Emmy peered out of the narrow window as the coach rattled along. It hadn’t taken long to reach the outskirts of London, and the jumble and chaos of the capital had given way to sporadic cottages, fields of swaying barley, and the occasional village turnpike.
Her chest tightened as bittersweet memories assailed her. She’d taken this journey many times in the company of her father, whenever there had been a new jewel to deposit in the cache. It was achingly familiar: the signposts for Letchworth and Biggleswade, the undulating sweep of English countryside. Never had the fields been so green, the songs of the birds so sweet. Life seemed infinitely precious, now that her days were numbered.
They stopped to change horses at a posting inn near St. Neots, but apart from providing her with a cup of coffee and a meat pie to eat in the carriage, Harland largely ignored her. She wasn’t surprised that he didn’t want her to show her face. If someone recognized him in the company of a lone female, they would either assume she was his mistress or—worse—that the two of them were eloping. They were, after all, heading north toward Gretna Green.
The idea should have been amusing, but instead, it added to the ache in Emmy’s heart. She and Harland might have shared a night of passion, but they were far from being lovestruck swains. They weren’t even friends. They were adversaries, under a temporary truce.
She hadn’t really had time to think, back at the Tricorn, but now, trapped inside a carriage whose masculine scents of leather and horses reminded her so forcefully of Harland, she had plenty of opportunity. Her troubled thoughts were as inescapable as the man himself. Emmy shifted restlessly in her seat.
She’d given herself to him. His naked body had been next to hers. Inside hers.
The entire episode seemed almost too incredible to believe—as if she’d made love with some mystical creature who existed only in darkness and disappeared at daybreak—except her body remembered with excruciating clarity, even without visual corroboration. Her skin felt newly sensitized, invigorated, as if Harland’s touch had introduced her to a new world of sensation. Her heart pounded whenever she thought about him, and not in fear or trepidation, but with a wicked kind of anticipation.
Had last night meant anything to him, or had she been just another willing body in his bed? Emmy wrinkled her nose. He’d seemed involved. His kisses had been ardent, almost desperate. His body had been hard and ready for hers. He’d murmured her name in the darkness too. A little of her tension eased. No, he hadn’t been thinking of anybody else.
Last night had changed something inside her, changed something between them, irrevocably. She felt as if she’d been pulled apart and put back together in an entirely new configuration.
Still, she was fiercely glad it had been him. No one else would have done. He was more than a match for her. His steadiness, his resourcefulness, even his bloody-minded determination to catch her, spoke of a strength of character she couldn’t help but admire. Those traits that had led to her capture were the same ones she found irresistibly attractive. He’d outplayed her in this, the ultimate game of chase, and she couldn’t begrudge him that. She had nothing but respect for him as an adversary.
Emmy smiled sadly. Alex Harland was just as much a thief as she was. He’d stolen her heart four years ago and never given it back.
His horse drew level with the carriage, and she sneaked a glance at his profile. He looked windswept and sinfully handsome, entirely at ease in the saddle. Although he’d been in the Rifles, not a cavalry regiment, he clearly felt comfortable on horseback. The muscles of his thighs rippled beneath his soft breeches, and the way his hips rocked with the horse’s gait was positively indecent.
Emmy shoved the travel rug from her lap in irritation. It wasn’t fair. He could discompose her without even trying.
The late afternoon sun slanted through the window, warming her even further. The brass buttons on his greatcoat flashed, and a wicked idea blossomed in her brain.
He’d called her aggravating, had he not? She’d show him.
She reached into her reticule, pulled out the small mirror, and tilted it so the sun’s rays caught the surface. She trained the beam at the side of Harland’s face. The patch of concentrated light danced over his cheek and jaw, then flashed into his eyes.
He shook his head, momentarily blinded, and turned to locate the source. Emmy hastily hid the mirror in her lap. He flashed her a dangerous, suspicious look, like Lucifer brooding on some secret fantasy of rebellion. Her heart pounded, but she sent him a cheerful smile and a wave. Annoying him was still a pleasure.
They passed Alconbury, then Stilton—a village famous for its cheese—and finally Wansford, the last stop before Stamford, and their destination. Emmy recalled an amusing tale her father had once told her about how the village had come by its full name: Wansford-in-England. According to folklore, it derived from a local man who’d fallen asleep on a hayrick and, upon awakening, found himself floating down the River Nene. Panicked, he’d asked a traveler on the riverbank where he was, and upon hearing the reply “Wansford,” he’d asked, “Wansford in England?” The simple man had been afraid he’d floated out to sea and across to another country.
Emmy sighed. If only she could escape her current situation by floating away down a river.
Frothy white flowerheads of cow parsley and cornflowers the color of Harland’s eyes bobbed in the hedgerows but Emmy glanced doubtfully at the darkening sky up ahead. Despite the sunshine, an ominous bank of clouds hovered on the horizon, threatening rain in the not-so-distant future. It wouldn’t be fully dark until around ten, so they had a few hours before sunset, but she hoped they completed their task quickly. She wasn’t dressed for rain.
When they stopped for a second time, at the George Inn at Stamford, Harland dismounted and indicated for the driver of her coach to climb down. She slid open the window as he came to the door of the carriage.
“We’ll go on alone from here,” he said. “Which way?”
She gave him directions and felt the conveyance tilt and bounce on its springs as he climbed up front. It took another twenty minutes driving back out into the countryside before they reached the spot. “Stop here!” Emmy called.
He pulled the horses to a halt, and she didn’t wait for him to help her down. She lowered the step herself and jumped into the narrow lane, glad to be out of the confining carriage. They were deep in the country, far from the town, and the road they were on was little more than an overgrown farm track. Trees flanked the high verges on either side.
“It’s too narrow to take the carriage any farther,” she explained. “We’ll have to walk from here.” She pointed uphill through the trees. “Grandfather’s hunting lodge is just over there, but the ruins are this way. Come on.”
Harland unhitched the horses from the carriage and secured them where they could crop the grass of the verge. He shrugged out of his greatcoat, threw it into the carriage, then followed her as she started along the narrow lane.
Emmy glanced back. His sinfully broad chest and shoulders were sun-dappled by the leaves, and his face wore an expression of resignation. She couldn’t resist teasing him.
“Don’t you have a shovel?” she asked innocently. “A pickaxe?”
He frowned. “What for?”
“To dig up the treasure, of course. We’ll need to move a lot of earth and stones. Father always brought a crowbar. And a series of pulleys.”
He sent her an exasperated glare. “You never mentioned needing a blasted—”
Her smile gave her away, and he stopped midsentence and fisted his hands on his hips. “You little wretch. I don’t need anything, do I?”
“Only your hands and a little brute strength.” She chuckled.
She beckoned him on, leaving the main track to push between the trees and into the wilderness of brambles, grasses, and ferns. She could hear Harland snapping twigs and rustling leaves behind her.
“Are you sure this is the way?” he asked.
“Oh, yes. It’s not buried near the main house.”
“Of course it isn’t,” he grumbled. “Heaven forbid it should be somewhere easily accessible. Knowing your family, I expect there’s a series of booby traps and obstacles to maim us before we reach it. Don’t tell me, we have to swim through an eel-infested moat and crawl through a pit of brambles just to get close?”
She grinned at his morbid humor. He certainly was grouchy. Was he experiencing the same sexual frustration as she was? The same impotent fury at being thrust into this impossible situation? She hoped so.
Acorns and beech nuts blanketed the ground and crunched underfoot, and Emmy sucked in a deep appreciative breath. She loved the clean country air. It was a world away from the capital’s smoke-filled smog. Green leaves made a canopy above them, and the last of the day’s warmth filtered through. It wasn’t hot and lush, like the ambassador’s conservatory, nor was it rigidly tended like the pleasure gardens at Vauxhall. It was nature, wild and unplanned.
Everything in London had been tamed. Not just the gardens, but every person too—hemmed in by society’s rules, trained like vines over a trellis. Everyone was supposed to go in the same direction; any infringement would lead to exclusion and social ostracism. Anything too wild was forced back into line. Girls were scolded for laughing too loudly, for dancing too enthusiastically. For revealing they had a working brain. Part of Emmy’s delight in thieving had come from the knowledge that she was subverting every expectation. Breaking all the rules.
Except breaking the rules came with a high price if you were caught.
She glanced around, and for a brief, panicked moment she thought she’d forgotten the way, but then the trees thinned out and she saw the clearing she’d been seeking.
The ivy-clad ruins were as picturesque as she remembered. Grey stones, green with moss, were interspersed with later portions of crumbling red brick. Emmy dodged a patch of stinging nettles and rounded a waist-high wall to enter a roofless nave, the far end of which contained a circular window with two arches but no glass. No wooden beams or rafters remained. Doorways on what would have been the upper floors opened onto nothing. A set of crumbling stone steps led up to thin air.
Once, this had been a proper church, full of color and life. Emmy imagined it decorated as if for a wedding, with a roof, and pews, flowers, and candles. Rays of sunlight would pierce the stained-glass windows and sprinkle their jewel colors on the white cloth of the altar. A man would be waiting for her at the end of the aisle with a kind-faced priest ready to join them in holy matrimony. Emmy would walk forward, jittery with excitement and nerves. The man’s back would be facing her, his shoulders broad, but she knew his identity with a bittersweet certainty. Alex Harland would turn and smile at her as if he were the luckiest man in the world—
She tripped over a protruding stone and stifled a curse. Such foolish, impossible dreams. She turned and pasted a bright smile on her face as Harland stepped up behind her.
“What is this place?” he asked.
“It used to be an abbey, built by Cistercian monks. It fell into disrepair in the 1500s when Henry VIII dissolved the monasteries and took all their wealth for himself.” She shot him a glance over her shoulder. “Just think, all that social and political upheaval just because he wanted to divorce his first wife, Catherine of Aragon, and marry Anne Boleyn.”
Harland’s lips curved upwards. “Cherchez la femme.”
She raised her brows.
“It’s a French saying,” he said. “Surely your grandmother uses it? It means whenever there’s a problem, or a man behaving stupidly or out of character, there’s usually a woman at the heart of it.”
She shot him an indignant glare. “Oh, that’s typical—blame the woman! Men can make fools of themselves perfectly well on their own, without any help from us.”
His expression hardened. “How very true, Miss Danvers.”