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After Jamie left, Martin settled into the main tent and started sorting through the latest finds. Since he had not been here to record them, he started the meticulous task of numbering each item, logging it into the inventory, and setting it in the correct bin. He would write up the summaries later.
The wind picked up outside, pressing against the side of the tent. Martin had forgotten to tie down the flap, and it snapped as the wind caught it.
“One minute,” he muttered. “As soon as I finish this batch.”
The sound faded as he became absorbed in his work, marveling over what the students had discovered. His leg finally broke through, the ache pulling his attention away from the artifact in his hand.
“I suppose we can take a short break,” he muttered. He set the artifact on the table and reached down to massage his thigh.
Something clanked against the tent pole behind him. He froze when that something landed on the ground next to his foot.
A knife.
“Bloody hell—” He snapped his head up—just in time to see Geoffrey lunge at him.
He pushed against the table, his leg buckling when he tried to stand. Geoffrey caught his right arm and slammed him against the tent pole. His free hand found Martin’s leg, his fingers digging in.
“Where is the box?”
Martin swallowed, fighting past the pain in his leg. “In a safe place.”
“I will find my own safe place, Pembroke.” He let go, and Martin caught the pole, his leg refusing to hold his weight. “That seal box is mine, and I will have it.”
Geoffrey twisted his fingers into the front of Martin’s jacket and yanked him off the pole, dragging him across the tent.
A car waited outside, and the fact that Martin didn’t hear it told him how distracted he got when he was working. Geoffrey all but threw him at the side of the car, following with his fist—directly into Martin’s leg. He doubled, clutching the door handle.
“Tell me where the box is, Pembroke.” He snarled when Martin didn’t answer, leaning in until his breath heated Martin’s cheek. “I visited your lovely American wife.”
Anger burst through the pain. Martin straightened enough to grab Geoffrey’s coat. “If you—touched her—”
“You are hardly in a position to threaten, Pembroke. I am, however.”
Before Martin could react, fresh pain flared in his right side. He gasped, spotting the knife in Geoffrey’s hand.
“Now, Pembroke, shall we try this again?” The knife slid in deeper, and Martin’s good leg gave under him. With an impatient growl, Geoffrey hauled him up and pinned him against the car. “I will happily return to that Victorian pile you call home and question your wife again.”
“No—please—” He fought to breathe past the pain.
“Where is the box?”
“Museum,” Martin whispered. He closed his eyes, prayed that Spencer would not be there—or stand in Geoffrey’s way if he was. “At—Holmestead museum.”
“Very good.” He slid the knife free, and Martin nearly passed out. “Stay with me, Pembroke.” Careless hands hauled him off the car, pushed him into the passenger seat, and buckled him in. “Safety first.”
Martin would have laughed if it didn’t hurt to merely breathe. He pressed his hand to the wound in his side, sucking in a raw breath at the contact. When Geoffrey slammed the driver’s side door, Martin bit back a cry.
“You had best be telling the truth, Pembroke.” He started the car and jammed his foot on the gas pedal. “Or we will be visiting your wife. Together.”