Stones of Fire

neared the city limits, he’d been in a tumult, his emotions ranging from anxiety and excitement to shame on account of his father’s indifference. Then, quite suddenly, those emotions had been superseded by a burst of exhilaration, his younger self staggered to be arriving in the most famous university city in the world — ‘that sweet city with her dreaming spires’.

‘You mentioned that you went to Oxford,’ Edie remarked, making him wonder if she might not be a mind reader. ‘This will be like a homecoming for you, huh?’

‘Hardly,’ he murmured, disinclined to reveal his tainted academic past. Particularly since she would find out soon enough.

As with most postgraduate students, he had spent two years doing field research. After which he had confined himself to his Oxford digs and commenced writing his dissertation. ‘The Manifesto’, as he’d jokingly taken to calling it, had been an exhaustive examination of the influence of Egyptian mysticism upon the Knights Templar. But to his horror the head of the history department at Queen’s College had denounced his dissertation, claiming it was a ‘hare-brained’ notion that could only have been opium-induced. Not unlike the poetry of William Blake.

Such criticism amounted to the kiss of death. Finished as an academic, he left Oxford with his tail between his legs.

What an irony that he was once again en route to the fabled city of his youth. The gods must be chortling, gleefully rubbing their hands in anticipation.

He wondered what Edie would say if he were to inform her that Moses and the Templars had been initiated into the same Egyptian mystery cult. He bit back an amused smile, certain his assertions would be met with a raised eyebrow and a witty response. Truth be told, he enjoyed their verbal jousts. While she could punch hard, hers was an open mind.

He hoped that Sir Kenneth Campbell-Brown would be equally open-minded. If not, they would have journeyed to Oxford in vain.

As Edie peered through the coach window, he in turn peered at her. The straight brows gave his companion a decidedly serious mien wholly at odds with her exuberant personality. Then there was the softness of her lips and the pale Victorian smoothness of her skin. When he first met Edie Miller, he’d thought her an unusual mix of Pre- Raphaelite beauty and quirky modernity.

Unthinkingly he raised a hand, cupping her chin between his fingers. Slowly he turned her face in his direction. Startled, her eyes and mouth opened wide. Perfect, he thought as he leaned into her, about to ascertain if those lips were as soft as they appeared.

Amazingly, they were.

Not having asked permission, he barely grazed his lips across her mouth, concerned she might baulk at his presumption. For several seconds he played the gentleman, softly applying pressure, deepening the kiss in small increments. Until she murmured something against his lips. What, he had no idea; he only knew the incoherent utterance sounded incredibly sexy. The male biological response not unlike a trigger mechanism, he shoved his tongue into her mouth. Then he clamped his hand to the back of her neck, effectively imprisoning her. Openmouthed, he kissed her wetly and deeply, doing all that he could to wed his lips to hers.

For several long moments he went at her like a mad man, his hand moving from her neck to her back, pulling her that much closer to him, not stopping until her breasts were crushed against his chest.

Not stopping until he heard a gasp from across the aisle.

Abruptly, and somewhat awkwardly, he ended the kiss. Hoping she didn’t notice the visible lump between his hips, he cleared his throat.

‘That was unplanned and… Forgive me if I acted inappropriately.’ His cheeks warmed at the butchered apology.

Wet lips curved into a fetching smile. ‘The only thing you did wrong was to end that kiss way too soon.’ Edie glanced out the window. ‘Looks like we just pulled into Oxford.’

33

Hoping she didn’t appear too awestruck, Edie discreetly checked out the buildings that fronted High Street.

Everywhere she looked there were hints, some subtle, some in your face, of Oxford’s medieval past. Battlements. Gate towers. Oriel windows. And stone. Lots and lots of stone. Varying in shade from pale silver to deep gold. All of it combining in a wondrous sort of sensory overload.

‘Where’s the university?’ she enquired, scrunching her shoulders to avoid hitting a group of midday shoppers who had just emerged from a clothes shop. She and C?dmon were en route to some pub called the Isis Room, where C?dmon seemed to think they would find Sir Kenneth Campbell-Brown.

C?dmon slowed his step as he gestured to either side of the busy thoroughfare. ‘Oxford University is everywhere and nowhere. Since leaving the bus station, we’ve already passed Jesus, Exeter and Lincoln colleges.’

‘We did?’ Edie swivelled her head, wondering how she could have missed three college campuses. She knew that Oxford University was made up of several dozen colleges spread throughout the town. Having attended a downtown college herself, she assumed there would be signs identifying the various buildings. Clearly, she’d been working under a false assumption.

‘Look for the gateways,’ C?dmon said, pointing to an imposing iron portal wedged in a stone wall. ‘They often lead to a quadrangle, most of the colleges built to the standard medieval pattern of chapel and hall flanked by residential ranges.’

Edie peered through the iron bars. Beyond the gatehouse, she glimpsed an arched portico on either side of a quadrangle.

‘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 hint of sarcasm in his voice.

‘Sounds like an academic Never-Never Land.’

‘Indeed, it was.’

‘So, where are the Lost Boys?’

His copper-coloured brows briefly furrowed. ‘Ah, the students. Michaelmas Term ended last week, so the vast majority of students have gone home for the holidays.’

‘Well that would certainly explain all the riderless bicycles,’ she said, nodding towards a mass of bikes parked in front of a stucco wall. Above the tidy lines of chained bicycles, old posters flapped in the breeze, hawking an array of student activities. Debating societies. Drama societies. Choral societies.

C?dmon’s gaze momentarily softened. ‘By their bicycles you shall know them,’ he murmured, his sarcasm replaced with something more akin to nostalgia.

Surprised by his 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 brogues. She was beginning to realize that C?dmon 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. 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, C?dmon turned his head as they passed an ATM.

‘Though sorely tempted to use the cashpoint, it would undoubtedly lead Stanford MacFarlane 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 the last count she had nearly three thousand dollars.