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  She held up an ivory comb, carved with a fantastical, dragonlike creature that writhed along its handle, entwined with flowers and leaves.

  Miles suddenly had an odd flash, a picture in his mind of Lady Iverson seated beside a fire, her dark hair spread over her shoulders. She wore only a simple white tunic, and she pulled the pretty ivory comb through her curls. She looked up at him, and gave him a smile so full of passion and sweetness that it pierced right to his heart.

  He closed his eyes against this odd, disturbing vision. He barely knew Lady Iverson, and soon they would have to have a serious discussion about her leaving the work she so obviously loved. It would never do to imagine her in such an intimate way, even if it made sense—which it did not.

  He pressed his hand to his brow, and his mind went blank.

  “Lord Ransome?” he heard her say. Her voice sounded worried, but quite ordinary. It brought him back to the present moment, to the reality of their situation. “Are you ill?”

  He opened his eyes, and looked down at her. She stared at him with her almond-shaped, dark eyes. “No, not at all. A mere instant of dizziness.”

  “It is rather warm in here,” she said. “I cannot work in here for very long myself. Shall we go back outside?”

  “Yes, of course.” Miles watched as she replaced the comb on its labeled spot on the table, then offered her his arm to lead her back out into the sunlight.

  Fortunately, the vision or picture or whatever it had been, had quite vanished, as if it were just so much mist. But it left a most odd feeling in its wake, and he could no longer see Lady Iverson in quite the same manner he had before—as a pretty, interesting lady he would like to get to know better. Something new and intense came forward when she laid her hand on his arm, something he did not understand at all.

  Perhaps he should speak to her now about the land and his plans for it. It would be better to have that all out in the open, to have honesty and reality between them.

  “Lady Iverson,” he began.

  “Yes, Lord Ransome?” she said, turning her gaze up to him.

  Blast, but it was harder than he would have thought to speak to her about such things, when she looked at him so guilelessly.

  But he had to do it. “I think I should tell you—”

  “Sarah! Lord Ransome!” a voice called, and Mary Ann Bellweather came dashing up the pathway, a leather portfolio in her arms. “There you are. You had quite disappeared.”

  Lady Iverson turned to her sister with a smile, and Miles could have kissed the girl’s cheek for saving him. He did have to speak about the land, but he felt a rather deep relief that he wouldn’t have to just yet. It was cowardly of him, he knew, but there it was.

  Now he could just enjoy the rest of the afternoon in Lady Iverson’s company.

  Chapter Six

  Sarah watched as Lord Ransome examined Mary Ann’s sketches. He was obviously not as ignorant as he claimed, because he asked very intelligent questions about the drawings and the site. Mary Ann chatted and laughed, her cheeks pink with delight that someone was looking at her work.

  They might have opposing ideas about the best use for this land, Sarah thought, but she could not help but be thankful to him for drawing Mary Ann out. Her sister had been uncharacteristically quiet since she came here, and Sarah knew she was moping over the lost Mr. Hamilton. Sarah had considered taking away the novels she was always reading, and asking Phoebe not to send her any more, because they were giving her false ideas of love and romance.

  Today, though, she chattered just like the old Mary Ann, holding up a sketch of a reconstructed Viking house. She pointed out the central hearth, the built-in benches along the walls which would be covered with furs for sleeping at night. Lord Ransome nodded, carefully listening to her.

  Sarah pretended to be absorbed in writing in her notebook. She was meant to be taking notes on the newest finds in the smithy, but in reality she was not sure exactly what it was she was writing down. All she could think of was that odd look on Lord Ransome’s face when she showed him the ivory comb. He had looked—thunder-struck was the only word for it. He had stared at her as if he had never seen her before in his life, as if she was some strange new life-form.

  Or as if he did not see her, Sarah Iverson, at all.

  Sarah herself sometimes had odd reactions to some of the artifacts. She would hold a brooch or a spindle, and flashes of some other life would come into her mind. That was only because she was so deeply absorbed in the work, though, and the life of centuries past sometimes seemed more real to her than the present day.

  The present day seemed very real indeed, however, when she was near Lord Ransome. It was hard to focus on her work, or the Vikings, or anything else when he stood close to her. He smelled delicious, like soap and wool and horses, like the clean autumn breeze. When he leaned over to closely examine the sketch, a lock of sun golden hair fell across his brow, making Sarah long to brush it back, to feel its silk under her fingers. She wondered what it would feel like to lay her finger on the dimple in his cheek. . . .

  Fool! she berated herself, and sternly turned her gaze back to her notebook. She was getting quite as silly as Mary Ann, and it would just have to stop.

  “Your sister is a very talented artist, Lady Iverson,” he said, breaking into her thoughts. His voice was polite and brisk, bringing a much needed reality into this odd day.

  Sarah pushed away the notebook, and looked up to see Lord Ransome and her sister watching her. She smiled, hoping she seemed as normal as they did. “Yes, she is. I wish I was half as fine. She does a wonderful job of envisioning what the buildings would have looked like when they were new.”

  Mary Ann blushed and ducked her head, shuffling the sketches into a neat pile. As Sarah watched her, she realized she should compliment her sister more on her talents. Perhaps then Mary Ann would not dwell so much on her romantical infatuations.

  Just as Sarah was beginning to dwell too much on Lord Ransome, after just a short acquaintance.

  Lord Ransome drew out one of the sketches, a depiction of the leather-worker’s shop. “This is very interesting. Which, er, site is this?”

  Sarah looked out from the shady spot under the grove of trees where they sat, out along the sun-drenched village. It was quiet now, all the workers still gone for luncheon, and she was able to see every carefully marked spot on the ancient street. “That one there, at the very end on the left,” she said, gesturing toward it.

  Lord Ransome studied it for a moment, using his hand to shade his eyes. He looked very serious, and for a moment Sarah could imagine him as he must have appeared before a battle, scanning the enemy’s position.

  “Why is it so much deeper than the other dwellings?” he asked. “They’re quite shallow, especially the ones farther out, while that one appears to be a veritable pit.”

  “It had a cellar of sorts, which we discovered as we dug into it. It was the first building John—my husband—worked on, where your uncle found the coins. We believe the craftsman kept his shop above, and worked in the cellar.”

  “I see,” Lord Ransome said. “And why are the beams laid across it?”

  Before Sarah could answer, Mary Ann blurted, “Because there was a terrible cave-in, caused by the ghost! Sarah doesn’t want anyone to fall in.”

  Lord Ransome looked at Sarah sharply, his blue eyes narrowed. “A cave-in? Mr. Benson told me of it. Was anyone injured?”

  “Not at all. It happened at night, not long after my husband passed away,” Sarah said. She hadn’t wanted to tell him of any of the troubles at the village yet, for fear he would think her a silly, incompetent woman. “And it certainly wasn’t terrible, Mary Ann; you mustn’t exaggerate. It was simply one of those things that happens occasionally, though, of course, we always do our best to be certain everything is properly secured.” She sent her sister a stern glance. “It certainly was not caused by a ghost.”

  Mary Ann made a doubtful moue with her mouth. She loved the legends, and
would listen endlessly to the local farmers’ tales.

  “The Viking witch Thora?” Lord Ransome asked, that hint of laughter back in his voice.

  Sarah sighed inwardly. That ridiculous story was always going to haunt her here—so to speak. Even he, who had only been in the neighborhood a short while, knew of it. “Indeed. So you have been told the tale, Lord Ransome?”

  “Only a very bare outline. That Thora has a treasure here, and will curse any who touch it.” He looked down at her, his eyes sparkling, as if inviting her to share some joke. As if they were some sort of kindred spirits.

  Sarah couldn’t help but smile in return. She opened her mouth to answer, to dismiss the stories, but Mary Ann leaped in first.

  “Oh, no!” Mary Ann said earnestly. “That is not the entire tale. The treasure was left to Thora by her true love, who entrusted it to her before he left on a long voyage back to Norway. But he never returned, and Thora mourned him all the rest of her days. When she died, she put a spell on it saying that only those pure of heart and true of love—her real heirs—can safely touch it.” Her dark eyes shone as she recited this.

  Sarah stared at her sister in amazement. “Mary Ann, wherever did you hear all that?”

  Mary Ann looked away, and shrugged. “Oh, here and there.”

  “It sounds as though it came directly from one of your Minerva Press novels,” Sarah said.

  “No!” Mary Ann protested. “Every bit is true.”

  “Well, I think it sounds quite fascinating, Miss Bellweather,” Lord Ransome said, his voice kind and full of a smile. “I would love to hear more about the legend. Which reminds me of my other purpose in coming here today.”

  “Other purpose, Lord Ransome?” Sarah asked, glad they were moving away from talk of ghosts and curses. Glad—but also apprehensive. Was he going to say she would have to give up the land now?

  “Yes. I almost forgot, since your work here is so interesting, but I am having a supper party on Friday evening. I hope you and Miss Bellweather will be able to attend. It is nothing grand, just supper and cards with some neighbors. I thought I should make myself more social, if I am to live here.”

  Mary Ann clapped her hands delightedly. “A party! How very grand. Of course, we will come, won’t we, Sarah?”

  Sarah didn’t do anything like clap her hands, but she had to admit an excitement stirred inside her, as well as relief that he had not yet evicted her. It had been quite a while since she had attended an entertainment of any sort. There had been a card party at Lady Eaton’s house in Upper Hawton on Phoebe’s last evening here, but nothing since. She knew that Mary Ann was easily restless, and she herself enjoyed the company of other people, even when she was absorbed in a project as she was now.

  “Thank you very much, Lord Ransome,” she said. “We would be happy to accept your invitation.”

  “I am very glad, Lady Iverson. I’m sure you will know everyone who will be there, and can help me get to know them.” He drew his watch from inside his coat, and checked its face. “Now, I fear I must be leaving. Thank you for so graciously showing me about—”

  “You can’t leave yet, Lord Ransome!” Mary Ann interrupted. She was looking behind them, toward the road. “Someone is arriving.”

  Sarah turned to see an open landau drawing to a halt. In it was a man, and a woman with a parasol and an elaborate feathered bonnet. The man’s hair glinted mahogany-red in the sunlight.

  Mr. Hamilton, returned from his wedding trip with the new Mrs. Hamilton. Sarah looked at Mary Ann, praying that her sister was not wearing all her emotions on her pretty face.

  Mary Ann’s complexion was a trifle pale, and her lips pinched together, but that was all. “It is Mr. Hamilton,” she said quietly.

  “And Mrs. Hamilton,” Sarah added, as gently as she could.

  “Yes, indeed,” said Mary Ann. “What poor taste she has in millinery.”

  “Friends of yours?” Lord Ransome asked.

  Sarah glanced back at him. “Oh, yes. Mr. Hamilton is an antiquarian, a colleague and friend of my husband. He has helped us greatly here, but he has been gone on his wedding trip and is only now returning. As you see.”

  They watched as Mr. Hamilton alighted from the carriage, then turned back to help his bride. She descended in a great, frothy flurry of pink-and-white ruffles. Her laughter carried even to where Sarah, Mary Ann, and Lord Ransome stood.

  “Would you care to meet them?” Sarah asked Lord Ransome.

  “I would be delighted to meet any friend of yours, Lady Iverson,” he answered. “Perhaps they would like to attend the supper party, too?”

  Sarah remembered Mrs. Hamilton’s, the former Miss Emmeline Harris of Bath’s, patent joy in meeting anyone with a title, even one as minor as Sarah’s. She would no doubt go into raptures over a marquis. “I am sure they would be most honored to be invited.”

  She had no time to say anything else, for then the Hamiltons were upon them.

  “Dear Lady Iverson!” Mrs. Hamilton trilled, closing her parasol in order to peck a kiss on Sarah’s cheek. “We are here at last. It feels as though we have been driving for an age.”

  Sarah made herself smile. Mrs. Hamilton always seemed very friendly and open, with her giggles and her soft blond curls, but somehow Sarah had never been entirely able to warm up to her. There was always something rather hard and somehow calculating behind those pale blue eyes.

  But Neville Hamilton had been a good friend to her and John, and an invaluable help to them in their work. For a time after John’s death, Sarah had feared he might harbor feelings warmer than those of friendship for her, and she had known he wanted to take over the village entirely. Yet then he had married the well-dowered Miss Harris, and all had gone on as it had before.

  For the sake of their friendship, Sarah could be civil to the new Mrs. Hamilton.

  “Mrs. Hamilton, Neville,” she greeted, with a smile. “It is so good to see you again. You must tell me about your wedding trip.”

  “It was all quite delightful!” Mrs. Hamilton gushed, before her husband could even open his mouth. “And this must be your adorable sister.”

  “Oh, yes,” Sarah said. She took Mary Ann’s hand, acutely aware of Lord Ransome standing behind her, still and watchful. She turned her head slightly to glance at him; his face was expressionless. “Miss Mary Ann Bellweather. Mary Ann, of course, you know Mr. Hamilton, and this is the new Mrs. Hamilton.”

  “How do you do?” Mary Ann murmured. Her fingers curled around Sarah’s.

  “Hello, Miss Bellweather,” Neville said, with a small smile for her.

  Mary Ann just nodded, and looked away.

  Then Mrs. Hamilton saw Lord Ransome. Her eyes widened, and her lips parted to let out another giggle. “And who might this be?”

  “This is Lord Ransome.” Sarah smiled. “He has only lately moved into Ransome Hall.”

  Lord Ransome obligingly stepped forward to give the Hamiltons a polite bow. “How do you do, Mrs. Hamilton? Mr. Hamilton. Lady Iverson was just very kindly showing me the work here. She tells me you have done a great deal with the village, Mr. Hamilton.”

  Neville Hamilton, who had hitherto been looking quiet and rather stunned, showed a spark of interest in his eyes, and opened his mouth to reply. But his wife stepped in front of him to hold her hand out to Lord Ransome, her mouth curved in a flirtatious smile.

  “Lord Ransome!” she said, with yet another giggle. “It is very good to meet you. I must say you are much more handsome than the previous marquis!”

  Lord Ransome looked at Sarah wryly, one golden brow arched. Sarah turned away to hide a laugh.

  “Er—thank you, Mrs. Hamilton,” he answered, a hint of laughter in his own voice. “And may I wish you much happiness in your new marriage?”

  “And charming, too,” Mrs. Hamilton cooed. She stepped closer to lay a lace-gloved hand on his sleeve.

  Lord Ransome’s wry look turned to one of alarm, and Sarah decided she really ought to rescue him. �
��I fear Lord Ransome was just leaving us,” she said. “Perhaps Mary Ann could take you both to the house for tea, and I will join you after I have walked with him to his horse?”

  Mrs. Hamilton pouted prettily. “Oh, no! Must you go, Lord Ransome, when we have only just arrived?”

  Neville finally took some action, and stepped forward to take his wife’s arm and draw her away. “We mustn’t keep Lord Ransome from his duties, Emmeline.”

  “I came here today to invite Lady Iverson and Miss Bellweather to a supper party at Ransome Hall on Friday,” Lord Ransome said. “Perhaps you could both join us?”

  “Oh, yes!” Mrs. Hamilton cried. “How very delightful! Only here one day and we are invited to a soiree.”

  She was still rhapsodizing about Lord Ransome, soirees, and the world in general as Mary Ann led her and Neville toward the hunting box.

  Sarah watched them go before turning back to Lord Ransome. He appeared a bit—dazed. He shook his head slightly, and smiled at her.

  “Mrs. Hamilton is very, er, lively,” he said.

  “Indeed, she is,” Sarah answered. Lord Ransome offered his arm, and she took it to walk with him back to where his horse was tethered. “Well, now you have met our entire party here. It was very good of you to invite them to your supper. I hope it will not make it too crowded?”

  “Not at all. I’m sure they will be very charming additions.” He unlooped the reins from the tree branch. “I look forward to seeing you—all of you, of course.”

  Sarah found she looked forward to it, too. Very much.

  Chapter Seven

  “Lord Ransome is a handsome gentleman, is he not?”

  “Hm?” Sarah did not even look up from the book she was perusing, but inside she smiled at Mary Ann’s words. Lord Ransome was indeed handsome—more than handsome. It was simply too bad that he was not an antiquarian, did not even show interest in becoming one.

  Or perhaps it was all for the best. For if he was as interested in history as she was, then he would be quite perfect. And she had no time right now for such distractions—or for becoming better acquainted with Lord Ransome, not when he could pull her work out from under her at any moment.