The Layton Prophecy

by Tatiana March

  “Are you warm enough?” he asked.

  I made a little affirmative sound, but he crushed me to his chest anyway.

  “Do you need to pick up anything from next door?”

  “No.” It annoyed me how he took it for granted that I was going home with him, even if it was true. It was clear that he wasn’t going to add to his explanation, or make any promises. I could accept him, or reject him, and there was no middle ground.

  He released me from the tight hug, and we set off down the street, his arm anchoring me to his side. By the time we reached Rose Cottage, my heart was pounding, as if to be released from the cage of my ribs. Miles bent to deal with the lock. I watched the light from the streetlamps glinting in his dark curls.

  When we were inside, he turned around and pressed me against the door.

  “Would you like to go upstairs?” I whispered.

  “No.” His hands rose to fumble with the buttons on the front of my jacket.

  “What are you doing?” I asked.

  Miles stood so close to me that I could hear the faint sound of him swallowing. “I’m taking your clothes off,” he said hoarsely.

  And that is exactly what he did, button by button, layer by layer, until I stood naked in the hall. The only light was the glow of the streetlamps through the fanlight on top of the front door. A cold draft swirled around my legs, but the heat that throbbed in my veins kept me warm. And then Miles removed his own clothes, his body curling over mine in a protective cocoon that kept the cold away.

  “I’ve missed you,” he said as he began to trace his lips down my neck. “Every night, I’ve dreamed of you.”

  No rational thought survived in my head as he made love to me against the hallway wall.

  ****

  In the morning, I woke up in my comfortable bed, clutched against his broad chest, warm under the covers.

  “Did you sleep well?” Miles murmured, his lips brushing my ear, his arms tight around me.

  My bones felt liquid. His hands began a slow sweep up and down my back. I found myself unable to speak, even a simple word of agreement.

  “Do you want to take a shower?” he asked.

  I managed to make a muffled sound of assent.

  He gathered me in his arms and carried me to the bathroom, where he propped me standing inside the shower stall. Then he squeezed in next to me, wrapped one arm around my waist, and turned on the cold water.

  I shrieked and struggled to break free but he held fast. “Time to get the day on the road,” he said, grinning down at me. I made an angry sputter, at a loss for words. I’d expected a slow sensuous awakening, instead of icy drops needling my skin. Miles seemed totally at ease. Either he had iron control, or he took a cold shower every morning. I guessed both. My teeth clattered when he released me. I leapt out, and in my haste I skidded over the floor tiles and crashed against the washbasin.

  “Ouch!” I cried, doubling over with pain.

  Miles rushed up behind me. “Are you okay?” He reached out to steady me.

  “I’ll have a whopping bruise on my hip,” I complained, inspecting my skin.

  Miles looked contrite. “I’ll kiss it better tonight,” he said. “I promise.”

  My breath caught as he gazed down at me, a stern smile on his lips. I knew that despite the cold shower, I’d go up in flames if he kissed me. It was almost a relief when he edged past me and walked back into the bedroom without touching me.

  Although my mind ached with the fear of losing him, I gathered the courage to raise again the unanswered question that had troubled me during night. “Why did you come back?”

  Miles paused in the act of pulling on his jeans, his brow furrowed, droplets clinging to his hair. “Didn’t last night give you the answer?”

  “Not entirely. If Cleo’s worse, shouldn’t you be with her?”

  He contemplated me in silence. Then his shoulders shifted in an awkward shrug. “You’re right. There is something else. I didn’t come just to be with you, although that’s an important part of it.”

  My heart beat in heavy thuds. I didn’t say anything, just waited, watching him as he moved about the room and finished getting dressed.

  “I need to see the last diary, all of it.” He stepped up to me and laid his hands over my damp arms, urgent and focused. In the space of a second, he’d changed from a lover to a man with a goal to achieve, at all costs.

  The angry email I’d sent to him burned in my brain.

  I’d refused to send him a copy of the diary.

  I recalled my conversation with Aunt Rosemary. She’d given me the opinion of Steven Maitland, a brilliant scientist, a man far more intelligent than any of us. Perhaps it’s just one great big coincidence and there is no curse. Only a family with a nasty ancestor and bad luck.

  No curse. But a possible fortune in gold and diamonds.

  Was that why Miles had spent half the night making love to me? Was there a chance that he was after Francis Layton’s buried treasure, and the curse was just a smokescreen, to keep us in the dark while we helped him to conduct research that would lead him to a fortune in gold and diamonds?

  I clutched the front of the towel wrapped around me, suddenly reluctant to remove it in front of him. Then I remembered that my clothes were strewn all over the hallway floor. “I have clean clothes in the wardrobe next door,” I said stiffly and pushed past him. “Excuse me.”

  I felt his eyes on my back as I escaped. He had to know that the wardrobes in both bedrooms were filled with my clothing, as he’d have struggled to fit his own things inside. He ought to be astute enough to realize that I’d made an excuse to get away from him.

  I didn’t care. My movements were frantic as I tugged on a white cotton top and shoved my legs into a pair of jeans. He hadn’t come back because he couldn’t keep away from me.

  He’d come back to get the fourth diary.

  Dressed, I stood irresolute by the window and looked out at the winter dawn that had started creeping over Mill Lane. I could just sneak out and go next door without facing him. But running off would only postpone the need to clear the air between us. I recalled my proud declaration to Aunt Rosemary that would never let anyone walk all over me again. My shoulders snapped rigid. I needed to confront Miles now, resolve the situation, instead of pretending that nothing was wrong.

  “Right,” I said in a harsh tone as I marched back to him. “The diary I brought back from South Africa is next door. Before I get it for you, I’d like to understand why you want to see it.”

  His face clouded. He regarded me in silence for a long while before he spoke. “I want to read it, cover to cover. I think something is amiss.”

  “Amiss?” I asked. “How?”

  His dark brows gathered into a frown. “I already told you. That show you and Petra put on the garden of the Happy Valley achieved nothing. The curse isn’t broken. Cleo isn’t getting better, and there’s no medical explanation as to why she shouldn’t.”

  Anger twisted inside me at how gullible I’d been. I gave an unladylike snort. “The curse. It’s nonsense, and we both know it.”

  “Humor me.” His voice was low, almost pleading. “Please.”

  I shrugged. I knew I was losing my grip on the situation, letting my hurt feelings get in the way of rational thinking. And yet, I couldn’t do what I should have done. I couldn’t just tell him to get lost, and walk away from him.

  “I’ll go and get the diary,” I said, edgy and reluctant. “Or do you want to have breakfast with Aunt Rosemary and me?”

  “No,” he replied. “I’d rather read the journal at once.”

  I stomped down the stairs, barely halting to gather my discarded clothes from the hallway floor before I went next door. Aunt Rosemary was in the kitchen, stirring something on the stove with a competent air.

  “Scrambled eggs,” she explained. “Steven thinks I don’t get enough protein.” Her eyes raked over me, sharpening just enough for me to know that she understood things hadn’
t gone well with Miles. “You want some?” she asked, nodding toward the pan.

  No intrusive questions. No sarcastic comments.

  No what’s wrong. No I warned you.

  God bless Aunt Rosemary.

  “Yeah,” I said. “Just let me drop something off to Miles first.” I raced upstairs, dug the diary out of my bag and balanced it in my hand. I could refuse to give it to him. My mouth tightened at the thought. Then I expelled a long sigh. There was no point. I wanted to get things settled between us. If the diary was all he wanted from me, giving it to him would allow me to find out where I stood.

  I decided not to ring the doorbell of Rose Cottage and hand the journal to him. I’d stretched the truth a little when I’d told him it was too fragile to copy. I shoved the book through the letterbox, even at the risk of damaging the binding.

  Then I returned to sample Aunt Rosemary’s newly acquired culinary skills.

  Thirty minutes later, Miles knocked on Mill Cottage door. When I let him in, he followed me into the kitchen, as if not a single strand of strain marred the closeness between us. I was gradually beginning to understand how carefully he guarded his emotions.

  “Smells good,” he said, breathing in deeply.

  “Miracles still happen.” I kept my tone bland. “Aunt Rosemary has learned not to burn things.”

  “Is there any left?” he asked.

  “No,” I told him firmly. I saw hesitation pass across his face, but he was smart enough not to press his luck.

  “Hello, Miles.” Aunt Rosemary appeared from the kitchen, a striped apron tied around her waist. Soapsuds decorated her arms all the way from wrist to elbow.

  “Rosemary.” Miles gave her a curt nod. I realized that her cool voice must have made it clear to him that she’d take my side in any confrontation.

  “I want to go up to Layton Manor,” Miles said to me. “I have an idea.”

  “What idea?” Aunt Rosemary cut in.

  “I’ll tell you when we get there.” Miles turned to face her, and they scowled at each other, neither backing down. “You’re welcome to join us,” he added.

  “It’s going to rain,” Aunt Rosemary pointed out.

  Miles cocked a brow. “Only sugar melts in the rain.”

  Aunt Rosemary broke into a smile. I could tell that despite trying to act gruff, she was still fond of Miles. “Oh, bugger off,” she told him. “Can you see me traipsing up a muddy hill to look at a pile of stones covered in weeds?”

  Miles grinned and shook his head. “Honestly, someone should warn Steven Maitland that there’s a dragon hidden inside all those designer clothes in pastel colors.”

  “Oh, he knows,” Aunt Rosemary said happily. “He knows, and he’s man enough to handle it.”

  At that moment, insight flooded me.

  Aunt Rosemary put on a helpless act for attractive men, but in truth, she disliked being pursued. Because she hadn’t felt threatened by Professor Maitland, or seriously considered him as a romantic prospect to start with, she’d remained true to herself, allowing her natural spirit to remain free.

  That’s why she’d fallen in love with him.

  Pleased with my reasoning, I followed Miles outside. I kept a distance between us and he made no effort to close it. The air was mild and damp, but the drizzling rain didn’t start until we’d almost reached Layton Manor. A few cars passed us on the way up. A black van slowed down, almost pulling to a stop before speeding away again.

  “The greenhouse,” Miles stated as he stretched the barbed wire for me to crawl through. “I want to look at those plant pots.”

  For a moment, excitement chased the anxiety out of my mind. The huge metal pots in the remains of the conservatory. We had avoided going there as children, since the ground was treacherous with pieces of broken glass.

  “Do you think...?” I stared at him.

  Miles shrugged. “It’s a possibility. I don’t know if there were currency restrictions in those days, or any export or import restrictions on precious metals and gemstones.” His brow furrowed. “I forgot to check, and so did Rosemary. It was an elementary fact we missed. We ought to have been able to determine if Francis Layton would need to smuggle out the loot out of South Africa.”

  We circled past the East Turret and the piles of rubble where the upper floor had collapsed. Although the weather wasn’t particularly cold, the slow steady rain made me shiver, and rendered the flagstones slippery. We had to take care with every step.

  “Where’s your metal detector?” I asked.

  “I wasn’t here to sign for it when it was delivered and it got taken back. I’ve had to reorder. With luck it will arrive before Christmas.”

  The glassless skeleton of the conservatory rose in front of us. Miles picked a path through the brambles and crouched down by one of the plant pots. The container was almost three feet high, full of soil. A thick clump of weeds grew out of it.

  Miles produced a Swiss army knife from the pocket of his down vest and pulled open a blade. The grating sounds crawled along my spine as he scraped the metal.

  “Cast iron.” Miles shook his head, his eyes fixed on the pot. “Not gold.”

  He carried on scraping. The noise grew into a rumble, like a distant thunder. I glanced up. Above me, the wall made of huge blocks of stone seemed to come alive. Wobbling. Teetering. Then the highest part crumbled. I watched, terrified, as the stones began to topple down toward me, falling through the air, like in slow motion.

  I tried to cry out but the sound stuck in my throat. I sensed a movement near me. When I turned to look, I saw Miles surging to his feet, his arms poised, reaching out to me. As the rocks crashed down around me and the world went blank, there was only one thought in my mind.

  Miles didn’t try to pull me from under the falling stones.

  He was shoving me deeper into their path.

  Back to contents

  Chapter Twenty-two

  When I came to, a crowd of people crouched around me. I blinked, making an effort to focus. Little by little, the dark shapes settled down to three. Miles, my friend Holly Jameson, and her husband Tom.

  Holly’s face was even paler than usual. Her short black hair clung to her skin in damp strands. Her husband offered a solid reassuring presence. Even now, a sparkle lit his green eyes beneath the mop of ginger hair. He was like a big teddy bear, a total contrast to Holly’s stern and loveless father. It had always been easy to see why she’d fallen in love with him.

  Miles squatted on his haunches, staring down at me in silence. His face was hard and shuttered. Raindrops glinted in his black curls. His hands were fisted so tight that the knuckles had turned bloodless white.

  “What happened?” Tom looked from me to Miles, finally settling his attention on me. “We heard you screaming.”

  “I don’t know.” My mouth felt cottony. “Does anyone have any water?”

  Holly stood up. “I have some in the car. I’ll run down and fetch it.”

  “No.” Tom slanted a warning look at her. “It’s better to see if we can move Alexandra.” He instructed me to flex my arms and legs in sequence, to ascertain that I had no injury that would require me to be immobilized.

  “Are you sure we can move her?” Miles asked.

  “I’m trained in first aid,” Tom said calmly. “I have to be for my job. There are always mishaps on construction sites. I work for Dryfield Homes.”

  Miles scowled but said nothing. Holly’s nervous gaze flitted between the two of them. She seemed torn between alarm and hope, aware that Miles must have made the connection between Tom, and the offer from the property company to purchase a right of way through Layton Manor.

  By now, it felt as if something had buried its fangs in my left forearm. The rest of my body throbbed with a dull ache. Around me, huge blocks of stone littered the ground. It seemed a miracle that I hadn’t been crushed to death. Euphoria of survival coursed through me, but the fear of what had happened hovered right behind it.

  “I wan
t to get out of here.” My jaws clenched in an effort to tolerate the pain. “I think my arm’s broken.”

  “I think you might be right,” Tom said gently. “And you’re being incredibly brave. Come on, I’ll help you up. If I steady you on your good side, you should be able to walk.”

  He wrapped his arm around me, guiding me down the path. No one seemed to question the fact that Tom instead of Miles was taking care of me. Miles didn’t protest. He hung quietly in the background. As we made a procession toward the road, I oscillated between the relief of not having to face him, and a hollow sense of abandonment because he kept away from me.

  A black van stood parked at the start of the track that wound through the thicket of nettles toward Layton Manor. I recognized the vehicle. It was the one that had almost stopped when it passed us on the way up.

  “Why don’t you sit with Alexandra in the back, so you can support her if she feels faint?” Tom said to Holly.

  They helped me inside. Tom settled behind the wheel and waited for Miles to climb up beside him.

  “I’ll walk,” Miles said. “I want to check the cave-in first, to see if the whole building might come down.”

  Holly glanced at her husband. “Tom will come back and advise you,” she said in her quiet, serene way. “He’s a trained structural engineer.”

  Miles nodded. “I’d appreciate that.”

  We drove to Mill Cottage in silence. I was too shaken to think clearly, but somewhere deep down an icy fear was beginning to take shape. I watched Holly and Tom, saw them exchange anxious glances through the rearview mirror. Holly’s brows arched in a silent question. Tom gave her an answering frown, followed by a brief nod. Holly’s face grew taut, and she nodded back at him.

  I envied their closeness that made such unspoken communication possible, but I knew they’d paid dearly for it, struggling to navigate between their own aspirations and Holly’s need for parental approval.