One Touch of Magic (6 page)

“Are you certain?”

“Of course.”

He gave her a smile of such sweetness and humor that Sarah almost melted beneath it. He acted as if she had handed him a diamond. “Thank you, Lady Iverson. It will remind me of my father’s collection, until I can unpack it and display it all at Ransome Hall—and it will also remind me of this day.”

Sarah smiled in return. “Would you care to see the rest of the objects we have found? We keep them in the old stable up on that hill, until I can find them a more suitable home.”

“I would like that very much.”

He held his arm out to her, and she slipped her hand into its warm crook. They might almost have been stepping into a ballroom rather than a dusty stable so formal and gallant was he. Sarah wished for one instant that she was wearing a silk gown and diamonds, and that her hair was properly dressed. How would Lord Ransome look at her then? With admiration?

She shook her head, and tried to push those thoughts back. She was not here for such frivolous things as gowns and flirtations! She was here to work.

And
only
work.

Miles followed Lady Iverson into the dim cavern of the old stable, ducking his head to avoid a low-hanging spiderweb. The only light was from sunshine through the chinks of the wooden walls, pale bars where dust motes danced. The floor was covered by a layer of fresh straw, and the air smelled of its sweetness and the warmth of the day. Lady Iverson’s skirt stirred the straw when she walked across the building.

He thought again how very different she was from any other lady he had ever met. She worked out under the sun, uncaring of her attire or her complexion, intent only on the nine-hundred-year-old objects she was unearthing. When she spoke of her work, her eyes glowed, and her mobile mouth turned up with eagerness. Her hand, when she reached out to give him the tiny metal link, was tanned and dusty. Her gown was far from fashionable, and covered with a stained apron.

But, for all that—
because
of all that—she was lovely. Miles was drawn to her inexorably. He wanted to be near her brightness, her vitality, and absorb some of it into himself.

He had been so tired since the end of the war, bone-deep tired, but so restless at the same time. On the Peninsula, there had been times of maddening boredom, yet he had always known that he had a purpose there. And he was good at the military life, too. He took care of his men, and won accolades—some perhaps even deserved—for his actions in battle.

He sometimes wondered if he could be half as good being a marquis, if he could find a purpose here, as Lady Iverson obviously had. He was beginning to imagine that helping former soldiers in these difficult times could be that new purpose. He just had to decide how to begin.

There was a rustling sound from the far end of the stable, and he turned his attention back to Lady Iverson. She had gone to a row of tables, and was pulling canvas covers from them. He moved closer, and saw that the tables were laden with objects of every shape and size, many of them quite unrecognizable, all of them neatly labeled.

“These are items we found in House A,” she said. “Mostly domestic items, of course, and things that would have belonged to a lady. Glass beds, soapstone spindles, and bowls—the soapstone would have been imported from Norway, so I assume these people were originally Norwegians. Some pottery storage jars. We found seeds in them, which a friend of my husband’s, who is a noted botanist, says are barley, wheat, and dill.”

Her gaze softened when she mentioned her late husband. Miles wondered with an odd pang if she still loved him, still longed for him. “What are these?” he asked, trying to shake off those disquieting thoughts by leaning over an array of beautifully decorated silver items. “They’re quite lovely.”

Lady Iverson smiled softly, as if she had a particular affection for these pieces. “Indeed, they are. These are a pair of silver brooches, which would have fastened a lady’s overdress. We found them in House A, along with these amber beads and enameled armbands. Even though the house is small, the inhabitants must have been well-to-do to own such things. There was also this. It is one of my favorites.”

She held up an ivory comb, carved with a fantastical, dragonlike creature that writhed along its handle, entwined with flowers and leaves.

Miles suddenly had an odd flash, a picture in his mind of Lady Iverson seated beside a fire, her dark hair spread over her shoulders. She wore only a simple white tunic, and she pulled the pretty ivory comb through her curls. She looked up at him, and gave him a smile so full of passion and sweetness that it pierced right to his heart.

He closed his eyes against this odd, disturbing vision. He barely knew Lady Iverson, and soon they would have to have a serious discussion about her leaving the work she so obviously loved. It would never do to imagine her in such an intimate way, even if it made sense—which it did not.

He pressed his hand to his brow, and his mind went blank.

“Lord Ransome?” he heard her say. Her voice sounded worried, but quite ordinary. It brought him back to the present moment, to the reality of their situation. “Are you ill?”

He opened his eyes, and looked down at her. She stared at him with her almond-shaped, dark eyes. “No, not at all. A mere instant of dizziness.”

“It is rather warm in here,” she said. “I cannot work in here for very long myself. Shall we go back outside?”

“Yes, of course.” Miles watched as she replaced the comb on its labeled spot on the table, then offered her his arm to lead her back out into the sunlight.

Fortunately, the vision or picture or whatever it had been, had quite vanished, as if it were just so much mist. But it left a most odd feeling in its wake, and he could no longer see Lady Iverson in quite the same manner he had before—as a pretty, interesting lady he would like to get to know better. Something new and intense came forward when she laid her hand on his arm, something he did not understand at all.

Perhaps he should speak to her now about the land and his plans for it. It would be better to have that all out in the open, to have honesty and reality between them.

“Lady Iverson,” he began.

“Yes, Lord Ransome?” she said, turning her gaze up to him.

Blast, but it was harder than he would have thought to speak to her about such things, when she looked at him so guilelessly.

But he had to do it. “I think I should tell you—”

“Sarah! Lord Ransome!” a voice called, and Mary Ann Bellweather came dashing up the pathway, a leather portfolio in her arms. “There you are. You had quite disappeared.”

Lady Iverson turned to her sister with a smile, and Miles could have kissed the girl’s cheek for saving him. He
did
have to speak about the land, but he felt a rather deep relief that he wouldn’t have to just yet. It was cowardly of him, he knew, but there it was.

Now he could just enjoy the rest of the afternoon in Lady Iverson’s company.

Sarah watched as Lord Ransome examined Mary Ann’s sketches. He was obviously not as ignorant as he claimed, because he asked very intelligent questions about the drawings and the site. Mary Ann chatted and laughed, her cheeks pink with delight that someone was looking at her work.

They might have opposing ideas about the best use for this land, Sarah thought, but she could not help but be thankful to him for drawing Mary Ann out. Her sister had been uncharacteristically quiet since she came here, and Sarah knew she was moping over the lost Mr. Hamilton. Sarah had considered taking away the novels she was always reading, and asking Phoebe not to send her any more, because they were giving her false ideas of love and romance.

Today, though, she chattered just like the old Mary Ann, holding up a sketch of a reconstructed Viking house. She pointed out the central hearth, the built-in benches along the walls which would be covered with furs for sleeping at night. Lord Ransome nodded, carefully listening to her.

Sarah pretended to be absorbed in writing in her notebook. She was meant to be taking notes on the newest finds in the smithy, but in reality she was not sure exactly what it was she was writing down. All she could think of was that odd look on Lord Ransome’s face when she showed him the ivory comb. He had looked—thunder-struck was the only word for it. He had stared at her as if he had never seen her before in his life, as if she was some strange new life-form.

Or as if he did not see
her,
Sarah Iverson, at all.

Sarah herself sometimes had odd reactions to some of the artifacts. She would hold a brooch or a spindle, and flashes of some other life would come into her mind. That was only because she was so deeply absorbed in the work, though, and the life of centuries past sometimes seemed more real to her than the present day.

The present day seemed very real indeed, however, when she was near Lord Ransome. It was hard to focus on her work, or the Vikings, or anything else when he stood close to her. He smelled delicious, like soap and wool and horses, like the clean autumn breeze. When he leaned over to closely examine the sketch, a lock of sun golden hair fell across his brow, making Sarah long to brush it back, to feel its silk under her fingers. She wondered what it would feel like to lay her finger on the dimple in his cheek. . . .

Fool!
she berated herself, and sternly turned her gaze back to her notebook. She was getting quite as silly as Mary Ann, and it would just have to stop.

“Your sister is a very talented artist, Lady Iverson,” he said, breaking into her thoughts. His voice was polite and brisk, bringing a much needed reality into this odd day.

Sarah pushed away the notebook, and looked up to see Lord Ransome and her sister watching her. She smiled, hoping she seemed as normal as they did. “Yes, she is. I wish I was half as fine. She does a wonderful job of envisioning what the buildings would have looked like when they were new.”

Mary Ann blushed and ducked her head, shuffling the sketches into a neat pile. As Sarah watched her, she realized she should compliment her sister more on her talents. Perhaps then Mary Ann would not dwell so much on her romantical infatuations.

Just as Sarah was beginning to dwell too much on Lord Ransome, after just a short acquaintance.

Lord Ransome drew out one of the sketches, a depiction of the leather-worker’s shop. “This is very interesting. Which, er, site is this?”

Sarah looked out from the shady spot under the grove of trees where they sat, out along the sun-drenched village. It was quiet now, all the workers still gone for luncheon, and she was able to see every carefully marked spot on the ancient street. “That one there, at the very end on the left,” she said, gesturing toward it.

Lord Ransome studied it for a moment, using his hand to shade his eyes. He looked very serious, and for a moment Sarah could imagine him as he must have appeared before a battle, scanning the enemy’s position.

“Why is it so much deeper than the other dwellings?” he asked. “They’re quite shallow, especially the ones farther out, while that one appears to be a veritable pit.”

“It had a cellar of sorts, which we discovered as we dug into it. It was the first building John—my husband—worked on, where your uncle found the coins. We believe the craftsman kept his shop above, and worked in the cellar.”

“I see,” Lord Ransome said. “And why are the beams laid across it?”

Before Sarah could answer, Mary Ann blurted, “Because there was a terrible cave-in, caused by the ghost! Sarah doesn’t want anyone to fall in.”

Lord Ransome looked at Sarah sharply, his blue eyes narrowed. “A cave-in? Mr. Benson told me of it. Was anyone injured?”

“Not at all. It happened at night, not long after my husband passed away,” Sarah said. She hadn’t wanted to tell him of any of the troubles at the village yet, for fear he would think her a silly, incompetent woman. “And it certainly wasn’t
terrible,
Mary Ann; you mustn’t exaggerate. It was simply one of those things that happens occasionally, though, of course, we always do our best to be certain everything is properly secured.” She sent her sister a stern glance. “It certainly was not caused by a ghost.”

Mary Ann made a doubtful moue with her mouth. She loved the legends, and would listen endlessly to the local farmers’ tales.

“The Viking witch Thora?” Lord Ransome asked, that hint of laughter back in his voice.

Sarah sighed inwardly. That ridiculous story was always going to haunt her here—so to speak. Even he, who had only been in the neighborhood a short while, knew of it. “Indeed. So you have been told the tale, Lord Ransome?”

“Only a very bare outline. That Thora has a treasure here, and will curse any who touch it.” He looked down at her, his eyes sparkling, as if inviting her to share some joke. As if they were some sort of kindred spirits.

Sarah couldn’t help but smile in return. She opened her mouth to answer, to dismiss the stories, but Mary Ann leaped in first.

“Oh, no!” Mary Ann said earnestly. “That is not the entire tale. The treasure was left to Thora by her true love, who entrusted it to her before he left on a long voyage back to Norway. But he never returned, and Thora mourned him all the rest of her days. When she died, she put a spell on it saying that only those pure of heart and true of love—her real heirs—can safely touch it.” Her dark eyes shone as she recited this.

Sarah stared at her sister in amazement. “Mary Ann, wherever did you hear all that?”

Mary Ann looked away, and shrugged. “Oh, here and there.”

“It sounds as though it came directly from one of your Minerva Press novels,” Sarah said.

“No!” Mary Ann protested. “Every bit is true.”

“Well, I think it sounds quite fascinating, Miss Bellweather,” Lord Ransome said, his voice kind and full of a smile. “I would love to hear more about the legend. Which reminds me of my other purpose in coming here today.”

“Other purpose, Lord Ransome?” Sarah asked, glad they were moving away from talk of ghosts and curses. Glad—but also apprehensive. Was he going to say she would have to give up the land now?