Papa used to tell me stories of them.”
“I see.” Simon didn’t want to picture his brother as a loving father, so he concentrated on the bit of gold that he placed between them on the window seat. “What you found here is much older than any pirate treasure. It belonged to the Celtic people who populated Britain thousands of years ago.”
Nicholas glanced down at the piece. “Oh.” He sounded disappointed. “Are you sure?”
Simon chuckled. “Yes, I’m afraid so. There are similar pieces in the natural history museum in London. Besides, I’ve spent the past ten years studying antiquities such as this one.”
“But … Papa said you were a captain in the cavalry.”
George had spoken of him? As swiftly as the question arose, Simon brushed it away. Yet it continued to disturb him on a visceral level. After that final quarrel, when ugly words had been spoken and the two of them had come to blows, he had assumed his brother was as determined as himself to cut off all family ties.
Simon had left England and never looked back. For a decade, there had been no letters, no visits, no communication at all with his brother. Simon had only returned to London upon resigning his commission, and even then, he’d avoided society where the Duke and Duchess of Kevern reigned supreme. He’d paid a visit to the family solicitor in order to collect an inheritance from his late grandmother—which was the sole reason why the lawyer had known where to send word about the deaths of Simon’s brother and sister-in-law: to Dover, where Simon had been awaiting passage to the Continent.
Now, he found himself wondering about all those lost years of estrangement. Maybe guilt had eaten away at George. Maybe he’d suffered remorse for stealing the woman Simon had loved. Maybe that was why he’d mentioned Simon to Nicholas. But speculation served no purpose. Simon could never forgive his brother’s betrayal.
But that didn’t mean he had to shun George’s son.
From the corner of the window seat, Nicholas sat watching Simon. How had he ever thought the boy’s eyes were like Diana’s? She had been sensual and cunning, while her son’s gaze reflected the purity of innocence. Nicholas could have no inkling of the love triangle that had turned brother against brother—nor should he.
Yet the past had affected his life nonetheless.
Nicholas glanced down at something he clutched in his hand. It was one of the little cavalrymen from the set of toy soldiers—presumably the special one that Annabelle had said he carried as a talisman.
He’s a wonderful little boy who deeply admires you.
The knot of emotion inside Simon squeezed tightly. What the devil had he ever done to earn that admiration? Nicholas had known his uncle only as a gruff stranger who wanted little to do with him.
But all that would change beginning now.
“You’re right,” he said, “I was a captain in the cavalry. I was stationed in quite a few different spots … Istanbul, Kabul, Cairo. That’s where I developed an interest in ancient relics. It was a hobby, you see, while the military was my chosen career.”
Nicholas seemed to be hanging on his every word, so Simon continued. “Perhaps sometime I could point out those places to you on the globe in the library. And I kept my uniform, too, if you’d like to see it.”
Nicholas’s face lit up. “Please, sir, right now?”
Chuckling, Simon shook his head. “No, not today. But
perhaps in a day or two, once my houseguests depart.” That would also give Simon time to conduct his inquiries in the village. Time to track down the gunman and see justice done.
“Do you promise?” Nicholas asked. His doubtful tone indicated he did not trust Simon to keep his word.
“On my honor as a gentleman. Now, if you’ve any other questions, I’d be happy to answer them.”
Relaxed, Simon leaned against the window frame. This conversation hadn’t been as difficult as he’d anticipated. Being a boy, Nicholas would wish to hear more about battles and weaponry, fighting skirmishes with tribal factions, living in tents on windswept plains, and riding on patrol in wild mountain terrain. There were a thousand stories Simon could tell Nicholas on whatever topic interested him.
The boy fingered the cavalryman a moment before giving Simon a pensive look. “Did you know my mama?”
The question knocked the breath out of Simon. For a moment he couldn’t speak. “Er, yes. As a matter of fact, I did. But it was a very long time ago and I don’t remember her much.”
The lie was absolutely necessary. God help him, he didn’t want to field questions about Diana. Nothing could be more discomfiting than to have to pretend amiability toward the woman who had ripped out his heart.
“Sometimes I forget what she looks like,” Nicholas confessed in a worried tone. “Does that make me bad?”
“No! No, of course not.” Simon leaned forward to give the boy an awkward pat on the shoulder. “It just … happens as time passes.”
“Miss Quinn says that whenever I forget Mama and Papa, I should look at their picture.” Nicholas hopped off the window seat and trotted to the bedside table, returning with a small silver frame, which he thrust at Simon. “See? Maybe this will help you remember her better, too.”