Virginia Heath - Redeeming The Reclusive Earl

The past slammed into him and sullied his surprisingly pleasant mood. Surprising because he couldn’t recall the last time he had felt anything other than bleak. To cover the onslaught, he stared down into the neat hole she had dug and the crudely made pot sat proud and whole at the bottom of it.

‘Now that your precious pot has finally been liberated, can I assume I am finally to be rid of you?’

‘I’ve removed the last of the soil.’ Her eyes dipped, avoiding his, and, more pointedly, the second part of his question. ‘Now I need to lift it out. Which is the tricky bit...pottery is notoriously delicate after centuries in the mud. But I have at least completed all the close work.’

‘Is that what the bizarre magnifying contraption is about?’ He gestured to the lenses tied to her head and, as if suddenly remembering she was still wearing them, she hastily tugged at the ribbon until they fell to rest about her shoulders like an ugly necklace. Bizarrely it suited her, although to be fair, even sackcloth would suit her.

‘Er... Yes. I liberated them from my father’s effects, but they kept falling off as I worked. Anyway...’ Clearly intent on continuing with the task regardless, she strode to her wheelbarrow and retrieved an old blanket which she arranged like a nest next to the hole. ‘This bit could take a while...’ She flicked him a dismissive glance. The sort he used to use on his men to great effect when they stepped out of line and needed knocking down a peg or two. It was a bold move when she had absolutely no right to be here. ‘But I promise I will be gone before dawn.’ When he failed to budge, her brows furrowed in irritation. Another bold response when she was the one entirely in the wrong. ‘There is no need for you to stand guard, my lord. I will go.’

‘But will you come back, Miss Nosy? That is the bigger question.’ One he feared he already knew the answer to.

‘Beneath the pot is a large slab—sandstone, I think. Possibly a hearth of some kind, although I haven’t found the edges of it yet to discern its exact size. But a hearth would suggest we are currently standing inside an ancient dwelling of some sort, don’t you think?’

He stared back at her blandly.

‘Wouldn’t that be exciting?’ The smile died on her lips when she finally accepted he had no intention of smiling back. Then she sighed and finally stared him straight in the eye, her expression achingly sad and the previous excitement tragically missing from her voice. ‘There is so much more to uncover here, Lord Rivenhall. Would it be so terrible if I continued my work?’

‘Miss Nithercott, I...’ Max didn’t want to feel suddenly sorry for her. Did not want to feel guilty or cruel for denying her. He wanted peace. Space. Endless open fields blessedly free from people. The wind in his hair and the sun on his ruined skin. ‘I came here to be left well alone.’ This estate was a poor substitute for the vast expanse of the ocean or the endless horizons he still pined for, but it was all his and he had missed being outside. Was so tired of feeling suffocated by the walls and ceilings he endlessly stared at.

‘I would leave you alone. I promise to keep well out of your way. In fact, I shall even hide if I catch the merest glimpse of you. I can continue to dig at night and...’ The thought of that had him holding up his palm in defeat, but she misconstrued the gesture and her face fell and her slim shoulders slumped, making Max feel like a brute all over again even though his resolve to evict her was already waning and all his hopes for peace evaporating.

‘Please, my lord... This place... This work... It is everything to me. All that I have.’ And, God help him, he believed her. ‘I beg of you not to take it away.’ And suddenly she looked lost and he couldn’t bear that because he knew exactly how that felt. He had been lost since the day he awoke in laudanum-blurred agony on that Royal Navy frigate over a year ago and hadn’t found any trace of himself in the interminable months since. ‘Please...’

Max tore his gaze away from her eyes, hating the desperation he saw in them when he much preferred the sassy and indomitable Miss Nithercott to the one his self-preserving, selfish actions had created. Perhaps with strict boundaries, allowing her to dig her blasted holes wouldn’t be the end of the world? But they would have to be very strict boundaries indeed. He did not want to have to see her. Talk to her. Smell her. Even think about her. Or anyone for that matter. He just wanted to be left alone.

He turned to her again, ready to give her a list of stipulations. ‘If you promise to keep to the confines of the Abbey...’

‘Oh, thank you!’ She grabbed his hand again and the rest of his planned list of rigid rules and parameters died in his throat. ‘I promise you will never know I am here!’

Max instantly extricated his hand and, because his nerve endings mourned her, fisted it behind his back where she couldn’t see it. ‘No night digging. I expressly forbid that. It is not safe for a woman on her own to be all alone in the dark.’ Not that he wanted to contemplate exactly why she was on her own whenever he encountered her, why she wandered around unchaperoned at apparently all hours of the day or night. Or why there was no ring on her finger. Nor did he want to explore why he had the compelling urge to stand guard over her now, when now was absolutely the opportune time to escape. He’d assuaged his conscience with an apology and had a rational discussion with her and both things had left him feeling off kilter.

She made him feel off kilter.

‘I shall escort you home, Miss Nithercott.’ Not at all what he had intended to say.

‘There is no need. It will be light soon and it will take at least that to get the nation’s pot out of the ground.’ To prove her point, the first hints of dawn whispered in the distance.

‘Then I shall bid you a good day, Miss Nithercott.’ Before the unforgiving daylight made him more disconcerted than he already was.

There was only one metal Effie knew of which did not tarnish underground and that was gold. Although where this ancient Celtic civilisation had gold in Cambridgeshire was anybody’s guess. Cornwall perhaps was the closest place, or Wales. Both hundreds of miles to the west—not that she was an expert on British gold deposits. Yet the heavy, perfectly twisted bracelet in the palm of her hand was undoubtedly made of solid gold and completely unlike any other old jewellery she had ever seen or read about.

Judging by the sheer weight of the metal, and ancient provenance aside, it was also incredibly valuable. An inescapable fact which presented a dilemma. While Lord Rivenhall might not care about pottery or hearthstones, precious metal was another matter. It had come out of his land and so by rights it was his. Not telling him she had just uncovered a huge chunk of solid gold was dishonest.

She had to tell him.

Which necessitated breaking her agreement to stay well out of his way. And might irritate him all over again and potentially damage their truce. But what other choice did she have? Right was right, after all, and hopefully he would be reasonable enough to understand that.

She wrapped the bracelet in a handkerchief, tucked it into her battered satchel and set off in the direction of the house.

Smithson was, understandably, horrified to see her and she apologised profusely for putting him in the unenviable position of telling his unpredictable master she needed an audience. However, to the great surprise of them both, Lord Rivenhall apparently took the news well and suddenly appeared in the doorway of the drawing room looking extremely wary.