C. Palov - Ark of Fire

“That’s a formidable entrance. Guess it’s meant to keep the little people out, huh?”

“Having spent an inordinate amount of time on the other side of those ‘formidable’ gateways, I always thought they were intended to keep the students from leaving. The college’s way of cultivating a slavish devotion to one’s alma mater.” Edie wasn’t certain, but she thought she detected a slight hint of sarcasm in his voice.

“Sounds like an academic Never Never Land.”

“Indeed, it was.”

“So, where are the Lost Boys?”

His copper-colored brows briefly furrowed. “Ah! You speak of the students. Michaelmas term ended last week, the vast majority of students having gone home for the holidays.”

“Well that would certainly explain all the riderless bicycles,” she said, nodding toward a crowded line of bikes parked in front of a stucco wall. Above the tidy line of bicycles, old posters flapped in the breeze, hawking an array of student activities. Debate societies. Drama societies. Choral societies.

Caedmon’s gaze momentarily softened. “By their bicycles you shall know them,” he murmured, his sarcasm replaced with something more akin to nostalgia.

Surprised by the sudden shift in mood, Edie surreptitiously checked out her companion, her gaze moving from the top of his thick thatch of red hair to the tips of his black leather oxfords. She was beginning to realize that Caedmon Aisquith was a complicated man. Or maybe she was just dense when it came to men. He’d certainly taken her by surprise with the killer kiss. For some idiotic reason, she’d assumed that because he was such a brainiac, he lived a monkish existence. And wasn’t that a stupid assumption? Given the passionate smooch on the bus, he’d make a lousy monk.

Wonder what kind of lover he’d make?

Giving the question several moments’ thought, she decided it was impossible to tell, the cultured accent acting like a smokescreen. Although the unexpected kiss most definitely hinted at a deeper passion.

Oblivious to the fact that he was being ogled, Caedmon turned his head as they passed an ATM.

“Though I’m sorely tempted to use the Cashpoint, it would undoubtedly lead Stanford McFarlane right to us.”

“Don’t worry. As keeper of the vault, I can assure you that there are enough funds to keep us afloat. At least for a little while.” The airline tickets and new clothes had set them back a bit, but at last count she had nearly eighteen hundred dollars in the “vault.”

“Being a kept man doesn’t sit well with me. Bruised ego and all that.”

She affected a stunned expression. “You’re kidding, right? We’ve spent three days together and only now am I learning that you object to being my sex slave?” Playing the bit for all it was worth, she theatrically sighed. “Here I thought you were having the time of your life.”

To her surprise, Caedmon blushed, his cheeks as red as Christmas berries. Raising a balled hand to his mouth, he cleared his throat.

“ Hel-lo . I’m teasing. You’re hardly a kept man,” she assured him, amused by his embarrassment.

“Then how about spotting me two quid for a pint of lager?” Taking her by the elbow, Caedmon ushered her to a wood-paneled door. Above the door, a brightly painted sign emblazoned with the pub’s moniker swung from a metal bracket.

“Be my pleasure, luv,” she replied in a thick Cockney accent.

Not expecting the interior to be so dim, it took several seconds of squinting before her pupils adjusted, the room bathed in soft amber light. All in all, the joint was pretty much as she’d envisioned an English pub—wood-paneled walls, wood-beamed ceiling, and wood tables and chairs scattered about. Framed lithographs of British sea battles hung on the cream-colored walls, and a limp bouquet of mistletoe was tacked above the Battle of Trafalgar.

Her eyes zeroed in on the easel where a chalkboard listed the day’s menu. Homemade lentil soup. Two-cheese quiche. Seafood salad. She placed a hand over her abdomen, having long since digested the rubbery chicken cordon bleu that she’d been served on the transatlantic flight.

“Any idea what this Sir Kenneth character looks like?” she asked over the top of a very unladylike stomach growl.

“Ruddy cheeks, aquiline nose, and a pewter-colored mop of curly hair. Looks like a Devon Longwool sheep before the spring shearing. You can’t miss him.”

Edie scanned the crowded pub. “How about we divide and conquer? You take that side of the room and I’ll take the other.”

“Right.”

A few seconds later, seeing a man of middling height with curly gray hair standing at the bar, Edie headed in that direction. Raising her hand to catch Caedmon’s attention, she pointed to her suspect. For several seconds Caedmon stared at the man’s backside, drilling the proverbial hole right through the older man’s head. She wasn’t certain, but she thought Caedmon straightened his shoulders before heading toward the bar.

Reaching the target a few seconds ahead of Caedmon, she lightly tapped the gray-haired man on the shoulder.

“Excuse me. You wouldn’t happen to be Sir Kenneth Campbell-Brown?”

The gray-haired slowly man turned toward her. Although he was decked out in a brown leather bomber jacket, with a red cashmere scarf jauntily wrapped around his neck, he resembled nothing so much as a woolly ram; Caedmon’s description had been right on the mark.

“Well, I’m not the bloody Prince of Wales.”

“Ah! Still the amiable Oxford don much beloved by students and fellows alike,” Caedmon said, having overheard the exchange.

Slightly bug-eyed by nature, Sir Kenneth became even more so as he turned in the direction of Caedmon’s voice. “Good God! I thought you crawled into a hole and died! What the bloody hell are you doing in Oxford? I didn’t think the Boar’s Head Gaudy your cup of tea.”

“You’re quite right. In the thirteen years since I left, I’ve yet to attend the Old Members’ Christmas dinner.”

The older man snickered. “I suspect that’s because your softhearted sympathies go out to the apple-stuffed swine. So, tell me, young Aisquith, if the pig is not your purpose, what bringeth you to ‘the high shore of this world’?”

“As fate would have it, you’re the reason why I’m in Oxford.” Outwardly calm—maybe too calm given the older man’s condescension—Caedmon redirected his gaze in Edie’s direction. “Excuse me. I’ve been remiss. Edie Miller, may I present Professor Sir Kenneth Campbell-Brown, senior fellow at Queen’s College.”

Sir Kenneth acknowledged the introduction with a slight nod of his woolly head. “I am also the head of the history department, secretary of the Tutorial Committee, defender of the realm, and protector of women and small children,” he informed her, speaking in beautifully precise pear-shaped tones. “I am also the man responsible for booting your erstwhile swain out of Oxford.”

CHAPTER 34

“Mind you, that was long years ago,” Sir Kenneth added, still addressing his remarks to Edie. Then, turning to Caedmon, “Water under the Magdalen Bridge, eh?”

Refusing to be drawn into that particular conversation—one could drown in a shallow puddle if led there by the woolly-headed don—Caedmon jutted his chin toward the far side of the pub. “Shall we adjourn to the vacant booth in the corner?”

“An excellent suggestion.” Smiling, Sir Kenneth placed a hand on Edie’s elbow. “And what is your pleasure, my dear?”

“Oh, I’ll just have a glass of water,” she demurred. “It’s a little early for kicking back the brewskies.”