“Yes, and much more of it she had than when she arrived,” Philip’s wife joked. “Poor Viscount Trewellain. Everything is being loaded onto the coach as we speak.”
“Lovely.” Jonathan rolled his eyes. “I assume I’ve added another trunk to the journey?”
“Yes, but it is your own fault so don’t growl at me,” Sophia said as she quickly crossed the hardwood and flounced onto the cushion beside him. The lightweight wool of her peach skirts billowed over his leg. “You were the one who insisted upon my new wardrobe.”
“So I did.” I must have been out of my damn mind. Yet the frock she wore had lace around the neckline and the tops of her creamy breasts peeked from the froth. Distracting indeed.
The woman’s dashed grin didn’t bode well for his peace of mind as he raised his gaze. “What were the two of you talking about before we arrived?”
He exchanged a glance with Philip, who shrugged and lifted his focus heavenward. “In all honesty, the Chalice of Christ.”
“Our next quest.”
“Indeed.”
She gripped his forearm. “Tell me.”
“Oh no.” Jonathan extricated himself from her touch before he betrayed a need he wasn’t certain he wanted to pursue. “If I tell you now, we’ll never leave, and we’re behind schedule as it is.” He stood and put distance between them. It was unaccountable, this attraction, for he and Sophia had nothing in common save the damned engagement. “Perhaps I shall discuss it once we’re well underway.”
“I suspect you king’s agents say this sort of thing to coerce people to do your bidding.” But she gained her feet, crossed to where Maria stood near Philip and then threw her arms around the woman. “I cannot tell you how much your hospitality means to me.”
“It has been an unexpected pleasure,” the other woman said once they’d parted. “If you come back this way, you will always have a room and a warm meal.”
Jonathan shook Philip’s hand and then gave Maria a perfunctory hug. “I appreciate your generous offer. At the moment, I am not certain where our travels will take us farther than Barcelona.” He led the way into the front hall. “I’ll give Rathesborne your regards, Philip.”
“Tell him also to come visit. It’s been too long since I last saw him.”
“I will.” He glanced at Sophia, who had tears sparkling in her eyes. Why the devil was she crying now? The longer he lived, the more he didn’t understand why women had to muck everything up with emotions. People came and went through a life. It wasn’t cause for overreaction. It simply happened. “Come, Sophia, before you turn into a watering pot and I’m left to clean up the mess. I’m not in the habit of having cravats ruined by tears.” As the ladies continued to chat while outerwear was procured and donned, Jonathan drew Philip a bit away. “I grow concerned that Sophia is unarmed.”
“You wish for her to have a weapon?” He cast a look of doubt at the woman in question. “She, who is still quite naïve even if she is clever.”
“Yes, in the event that things do not go well.”
“She is capable of taking care of herself?”
Jonathan followed his gaze. Though Sophia was petite and looked delicate, that façade hid a sharp tongue, intelligence and a quiet, determined strength that would rival—and rout—any man. “I think so, yes. However, I do want her armed to defend herself in the event I am not there.”
“Say no more.” Philip smiled, but his eyes were troubled. “Stop at the Mercado de San Miguel open air market in the Plaza Mayor. There are many food stalls, but there are also merchants who dabble in other wares—weaponry among them. Locate the stall of Antonio Cordero. He specializes in what you need, and was a great comfort during my agent days.”
“Excellent.” Jonathan clapped the man on the shoulder. “Wish me luck, my friend.”
“I do, on many things.”
Once Jonathan donned his gloves and greatcoat, he and Sophia left the cozy home of friends. He spoke quietly to the driver while Sophia entered the coach, and as he joined her, the vehicle lurched into movement.
“So, the Chalice of Christ. That is what we’re after, yes?” Her eyes sparkled in the sunlight that streamed in through the windows and the red velvet curtains that had been parted.
The woman was like a dog with a particularly toothsome bone. “It is. I’m embarrassed to admit I don’t know that much about it beyond what was in the dossier Rathesborne gave me, and even then, I found the reading of it quite dull.”
“Strive for excellence in each day, my lord. Do better tomorrow. No use berating yourself for past mistakes.” She grinned. “Is the chalice different in lore than the Holy Grail?”
He couldn’t help gawking at her. Was there any topic she didn’t hold at least rudimentary knowledge on?
“As I said before, I’m well-read and continue to learn, for one never knows when such knowledge will be needed.” She lifted an eyebrow in challenge.
“Yes, apparently.” He cleared his throat. “From what I understand, the Holy Grail has become part of the Arthurian legend. In those stories, the cup has been linked with mystical powers that combines with early Christian and Celtic folklore.”
“And it wasn’t a cup at all, I believe,” she added with excitement in her voice. “It was a shallow dish or a bowl of some sort, again believed to have been used by Christ at the Last Supper.”
“Exactly.” Taking Sophia along for the remainder of the mission was a smart move. She complemented where he appeared dull. “Three such relics in Spain could possibly fit the description, especially those taken by Saint Peter to Rome or to Spain by Saint Lawrence.”
“And all three accounts are claimed by the Catholic Church as being the authentic artifact.” She sat back against the squabs with one arm at breast level while she tapped her chin with the forefinger of her other hand. “Yet, from an academic speculative standpoint, all three could conceivably not be the chalice we’re searching for. Logic says that none are the Holy Grail, for if they were, such power would have already been exploited. The church is rather riddled with history of abuse when it gains the upper hand.”
“Also true.” Her words pulled a quick chuckle from him. “We will not know until we arrive in Barcelona.” It was the how that eluded him as well.
“Where in the city do you plan on starting your search?”
“At the University of Barcelona library. It’s been around for more than a hundred years, and in the hands of Catholics as long. If there is printed proof or evidence of an unknown chalice being in Spain, it would be there.” He smiled, pleased with his plan. “Plus, Mr. Hatfield did drop that hint.”
“That seems reasonable.” She nodded with apparent approval. When the carriage slowed, she frowned. “Are we stopping so soon?”
“We are.”
“Why?”
“Patience, Miss Wickham.” He smiled. This was one secret he couldn’t wait to have revealed.
An hour later, he escorted Sophia through the market that his friend had recommended. Colorful stalls all vied for his attention as did the vocal calls of the vendors. One such man, barely standing at five feet with a long, white beard and tanned, wrinkled skin, approached him with a small figurine clutched in his claw-like hand.
“Buy this from me, fine gentleman. For your lady. It is pretty and she will enjoy the gift.” He pressed the object into Jonathan’s hand.
“What the devil is this?” He held it between his thumb and forefinger as Sophia looked on with a frown.
Perhaps three inches in height and one in width, it was the image of the Egyptian god Horus. It’s hawk head was decorated with blue paint, barely chipped or worn. The sunbaked bronze of his skin seemed as fresh as when it was first fashioned as was the white tunic covering his lower half. Though the golden staff he held had been broken, the round base was in pristine condition. Gilding provided finishing touches throughout.
“Real or reproduction?” he asked the vendor.
“An acquaintance took it from a tomb
in the King’s Valley last month. I have no use for something so small,” he admitted with a slight shrug.
Sophia shrugged. “It is pretty, but not worth bartering for.”
“Perhaps.” Obviously she wasn’t interested in it, but perhaps another lady in his life would appreciate the gift. “I shall buy it for Lady Jane. I always bring her a token from my travels.” In short order, he’d haggled an acceptable price with the vendor, who then wrapped the piece in a length of dirty cloth and handed it over while Jonathan offered the coins. “I thank you for your business,” he told the man while tucking the treasure into an interior pocket of his jacket.
They continued through the market while Sophia wore an amused grin.
Sometime later, he narrowed his eyes as Sophia traced the silver filigree that decorated the ivory and Mother of Pearl handle of a six-inch lady’s pistol. Done in the Catalan style and weighing just more than a pound, it featured the Miquelet lock, sometimes called the Mediterranean lock due to its diffusion in the surrounding area. Only able to hold one ball, the mechanism was such that reloading and manipulating the ramrod was extremely efficient, which made it good in a battle scenario, and for a woman to use. That particular style was especially popular in the Ottoman empire as well as through the Spanish Empire and the Florida Territory where pirates and other criminals conducted business.
“How does it feel in your palm?” He’d scrutinized three equally pretty pistols, but this one reminded him of her the most—petite, beautiful and deadly in the right circumstance, though he’d not had the occasion to verify that claim. Thank goodness.
“Like it belongs there.” Awe filled her voice as she bounced her gaze between him and the graying shop owner. “Do men feel the same way when holding their weaponry?”
Bloody hell. Did she truly not know that sometimes her phrasing held double meaning? He glanced at Mr. Cordero, who shrugged and turned away to hide a grin. “That depends on many things.” He bit the inside of his cheek to prevent outright laughing lest she assume he made jest of her. “In a time of peril or abject danger, do you think you could fire without issue and without waxing poetic about the weapon itself?”
Her eyes widened. Her kissable lips formed an “O” of surprise. “Do you expect I’ll have need to use this?”
Mr. Cordero excused himself when another customer entered the front of his stall.
“As I’ve said before, it is good to prepare for every contingency.” Jonathan cocked his head. “I’d rather have you armed and in a temper than seething with nothing to defend yourself.”
“Women can always find something to use as a weapon. Every day, we are subjected to one slight or another.” The statement gave him pause and she immediately sobered. “How should I hold it properly?”
Dear Lord, she knew nothing about guns but if her expression was any indication, she was thinking about all the ways to use it in everyday life. I am a bacon-brained idiot to do this. Huffing in exasperation, he came close and positioned himself behind her. “Your pistol must become an extension of your hand and arm. It replaces the finger in pointing at an object so proper gun grip is essential.”
She glanced over her shoulder and her lips brushed his cheek, trailing heat in their wake. “Why do I have the feeling I’ll need to remember this?”
“Concentrate.” He couldn’t decide if the order was for her or him. As the faint scent of apple blossoms wafted to his nose, he continued his instruction though his mind slipped focus. “Your grip on the weapon effects your sighting—aim—your balance, your ability to work the hammer and to absorb much of the recoil with as little discomfort as possible and your safety.”
“I understand.” She returned her attention to the front of the stall. “Now what?”
“For self-defense, a two handed gun grip is always better. I recommend being comfortable holding and shooting your gun one-handed as well, in both dominant and non-dominant hands, in the event you are somehow disabled and forced to shoot one-handed. But for now, we will concentrate on this one stance.”
Her hand trembled, and his confidence that this was a good idea faltered.
But he continued, ignoring the unease. “For a proper two-handed grip, the second, non-dominant hand simply will wrap firmly around the shooting hand. This steadies the hold, allows for proper trigger pull and helps to absorb recoil. The thumb of the supporting hand can be placed on top of the strong hand thumb and in the case of a single action revolver, be used to pull the hammer back. Understand thus far?”
“I believe so.” She settled the butt in the palm of her right hand and wrapped the palm of her left around it in the opposite direction. Her thumbs rested close to each other. “Now what?”
He encouraged her right forefinger to tap the trigger. “Rest it lightly here without clenching, which can prematurely fire the weapon.” Her arms trembled and he bit back a curse. “You must be sure and swift when you site your enemy. There will be very little room for error before you aim and fire.”
“Will I feel this nervous if I’m staring down an enemy?” Her words were breathless, and she once more turned her head, her lips glancing along his cheek.
Hot tendrils of desire wove down his spine to bury in his shaft. He cleared his throat and hoped the reaction would settle. “In a crisis situation, there is no way to know how anyone will react. It is an individual response.”
“But—”
He stepped away, cursing the attraction that simmered between them. Why her? Why now? “You will know what to do when the time comes, Sophia. That’s the best I can promise. Eventually, every person must face their own fears and truths. In a moment of crisis, you become who you were meant to be.”
Is that perhaps what he needed to find out for himself? He shook his head to clear the thought. Such gammon that floated through his mind since meeting her.
“Very well.” She continued to practice with the pistol.
“I want you to keep the weapon hidden on your person at all times though.”
“Where?”
“That is up to your discretion. A boot lining, sew a pocket into your petticoat. Lady Archewyne keeps her dagger strapped to her thigh beneath her skirts.” The thought of Sophia drawing up her hem to reveal creamy ivory skin had his member twitching to life.
“Again, too much intimate knowledge of Lady Archewyne. I don’t know how comfortable I am with that.” She narrowed her eyes. “Perhaps I shall hide the pistol in my bosom and give the accursed curves a purpose instead of being a focal point for male interest.”
Oh God.
He suddenly couldn’t breathe and forced himself to draw a breath followed by another. “The one caveat I ask of you is to not use it on me.”
“Is that so?” She raised an eyebrow and pointed the nose of the delicate pistol at him, by chance or design aiming for his heart. Her hand barely shook. With a grin she said, “Don’t make me angry with you, Viscount Trewellain.”
“Then refrain from doing something in which my temper might become a problem.” He put a forefinger on the nose of the pistol and pushed until she lowered the weapon. “Now, is it a good fit or shall we continue looking?”
“This will do nicely.” She handed him the weapon. “Once more, I thank you. It seems you are growing adept at funding my life and showering me with things I shouldn’t accept let alone covet.”
“It is what it is.” He gestured to the shopkeeper. “We shall purchase this as well as the necessary tools and a supply of ammunition.”
Mr. Cordero nodded and swiftly took the pistol from him and then moved to a makeshift table, where he gently wrapped everything requested in brown paper.
“As a side note, I put the jewels you loaned me into your luggage.”
The sound of her voice yanked his attention back to her. “I found them.” He patted the pocket of his greatcoat, where the jewelry lay in its pouch.
A frown pulled at the corners of her mouth. “Why do you carry them with you? There has to be more to the story t
han being prepared.”
He forced a swallow into his tight throat. “It is... complicated.” Guilt gripped him as Lavinia’s visage floated into his mind’s eye.
“Mayhap it won’t be if you tell me.” Her dulcet tones invited him to spill his every secret.
“Another time.” Needing to run but having nowhere to go, he strode to the front of the vendor’s stall and implored the shopkeeper to hurry.
It would be a long five days indeed trapped in a coach with an inquisitive and tempting woman.
Chapter Twelve
February 22, 1822
Barcelona, Spain
The sheer size of the library at the University of Barcelona was staggering.
Hundreds of shelves containing thousands of books, some of which were tucked beneath stone arches and crumbling ceilings that had no doubt been around for a hundred if not hundreds of years. Countless ages of dust and decay lingered on tucked away wooden shelves of tomes on subjects almost forgotten by the current generation. With two levels and countless corridors that shot out from the main hallways, it could take days to sift through the contents.
“The place is amazing.” Sophia breathed in the scents of old parchment and leather. Then she sneezed, but it had nothing to do with nerves, just copious amounts of dust.
“That is a rather large understatement,” Jonathan replied in a hushed whisper. “How the devil does anyone find what they’re looking for in this vast mess?”
They’d arrived in Barcelona to sunshine and moderate temperatures more suited to strolling through seaside markets than wasting such a glorious day hidden behind walls and mired in piles of ancient books.
Not that location mattered. The opportunity to adventure alongside the viscount kept her spirits buoyed. The kiss he’d given her in the carriage following the ball lingered at the forefront of her memories. She wasn’t besotted with him, but she was curious. Could she provoke another amorous reaction from him, one more passionate than the last, merely to satisfy her own interest? After all, it was unlikely she’d have another opportunity to learn about the carnal side of life unless a gentleman overlooked her destitute state and the fact her reputation was in tatters, and since Jonathan was well-skilled in the bedroom arts, why shouldn’t she glean knowledge?
What the Stubborn Viscount Desires Page 13