by Nora Roberts
A light went on in the kitchen at the back of the house. The frog hopped closer. Kizzmee, it sang. Kizzmee.
Although it sang its heart out, the door remained firmly closed.
For several minutes the frog stared up at the house with its great bulgy eyes. Then the frog turned and went leaping away toward the meadow, the jewels in its tiny gold crown flashing in the moonlight.
7
KATE WAS INURED to the noise of city traffic, but an earsplitting racket snapped her out of dreams and left her disoriented. She groped for her watch on the nightstand. Seven A.M. on a Saturday morning.
If there isn’t a law against it, she thought indignantly, there ought to be.
Then she blinked. She wasn’t in her apartment, but at Frogsmere, out in the middle of nowhere. So what on earth was that ungodly noise?
She tottered to the window and pushed the heavy draperies aside. A bulldozer rumbled toward the lower garden in a way that meant business. Further on she saw another two men conferring beside a yellow machine with a long arm ending in a clawed metal bucket.
She threw on jeans and a cable-knit turtleneck, ran a brush through her straight dark hair, and went outside to discover what was going on.
The cool morning air reeked of diesel fuel and echoed with the clank of metal treads. Cutting past a garden shed and a row of beehives, she let herself out through a wooden gate and into the meadow. The dozer made another pass, this time with lowered blade, and sliced the top layer of soil away as neatly as a knife scraping frosting from a cake.
He was also peeling away a wide swath of the herbaceous border planted there. Yellow daffodils, purple Siberian irises, and bright English primroses lay uprooted and crushed among the clumps of damp earth. Kate started running. The mechanical beast ignored her and began tearing off another strip.
Kate waved her arms and shouted. The driver slowed and put the machine in idle. He tipped his yellow hard hat in her direction.
“Begging your pardon, Missus, but you hadn’t ought to go running out in front of me like that. You might get hurt.”
“What are you doing?” she called up to him.
“Laying the first trench,” he said, as if that explained everything.
“Through the middle of the flower beds?”
“Well, that’s where the foundations are,” the man told her.
“Miss Singleton!”
Kate turned and found her rescuer of yesterday beside her. She hadn’t heard his approach over the roar of the bulldozer. “They’ve dug up part of the garden,” she said indignantly.
“I am so sorry, Miss Singleton,” he said to her. “There’s been an error made.”
He addressed the driver. “The site map is wrong, Harry. It was marked on a piece of clear acetate, and the tech who photocopied it reversed the image. You’re to begin the trench off the other side of the ruins.”
“Yes. Right.” The man tipped his hat to Kate and put the dozer into gear. It clanked off across the meadow.
“What on earth is going on?” she asked, watching the machine’s treads flatten the grasses and wildflowers.
“He’s with the Dig It crew the BBC sent down.” He saw her blank look. “It’s a television show. They’ll spend the weekend laying test trenches and uncovering foundation walls or other sites deemed of archaeological interest. The real work will start later.”
Kate frowned. “I thought they had to be so careful—dental picks and sable brushes—but they’re using heavy equipment!”
“Once they get the turf stripped, it will be painstaking trowel and brush work. There are indications of both a Bronze Age settlement and a Roman fortified villa in the meadow, and they’re hoping to make significant finds.”
She was interested despite herself. “What are they expecting to uncover?”
Bellamy smiled. “A mosaic floor or a gold torc or two would do very nicely. Anything that will further knowledge and keep the public entertained—and, hopefully, interested in funding future projects. There is a lot of history to salvage in the area.”
Kate knelt down beside a clump of shredded lilies. “Well, there’s no hope of salvaging any of these poor plants. The roots are destroyed.”
“Make me a list of what you’ve lost,” he said. “I’ll see that they’re replaced.”
She rose, brushing damp earth from her palms. “Thanks, but I won’t hold you to it. Mainly because it would be a waste of my time to try and dig through that huge mound of dirt in search of torn stems and crushed petals.”
He nudged a mass of undefinable vegetation with the toe of his boots. “Yes, it would be effort wasted.” He regarded her intently. “If I can’t replace the plants, will you at least accept an invitation to dine at King’s Meadow with me this evening? I was thinking of having a small dinner party.”
His invitation had caught her off guard, and Kate was flustered. “That’s kind of you. I’m not sure how I should address you, Sir Michael…”
He flashed her a smile. “Just Michael, please. I believe you Americans don’t put much stock in titles.”
“You’re pulling my leg. We’re the biggest title snobs in the entire universe,” Kate laughed, “and I can tell from that twinkle in your eye that you know it’s true.”
“All the more reason to dine with me, then.”
Kate still hesitated. “I really didn’t bring anything suitable for a dinner party.”
His smile deepened, and his green eyes crinkled at the corners in a way that charmed and disarmed her.
“Are you picturing a formal party with footmen in powdered wigs? If so, you’ll be disappointed. I have something simpler in mind: just salad and chicken Florentine, with a little wine thrown in. The BBC photographer invariably shows up in black denim jeans and turtleneck.”
She smiled up at him. “I think I can handle that.”
“Good. I’ll send the car for you at seven. And now I’d better see what the crew is up to.”
Kate said good-bye and watched him lope away, her heart beating just a little faster than it had before. She found herself attracted to him, and had the impression that it was mutual. And there was something so familiar about him…
He moves like a runner, she thought as he bounded down the steep slope to the meadow. All economy and fluid grace. But by the time he reached the BBC crew he was limping slightly.
Suddenly she remembered why his name and face seemed familiar. She should have recognized him from the news reports. Michael Bellamy was the triathlete, who’d lost his shot at an Olympic medal when he pushed two children out of the way of a speeding car. CNN had shown coverage of the tragedy over and over. The terrible injuries he’d sustained had ended his promising career and opportunities for lucrative endorsement deals.
Most people had called him a hero, but some had called him a fool.
He’d vanished from the public eye during his long months of physical therapy. The queen had knighted him for valor. Kate had seen photos of him at the ceremony three years ago. A KNIGHT IN SHINING HONOR, one newspaper had captioned it.
But except for the occasional “Where Is He Now?” feature on TV or in magazines, people seemed to have forgotten his existence.
Kate never had. His bravery and sacrifice of his dreams had touched her and she was glad to know he’d recovered so well despite everything.
She watched him as he moved among the crew, talking to first one and then another, and she smiled. He lifted his head and waved to her, and a thrill ran through her.
In an age when being famous for “being famous” was considered a virtue, real heroes seemed to get lost along the way. But Michael Bellamy was different. He seemed to be a man of high principles and great courage. Knowing him, Kate thought, is a privilege.
He had character, integrity, and charm. Not to mention those gorgeous, gold-lashed green eyes, Kate murmured as she strolled back to the house.
A few seconds later, the pile of torn earth and ripped plants trembled, and a small green frog popped
out. It had lost its jeweled crown amid the debris. With a leaf stuck to its head and a piece of grass hanging down crookedly over one eye, it looked like an amphibian version of a drunken pirate.
Shaking them off, the frog jumped over the mangled flowers and headed after Kate.
8
AS KATE JOGGED back toward the house, she almost tripped over a fat frog squatting squarely in her path. The creature tried to leap up, but its aim was off. The silky green body flipped in midair and tumbled end over end before landing on its back.
“Poor little thing. You can’t hop very well, can you?”
Kneeling beside it, Kate scooped the frog up in her hands. It rolled its eyes in alarm, but didn’t try to escape. There was an odd dent running in a circle around the top of its head.
“You’re in no shape to take care of yourself.”
Cradling it gingerly against her, she went back to the manor.
When she reached the house, she realized belatedly that she had no idea of how to apply her first-aid skills to a frog. Didn’t they have to keep their skin wet? She wasn’t sure. The only thing she knew about their needs was that—oh, God!—they ate live bugs. “I hope you’re recovered by morning,” she told it, “or you’re going to starve.”
She went through the side entrance to the kitchen, a large, comfortable room with a stone floor and glass-fronted cupboards on two sides. There was a lumpy armchair pulled up near the old red-enameled AGA, with its intimidating multiple burners and triple oven. In Kate’s world an AGA was like nuclear power: its inner workings would forever remain a mystery to her.
She placed the frog in the center of an empty fruit bowl on the scrubbed kitchen table and slipped a plate over it to keep the creature in while she searched the kitchen for a more suitable container.
As she rooted around in the cupboards, Kate realized a phone was ringing faintly somewhere. She found it, old-fashioned and heavy, on a stand in the hall. “Hello?”
Jenny’s voice came crackling over the line. “Aren’t you supposed to say ‘Frogsmere Manor’ or something a little more dignified?”
“Obviously you’ve confused me with a butler.”
“Well, no one who knew you would ever confuse you with a cook,” Jenny said, laughing. “Did you get my E-mail?”
“No. I haven’t even taken my laptop out of its bag yet.” A line formed between Kate’s brows. “I wasn’t expecting to hear from you by phone. Is everything all right?”
“I’m fine. How’s your adventure going?”
Kate laughed softly. “Far better than even an optimist like me could ever have predicted. Frogsmere is lovely, the weather has cleared—and I’ve been invited to dine at the private home of Sir Michael Bellamy.”
There was a tiny gasp from the other end of the phone line. “Well, that puts my news to shame! Tell me he’s grown fat, bald, and cranky.”
“No can do.” Kate’s face grew warm. “He’s gorgeous and charming.”
“My news isn’t nearly as exciting,” Jenny said, “but I have solved the riddle of why Agatha Culpepper left you her estate. I’ve been fishing the deep waters of the Internet, and I reeled in some big information. Does the name Trixie Pickering ring any bells?”
The name instantly conjured an image of a thin, whitehaired woman with wire-rimmed glasses and a wide straw hat, standing before a rioting mass of larkspur and foxglove and hollyhocks.
Kate smiled. “You know it does. It took two years, but I acquired the American rights to her books for Hartland Press.”
Trixie Pickering had been a writer and illustrator of award-winning children’s books. The characters from her delightful Hedgehog Chronicles and The Fairies in My Garden series had been loved by children and adults for more than fifty years.
Although they’d never met, Kate and Trixie Pickering had corresponded through the writer’s London publisher and developed a friendship. After that, letters had flown across the Atlantic like clockwork, decorated in the margins with clever little sketches of elegant fairies and of cuddly woodland creatures dressed in high Victorian style. Kate had treasured and saved every letter.
“Trixie passed away last winter at the age of ninety-three,” she said softly. “I was very fond of her, and I miss her very much.”
“She must have liked you, too,” Jenny said. “Because that’s why you got your inheritance.”
“I’m confused. Was she a friend of Agatha Culpepper?”
Jenny’s laughter came through the phone as though she were standing beside Kate. “Closer than that. Listen to this: Trixie Pickering’s birth name was Agatha Beatrix Pickering Culpepper. Agatha and Trixie were one and the same. She must have thought you knew.”
“She never said a word.” Tears choked Kate’s voice. “I’m practically speechless.”
“That would be a first,” Jenny teased. “Next thing I know, you’ll be learning to cook instead of nuking frozen food when it’s your turn to make dinner. Is there a microwave at Frogsmere, or are you dining out of a peanut butter jar these days?”
“I’ve hit the jackpot,” Kate said. “Her name is Mrs. Bean and she’s promised to cook for me every day. It would break your heart if I told you about the beef stew and caramel-pear flan I had for dinner yesterday. So I won’t say another word.”
“Just don’t let her quit until I make it to England in June.”
They talked another ten minutes and finalized their plans for Jenny to come out and spend several weeks at Frogsmere. When they hung up Kate was bemused.
All the pieces were in place now, and she saw the pattern: Trixie Pickering, as Agatha Culpepper, had not only gifted her with a wonderful estate, but with the opportunity of a lifetime.
Kate could stay on at Frogsmere and edit those journals Mr. Plunkett had mentioned. The news of their existence would make a big splash in the publishing world.
But first she’d have to find them.
Kate dried her eyes, blew her nose, and tried to assimilate everything she’d learned. If Agatha Culpepper’s journals showed any of the flair exhibited by her writings under the name Trixie Pickering, Kate hadn’t the slightest doubt that she could get them published.
She lifted her chin and addressed the air, where she was sure the shade of her benefactor hovered. “I’ll fulfill your trust in me,” she said. “I’m going to read your journals and edit them, just as you intended. And I’ll take good care of Frogsmere,” she added fiercely. “I swear it.”
A thunk from the table made her jump. She’d forgotten the frog. It leapt up in the ceramic bowl, hitting its head against the plate on top. She rose and peered beneath the plate. The frog was lying on its back, stunned.
First things first. After searching through the cupboards a bit more, she discovered a footed glass trifle bowl.
Kate put some water in it, set it on the countertop, and put a tile trivet in the center to make an island. She then placed the frog in the bowl. “Here you go, fellow.”
The frog splayed its front feet on the trivet and leapt on top. It overshot the mark and toppled off the other side, where it lay panting.
“Not too bright.” She picked it up carefully and set it on the trivet. “Really, I don’t know what to do to help you,” she said.
The frog gazed up at her raptly. “Kizzmee, kizzmee.”
She laughed out loud. “‘Kiss me’? Whatever happened to plain old ‘ribbet’?”
Was that odd little croak where the fairy tale of the frog prince started? she wondered.
“Kizzmee, kizzmee,” the creature said, even louder this time.
Kate leaned down and looked into those round golden eyes. “Sorry, Your Majesty. I’m afraid you’ve got the wrong girl.”
And that was when everything happened.
The frog gave a mighty leap and smacked her right in the mouth. She grabbed at the table for support, but the oilcloth tablecloth came off instead. The glass bowl went flying against the ancient AGA, where it broke into a dozen pieces, and Kate fell back again
st the cupboard behind her, banging her head. The air sparked and sizzled like a downed electrical wire.
When the dazzle of light vanished, so had the frog.
A man dressed in shiny green silk from head to toe lay in the shadows beneath the table, blinking up at her.
9
“I’M DREAMING!” KATE said. “I must be.”
She closed her eyes tight. When she opened them again, there was nothing on the floor but the dirt she’d tracked in on her shoes and the small green frog.
Kate stared at it. The frog stared back.
She closed her eyes again and counted to ten. When she opened them, it was still just a frog.
Then she realized that the long green form on the floor was the oilcloth she’d pulled off the kitchen table when the creature had leapt at her.
“Jet lag,” she muttered, rubbing her temples. After all, it was the middle of the night back home in Chicago.
Her mouth felt numb where the frog had collided with her face. She’d have to ice it down, or show up at King’s Meadow tonight with a fat lip.
“You’re more trouble than you’re worth,” she scolded. She scooped the frog up again, opened the screen door, and carried it to the edge of the shady terrace. “And you’re better off out here. As for myself, I’m going back to bed.”
The frog heard the door lock firmly into place, and hopped disconsolately away into the garden.
Kate was too revved up to go back to sleep. Life at Frogsmere was proving to be a lot more interesting than she’d expected: first the early wake-up call via bulldozer, then the revelations about Agatha Culpepper, followed by that peculiar optical illusion that had made her think, for one startled moment, that the frog had changed into a prince!
And this evening she’d be dining with a very attractive man—a knight, no less—and the director and crew from a BBC production.