Gareth
Gareth leaned against the wall of the ancient chapel, completely concealed by it as he listened to the conversation between Elaine and her aunt.
Such a romantic notion, this idea that Camelot was a state of mind. And utter nonsense. He’d already learned that life was simply one disappointment after another. Rejection. Death. And more death.
If Camelot was real, he’d not found it yet. He’d found the opposite. Elaine’s prompt dismissal of his affection. The death of his closest friend. Then his father’s murder. Hardly idyllic.
Miss Tippet appeared again beside him. She’d wandered in and out of the ruins with great stamina—much more than Gareth had expected from the woman recently complaining about the length of High Street.
“What do you think this room was? The nursery, perhaps? Or guest chambers? Maybe the kitchen.” She glanced around, then added, “Where did they get the wood?”
An astute observation, considering the headland was barren of all but rocks and tussock grass waving in the breeze—a breeze that had already stiffened in the time they’d been there. “I don’t know,” he said. “Perhaps they had it brought in from the Forest of Halwill.”
“Of course,” Miss Tippet answered. “That makes sense. He was the king; he could have brought it from wherever he wanted.” She moved right on to her next question. “Did he worship the Green Man? I’ve heard that people from the West Country worshiped the Green Man.”
“Hello?” Elaine’s head peeked around the corner through a gap in the wall.
Miss Tippet had given him away.
“Miss Cardinham,” Gareth said. “Miss Tippet was just asking me about the Green Man.” Gareth crossed into the remains of the chapel, where Elaine and her aunt had been talking. Miss Tippet followed close behind.
“I’ve heard that many people here in the West Country worshiped the Green Man. I was wondering if that was true,” Miss Tippet clarified.
“Interesting question, Miss Tippet,” he said. “Many of the churches in this area have carvings of the Green Man—a face of a bearded man surrounded by leaves and vines.”
Miss Tippet was a curious creature. She had jumped from question to question faster than a rabbit zigzagging its way across an open field.
“I think there was some confusion in those days as to whom they should worship,” he explained. “As the old ways died out, making way for Christianity, there was some overlap in what to believe.”
“What does that mean?” Miss Tippet asked.
“It means that even though we are standing in what’s left of a Christian chapel, they also believed in wizards and dragons and probably the Green Man.”
“So they weren’t Christians?”
“They were,” he said. “Just confused.”
“Oh, look!” Miss Tippet pointed out into the sea off the headland.
Gareth followed her white-gloved hand. Out on the water, a small skiff was rowing away around the edge of the cliffs and quickly moving out of sight.
“Who was that?” Elaine asked.
“Smugglers.” Gareth had no doubt about it. There was a good chance they were the same ones who had killed his father. Blackguards. These vermin clung to their territory like ravens guarding their nests. Curse them all.
He turned and looked up the long path to the carriages in the distance. If he left now, he could make it to Camelford in less than an hour and rally some men to go after them. Old Jonesy over to Tremerton had a little dinghy he could borrow—if the ancient thing still floated. He could go to Mr. Tippet if that poor excuse for a Landguard could be moved to act. But by St. Just, he’d see those men hanged.
He felt a hand on his arm. Elaine’s.
She shook her head. “You will never catch them. They will be long gone.”
She was right, of course. He’d never find them. But it was the way her fingers wrapped around his arm that took his mind off the smugglers. So at odds with her civil and distant demeanor toward him of late. She’d read his mind precisely, without a single word. Perhaps he needed lessons from her.
“Catch who?” Miss Tippet asked. “The smugglers? My father says it is a wasted effort. By the time one smuggler is caught, five more step up to take his place.”
Elaine’s hand tightened on his arm, restraining him. “Like the Hydra,” she said. “An apt description, Miss Tippet.”
Miss Tippet had just confirmed what he’d feared all along; he would be getting no help from the Landguard to bring his father’s killers to justice. Tippet had probably already been bought by them, cheerfully volunteering as one of the new five.
“Look what I found,” Beaford called as he came striding across the grass, the great and honorable Lord Chiverton at his side.
Elaine jumped. She took a few steps back from Gareth, folding her arms across her front, then letting them fall to her sides.
“What?” Miss Tippet asked, striding forward to see whatever it was she thought Beaford might have found.
Beaford stared at her for a moment, then looked pointedly at Chiverton.
Miss Tippet kept her eyes on Beaford. “What did you find?”
“Lord Chiverton,” Beaford said.
Miss Tippet seemed rather disappointed, despite the fact that Chiverton was considered the handsomest man to grace Camelford in the last decade. What more could she have been hoping for?
The man cut a fine figure as he crossed the green, going immediately to Elaine’s side. She seemed eager to please him, though Gareth found little to recommend other than looks and land. Perhaps that was enough for her.
As to fortune, there was no guarantee he wasn’t in need of funds to keep his estate intact. But if that were the case, Gareth doubted he’d be interested in Elaine. She had a small dowry but not enough to attract the really desperate men.
He should ask around and see what he could dig up about Chiverton. After her father’s humiliation at being driven from London by an irate general, it was more than a little bewildering that such a man would still associate with a woman whose family had been scandalized in such an indelicate way.
Or perhaps Gareth was letting his cynicism rule the day. He could not fault a man for wanting to be with Elaine. He’d tried himself to gain her hand—and he’d been promptly and firmly put in his place.
Chiverton was the kind of man she had set her sights on from the very beginning. He also hoped the man would fall off the cliffs onto some very jagged rocks below. Far below.
Chiverton took Elaine by the hand. “Forgive me. Charles here has reminded me that I’ve been gone far too long. I’m afraid the allurement of this place took hold of me.” He glanced around the group, his eyes landing on Miss Tippet. “Do you not agree with me, Miss Tippet? There is a kind of magic here that draws one in and doesn’t seem to let go?”
“Yes. Oh, yes. I’ve never seen anything like it.”
Chiverton turned to Elaine. “And what about you, my dear?
She cast Gareth a somber glance, one he did not think he was meant to see.
After his unwanted proposal, Gareth highly doubted she would use the word magic to describe Tintagel. He had inadvertently but most effectively ruined it for her.
She gave Chiverton a smile. “Yes, it’s very enchanting.” Her time in London had honed her skills at evading.
Chiverton took her hand in a gallant gesture. “The ruins of Tintagel are not the only thing that is enchanting.”
Gareth nearly choked. Smooth-tongued as a snake, Chiverton. If he’d paid any attention to her at all, he should know by now that she disliked such attention in front of a crowd, even if that crowd consisted of friends and family.
Elaine tugged her hand away, her face now redder than a ripe tomato. But she did seem pleased by his compliment. Too pleased. He hoped again that Chiverton would take another walk along the clifftops. Then with any luck, a strong wind would come up, and whoosh. Problem solved.
Not that Chiverton was his problem. He was Elaine’s husband-to-be. And Gareth had washed his hands of her. He’d promised himself not to think on her anymore. Unfortunately, the more he was around her, the more difficult his task.
“Now,” Chiverton said. “Who wants to go down to the cave?”
Beaford glanced down, grim-faced, at the steep slope leading to the beach and cave below.
“I’m afraid I’ve got my heart set on seeing the well and the northern ruins. You’ll have to count me out,” Mrs. Beaford said.
She fooled no one, except perhaps Miss Tippet. She meant to keep her loyal husband from having to carry her all the way down—then all the way back up—the winding, uneven, and rather treacherous slope.
“That’s my cue,” Beaford said, leaning into his wife’s chair and pushing her off. “See you after,” he called over his shoulder.
Chiverton started back toward the narrow bridge of land with Elaine’s hand tucked neatly into his perfect arm. It was from here the trail wound down to the beach and Merlin’s Cave.
Gareth escorted Miss Tippet down the steep slope to the beach. She clung to him, taking care with each step until Gareth thought it would be nightfall before they reached the bottom. The tide was well on its way in. Hopefully Miss Tippet didn’t mind getting her boots wet.
He guided her across the sand, catching up with Chiverton and Elaine at the cavern’s entrance. From the piece of conversation he overheard as they approached, Elaine was trying to get Chiverton to go in without her.