Marjorie laughed as she began setting food on the table. “Untold numbers, I’m sure. According to family lore, it was Lucy Breton who originated the song in the thirteenth century. Since she had at least eight children, I’m sure she would have made good use of the song while she raised them all at the manor.”
“The manor?”
Marjorie paused dramatically and covered her heart with her hands. “A very romantic story. Lucy’s husband was Alex Breton, brother of the Clyfton lord. Alex was returning home from the Crusades when he rescued Lucy from brigands on the highway. They fell in love, and he carried her off to his manor near Clyfton.”
“Does the house still stand?” Dorothea asked, almost breathlessly.
“Oh, certainly,” Marjorie replied. She leaned one hip against the table and looked into the distance. “I hardly ever think of that old place. It’s just north of the castle, right on the beach now, though I suspect it was a bit farther inland when it was built. Still, it’s in ruins—the walls remain only because they’re stone.”
Dorothea took the milk bottle from Marjorie and poured milk into the three cups at the table.
“The boys will have their tea in here,” the vicar’s wife said, “and leave us to have a little peace.”
“You lived in Oxford with your mother?” Jack asked as they rode back to the hotel. She had never mentioned it before, and he had been surprised to learn that she was not part of her father’s household in London.
Dorrie nodded. “My father was gone, and my grandfather let us use his house in Oxford.”
“But your mother died recently.”
“It’s a long story, Jack,” she said. “Very dull.”
He doubted it, but she clearly did not want to speak of it. She burrowed into Jack’s chest to share his heat. It had become quite cool while they were at the vicarage, and she had nothing more than her thin jacket to keep her warm.
Jack closed his arms around her and realized that his preconceptions about her had been wrong. Dorrie had not traveled the world with her father but had lived a sheltered existence in Oxford with her mother. He wanted to know why she’d left Oxford, and what she’d been doing at her father’s house, why she felt such loyalty to a man who had to have been gone more than he was home.
He would get her to talk about it sometime, but he knew it wouldn’t happen tonight.
“Reverend Browning’s tale of the lay brother who came to Clyfton Castle from the Holy Land narrows things down nicely,” he finally said. “I’ll wire my men tomorrow and have them meet us here at Clyfton Castle. Since Mrs. Browning gave her consent to the excavation, we can begin work right away.”
Jack understood that Dorrie wasn’t enthusiastic about his discovery. It meant that he had the upper hand and was likely to take the Mandylion out from under her nose. There was nothing more that she could do.
And Jack wondered if she would stay to see him unearth it.
He ignored the sinking feeling in his chest when he considered finishing alone. She had been with him from the start, puzzling over the documents, picking away at stone and earth at countless ruins all across Yorkshire.
“I know you’re upset, Dorrie,” he said, “but it’s for the best. Archibald Crowe…”
He blew out a breath of frustration. He didn’t want to talk about the Mandylion now. He didn’t want to hear her defend her double-dealing father or the great things Alastair would have done with the Mandylion had she gotten it first. He just wanted to hold her.
Jack had never experienced a more hollow victory. He would have the Mandylion, and his revenge against Alastair, but he could feel himself losing Dorrie. The closer they came to the hotel, the more distant she became.
He rode to the stable and dismounted, while one of the grooms jumped up from his bench and took the reins. “Mr. Adams, sir,” he said. “Your carriage is repaired and ready for you.”
“Thanks,” Jack replied, assisting Dorrie down. “Appreciate it.”
Jack took her hand and placed it in the crook of his arm, and they headed for the hotel. They climbed the stairs to the second floor, and Jack unlocked Dorrie’s door. He had every intention of following her inside, but she turned, holding the door cleverly enough to stop his progress.
“Thank you, Jack,” she said, “for taking me riding today. It was…I’ve never…” She stopped, and he watched the muscles in her throat work as she swallowed heavily. She seemed to be on the verge of tears, and Jack could not have felt worse if he’d been punched in the gut.
“Honey, it had to go one way or the other,” he said, trying to be conciliatory. “I won’t tell you that I’m sorry I’m going to take the Mandylion from Alastair, but I am sorry that you got caught in the middle.”
He wanted to pick her up and carry her into the room and cover her face, her mouth with kisses. But when she bit her lip and looked away, Jack knew she wouldn’t welcome his kiss. He couldn’t blame her. For him, it would be a kiss of victory. For her, one of defeat. “I know, Jack,” she said. “And I wish you the best. I…”
“Dorrie?”
“I think I’ll turn in early,” she said. “It’ll be a long day tomorrow.”
Dorothea dried her tears of frustration. It wasn’t fair that she should be put in this position. Either she betrayed Jack or she betrayed her father. How was she to choose?
Pacing the length of her room, she tried to sort out her options, but no matter how she looked at it, she owed her loyalty to her father. It did not matter that she’d fallen in love with Jack.
Sitting down at the writing desk, she opened the drawer and took out pen, paper and ink.
“Father, I know where to look for the Mandylion,” she wrote. “It’s—”
Should she be so specific?
No. Someone other than Alastair might come across it. Anyway, she wanted to talk to her father again, ask him what else her mother had kept from her. She folded the paper and dropped it in the small wicker basket next to the desk and gave serious consideration to the wording of the note. “I think I know where it is,” she finally wrote. She considered adding more, but decided this was enough.
After waiting for the ink to dry, Dorothea folded the paper and slipped it into an envelope. It would be some time before it was late enough to venture out to the stable where she’d seen their carriage. Somehow, she would have to get past the grooms to slip the note into the back. Her father would have to do the same.
Resuming her pacing, she thought about her visit at the vicarage. She and Jack had stayed much too long, but the reverend and his wife had seemed to honestly enjoy their company. Charles questioned Jack at length about America and his travels. Marjorie wanted to know about life in Oxford.
And the old song that had been handed down through Marjorie’s family had not been mentioned again.
Dorothea was torn between guilt and elation, and she wrung her hands as she paced. How could she betray Jack this way? In spite of everything, they’d developed an easy partnership, sharing clues and ideas, searching the old ruins together.
And he’d given her bluebells.
Tears trailed down Dorothea’s cheeks as she opened her bag and reached to the bottom where she’d placed the carefully wrapped bouquet of flowers that Jack had given her. Whatever happened, she would keep these forever, for she doubted there would ever be another who would fill her heart the way Jack did.
She set them on her pillow and when she lay down next to them, she thought about the consequences her actions would reap.
A noise woke her.
Dorothea could not tell if it had been someone in the hall or if it was Jack in his room next door. She got up quickly and looked outside.
It was very late.
She went to the door between her room and Jack’s and pressed her ear to it. There was no sound. Deciding that it would have to be now, Dorothea put her jacket on, placed the note in a pocket and opened her door.
It suddenly occurred to her that she would need some reason for go
ing to their carriage in the middle of the night. She considered the problem for a moment, then went back and took her comb from the dressing table and placed it inside her jacket along with the note. Then she slipped silently out of her room.
Staying as far from Jack’s door as possible, she headed toward the far end of the hall and went down a back staircase until she reached the main floor and a side door leading out of the hotel. She stepped outside and took a moment to get her bearings.
There were several paths, and Dorothea found the one that led to the far side, where the stable was located. Gas lights lit the entrance, and a single liveried groomsman was in attendance.
Seated on the bench with his arms crossed over his chest, he appeared to be asleep. Dorothea realized she would not need the ruse of searching for her comb in the middle of the night, after all. Stepping quietly, she moved past the man and went into the stable.
The horses were housed on one side, the carriages separately. She wandered through the shadows, taking care to stay quiet. All she had to do was find her carriage, drop the note in and sneak away. It should not be too difficult.
Another moment and she saw it. She deposited the note on the seat and scurried away. Ten minutes later, Dorothea was back in her room, and no one had even known she’d been gone.
Jack knew he should have stayed in bed. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d been hungover, but he vowed never again to drink as much as he had last night.
His head pounded, and his stomach felt as if he’d swallowed an old shoe. The bright light of morning hurt his eyes and every sound went off like a cannon in his ears.
And he still hadn’t been able to forget Dorrie’s sad eyes when he’d left her in her room.
He was a bastard for beating her to the Mandylion, but there was nothing he could do about it now. He’d gotten the information he’d needed from Charles Browning, and there was nothing more to say about it. His men would come, and they would excavate until they found it.
Or decided that the cloth did not exist.
He washed and shaved and tapped on Dorrie’s door. Since there was no answer, he went down to the dining room and found her finishing breakfast.
He ordered coffee.
“You’re up nice and early,” he said. “Did you—No, I guess you didn’t sleep all that well.”
Her skin was so pale that the circles under her eyes made her look like a raccoon. Certain that she wouldn’t care to hear herself compared to a rodent, Jack said, “You’re pale this morning.”
She gave a quick nod. “I know,” she said, and he was glad she didn’t remark on the green tinge to his own complexion. “I…I had trouble sleeping.”
“Yeah. So did I,” he said. He reached across the table and took her hand. “Dorrie, let’s call a truce. I want peace between us.”
Her eyes held such a poignant sadness that Jack almost gave in to the urge to turn the Mandylion over to her. But he wouldn’t. Not when Alastair Bright owed him so much, owed his men so much.
“Jack…I’ve made plans to return to London,” she said. She took her hand from Jack’s and kept her eyes on the plate in front of her.
It was not what he wanted to hear.
“You don’t need me to translate anything else,” she continued, “and your men will be arriving soon, so you’ll have all the help you need. I, uh, I’ll only be in the way.”
Ignoring the headache and the screeching in his ears, Jack stood abruptly, bringing Dorrie up with him. Gently, he pulled her out of the dining room and through the lobby until they reached the stairs. Then they continued on until they were inside Jack’s room.
Without giving her a moment to think, Jack took her in his arms and kissed her because his life depended on it. He didn’t want to lose her. He wanted Dorothea Bright in his life forever, even if she was Alastair’s daughter.
“Jack!” she cried, pulling away to draw air into her lungs.
“Tell me you don’t want me to hold you,” he rasped, tasting the soft skin below her ear and tracing kisses down her neck. He eased her back against the wall and put his hands on either side of her head. He gave her enough space that she could move away if she wanted to do so. He didn’t think she would. “Say you don’t want my touch, my kiss.”
She tipped her head to the side to give him better access, then slid her hands up his shoulders. Jack shuddered with the pleasure of her touch and the anticipation of a more intimate caress.
Her hands slid through his hair and she made a low sound of acquiescence.
“I want you, Dorrie,” he said. “Forget about the cloth. This is about us and nothing else.”
She dropped her hands and pushed him away. Tears welled in her eyes and she covered her mouth with one hand. “I can’t forget, Jack,” she whispered. “I only wish I could.”
A second later, she ducked under his arm and went to the door without turning back.
When she walked through it, Jack wondered if it was too early to order a pint.
Chapter Twenty
Dorothea went directly to the beach. She had to pay a toll to walk along the north promenade, but she didn’t care. She had to get away from Jack.
He was going to hate her. And she was too cowardly to stay here in Hornsea and face him after he learned that she’d given her father the real clue to the Mandylion. As soon as she met with Alastair again, she would ask for enough money to see her back to the house in London.
She wiped her eyes again with her handkerchief and continued along, half running, oblivious to everything…the scenery, the fashionably dressed people. None of it mattered.
“Been keepin’ an eye out fer you, miss,” said a masculine voice, coming to her from behind. She started to turn, but he said, “Keep lookin’ straight ahead. It’s me, Neville. I’m here to take y’to yer father. We got yer note.”
Dorothea’s breakfast threatened to rise in her throat. This was it. The betrayal. She’d put it in motion during the night when she’d left the note for Alastair to find, and now she would complete it. Soon she would be on her way to London and would never see Jack again.
“We’ve got a ways to go yet,” Neville said. “Just keep movin’.”
There were fewer people once they left the promenade, and as they moved farther north, there was no foot traffic at all. Neville kept pressing her to a faster pace, which made Dorothea short of breath.
By the time they left the promenade, her heart pounded heavily in her chest. She felt palpitations and knew that her heart was not keeping up with her activity.
“I don’t understand why we must rush!” she said in frustration.
“Just keep on,” the man behind her said.
She began to feel nauseous, light-headed and uneasy with Neville. He might be her father’s man, but his eyes were cold. Untrustworthy. The sooner she got to her father, the better. She would have a word with Alastair about the kind of men he employed, both here and in London. They were disrespectful and slack in their duties.
They continued north, hurrying in the direction of Clyfton Castle, where she and Jack had ridden the day before.
How she wished they’d kept on riding and had never heard of the Brownings.
Neville came up beside her and took her arm to keep her moving. Dorothea noticed that he repeatedly glanced back in the direction of the hotel, though it was no longer in sight. His movements were furtive and suspicious, and Dorothea became increasingly uncomfortable. “I need to rest a moment,” she said.
“Al’s got a wagon up ahead,” Neville said. “Keep goin’.”
His tone was harsh, and Dorothea felt as if she were on some sort of forced march. She was unaccustomed to moving at this pace and knew that if she continued, she would collapse. She now had proof that her heart was as weak as her mother had always told her.
“Come on, get movin’,” he said, shoving her. “We ain’t got all day.”
She saw it then. A rough wooden wagon partially hidden in a stand of brush, a good distance up
from the beach. Her father and the man he called Paco were sitting in it, waiting.
She stopped and placed one hand over her pounding heart. Her breath was coming in short wheezy spurts, and she didn’t know if she could make it as far as her father’s wagon. “Wait!” she gasped. “I…can’t…”
“Come on, girl,” Neville said. He took Dorrie’s arm again and gave a tug, but she lost her balance and fell into the sand.
“Stand back, mon.”
Alastair’s large companion had come over to assist her. Dorothea had been frightened of him once, but he redeemed himself by bending down and picking her up. Then he carried her all the way to the wagon. Dorothea still had trouble catching her breath. She couldn’t remember ever feeling so helpless or so weak.
Of course, she’d never stormed off in such a frame of mind before, unaware of her surroundings or her frantic pace. Her mother had been right about limiting her activities. Dorothea could barely tolerate a brisk walk.
“There you are,” Alastair said as Paco set her in the back of the wagon beside an assortment of tools. “You’ve got the heart of an old woman, love, just as your mother said.”
Dorothea would have gasped at her father’s cruel words if she’d been able to catch her breath.
“I just…need to rest…” she finally managed to say, slumping down in the wagon.
“Your note said you know where it is,” her father said. “I presume you meant the Mandylion.”
“Yes,” she wheezed. She did not have enough breath to go into detail about her reasoning. If only she could rest, she was sure she would feel better. “There is a house…It’s north of…Clyfton Castle.” Her heart still fluttered heavily in her chest. If only it would slow down, beat more normally….
“Go on,” Alastair said.
“The man who…owned the house…came from…the Holy Land,” she said. “Hundreds of years…There is a song…written on the map….”
“The French rhyme?” her father asked.
Dorothea nodded. “His wife’s song.”
“And you believe that’s the clue?” Alastair asked.
Dorothea nodded. “Nothing else…I translated it all…There was nothing.”
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