by Jessica Sims
I think he wanted a legacy to pass to our baby. Legacies didn’t matter to me, though; a happy family did. It was something that I’d never had growing up. No mother, no father, just the state home and Gemma, who was beside herself with excitement at the thought of a baby. She was even trying to wean herself off cussing as much so she could be a better influence.
“There,” Rand said, pointing in the distance. “The wall.”
I followed where he pointed, and sure enough, there was a bit of stone left between a few old trees. “You think that’s the place?”
“I know it,” he said, and squeezed my hand. “Come.”
We got shovels out of the back of the rental car and crossed the hill. I kept an eye out for observers, because I didn’t want to explain we were treasure hunting on someone else’s property. That wouldn’t go over well. Once we got to the wall, Rand closed his eyes and gestured. “There was a . . . how say . . . top?” He gestured. “Long? Tall?”
“A tower?” I asked.
“Yes, a tower,” he agreed, grinning and giving me another smacking kiss for filling in the word for him. “Treasure is three tens steps south of tower.”
Okay, thirty steps. I nodded and took the shovel from him as he moved to where he assumed the tower had been, then watched as he counted off steps. I might have gotten a little distracted, looking at his broad shoulders in the flannel henley he was wearing, which fit tight over his gorgeous body. Ever since getting pregnant, my already charged libido had been through the roof. Definitely needed to tackle me some of that when we got back to the hotel.
He counted off in his old language, then stopped near the center of the crumbling wall. Then, he turned and took two big steps outward. “Is here.”
It looked like nothing more than a patch of grass. “You’re sure?”
He shrugged. “We dig and find out, yes?”
“All righty,” I said, and handed him his shovel. When I tried to help out, though, he protested and insisted I sit on the wall and watch him. He pressed a kiss to my slightly rounded belly, grinned at me, and returned to digging. I took a few photos of him on my cell phone and texted them to Gemma.
Me: Treasure hunting with Rand.
Gemma: Tell him I call dibs on any bling!
Me: Not sure he knows the word bling yet.
Gemma: Dammit thwarted again! Srsly tho, good luck you two!
I smiled and was just about to text her a message back when I heard Rand’s shovel clang as it hit something metallic. I looked up just in time to see a huge grin cross his face.
“Is here!” he called out, kneeling down to the hole he’d dug. “God be pray!”
“Praised, baby. God be praised,” I corrected, and hopped off the wall to see what we’d found.
There was an old iron-covered box in the hole, and Rand had to spend several minutes clearing away more of the dirt to pull it free. Then he hefted it out of the hole with a grimace. “Heavier than I memory.”
I didn’t even correct his English. I was too fascinated by the box itself. Part of me had thought we wouldn’t truly find anything after six hundred years. Logic said it was a long shot.
Then again, when had logic ever played a part in our relationship?
Rand hopped out of the hole and sank to the ground next to the box. “Rusted,” he pronounced, and pulled out the knife he carried at his belt (a habit I couldn’t break him of except in airports). He took the hilt and hammered at the crusted lock on the front until it broke away.
Then he pried the lid open.
“Holy crap,” I said, spotting the items inside.
The box was full. At first it looked like a bunch of moldy junk. It was clear that Medieval-Rand had tossed a bolt of silk into things, and it had rotted a while back. But under the scraps of fabric, there were small flasks, jeweled crosses, and a necklace with stones as big as chicken nuggets.
“My war spoils,” he told me, pulling out a flask. “This expensive . . . pepper? Red? I do not know word.”
“Spice?” I asked him, taking it from his fingers. The cork stopper was rotted, and I wrinkled my nose. “Probably didn’t last the storage.”
He looked disappointed. “Cloth is gone. So is book.” He nudged something in the corner that looked like sludge.
“But look at this other stuff,” I exclaimed, leaning in. “Is that a cup of some kind?”
“For drinking,” he agreed, picking it up. It was tarnished, but I could see gems sticking out of the sides. In the bowl of the cup there were coins, all crusted together, and what looked like a few brooches. Holy jeez. Medieval coins. Gold. Jewels. “Is it good?”
I shook my head, scarcely believing it. When we’d sold the anhua jars for six figures, I’d been stunned. This stuff was worth so much more. “Baby, this is better than good. This is amazing.”
“It is for our family,” he told me. “You, me, and baby Frederic.”
I laughed. “We need to talk about names.”
He got to his feet and pulled me in his arms. “It is great honor to name a child after a man.”
I patted his chest. “I love you, but I am not calling my child Freddy.”
His brows drew together. “Frederic. Not Freddy.”
“Nickname,” I said, then giggled. “Oh my God, why are we arguing over baby names when we’re rich?”
“Rich is good,” he said thoughtfully. “I want to make good life for you and baby Frederic.”
I put my hands to his cheeks, feeling the slight beard he’d grown out. He loved having facial hair again, and I loved his rough cheeks. “Rand, every day with you is a good life. I love you. What we have is utter perfection.”
“Perfection plus one,” he said, putting a hand on my stomach.
And what could I do but agree?
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Find out why Bathsheba Ward's personal ad reads "Wanted: Charming, wealthy, single male were-cougar to join single human female for a night of romantic fun—and maybe more." Download today!
Beauty Dates the Beast
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In this sexy, second installment in the Midnight Liasions series, a supernatural "were"-single seeks a sexy she-wolf to help "bear" all. On sale now!
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Professional matchmaker Marie Bellavance has hooked up hundreds of were-things: harpies, faeries, vamps, and more. Now it’s her turn . . .
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JESSICA SIMS is also the author of Beauty Dates the Beast, Desperately Seeking Shapeshifter, Must Love Fangs, and Wanted: Wild Thing. She lives near Fort Worth, Texas, with her husband.
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Must Love Fangs
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This book is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real places are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places, and events are products of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual events or places or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
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ISBN 978-1-4767-5399-7
ISBN 978-1-4767-5402-4 (ebook)