“Almost four hundred years ago.” Looking at the pages Ford was carefully turning, she could believe the book was that old. “What happened then?”
“Lully eventually left England to resume his travels, but it was thought he left the book behind. It was supposed to have been written in language that’s difficult to read.”
She held out a hand, and wordlessly, he passed her the open book. She removed her spectacles and peered at the spiky writing. She couldn’t read a word. Some of it didn’t even look like words, but more like symbols.
“Do you suppose it’s Phoenician, like the Tablet?” she asked.
“I have no idea. Legend has it that the book changed hands a few times and then disappeared in the fourteenth century, never to be seen again.”
“Until now.”
“Maybe.” His eyes appeared wistful. “It looks old enough, doesn’t it?”
“It would be priceless, wouldn’t it?” Imagine being able to produce gold. Caught up in his excitement, she handed back the book. “You could sell that for a fortune. An unbelievable fortune.”
“I’d never sell it.” He clutched the book to his chest. “If it’s the missing volume, I’ll never, ever sell it. Even should it turn out not to divulge a working formula.”
“You’d feel the same even if it couldn’t help you make gold?” Surprised, and yet somehow not, she slipped her spectacles back on to study his face. “I wouldn’t have taken you for a romantic,” she said softly.
“Who, me?” he murmured, holding her gaze for a long moment, a hint of a smile tugging at his lips.
Silently, he sat himself on the bed, stretched out his legs, and scooted over until he was right beside Violet, pressed against her from shoulder to hip.
Speechless, she looked down. Unwilling to meet his eyes, her own wandered the length of his legs. They looked lean and athletic, his ankles crossed in a relaxed manner.
With every nerve in her body humming, she wasn’t relaxed at all.
“Raymond Lully is the stuff of legends,” he continued calmly, as if oblivious to their improper proximity. “Any book he’d written would hold an immeasurable amount of historic and sentimental value. It would be an honor to own it, no matter what it said.”
When he fell silent again, she forced her gaze to his face, and the expression there told her he wasn’t oblivious at all.
He knew exactly how uncomfortable he was making her.
This was ridiculous.
And now that she’d met his eyes, she couldn’t seem to stop staring at them. She felt trapped in their infinite blue depths.
Faith, she was thinking like Rose. She’d never taken herself for a romantic—she was far too sensible!
But currently behaving very insensibly, indeed. The barge slowed and bumped against a dock, but it didn't jar her from the spell Ford seemed to have woven around her.
She licked her lips.
“And what of you?” he asked, his voice soft but his eyes dancing. “Are you a romantic?” Without waiting for an answer, he leaned forward, brushing a hand over her cheek, and—
Harry pulled open the door.
“Will this do, my lord?” He gestured at the scenery behind him, which included a respectable old riverside inn that boasted tables along the bank of the Thames.
To Harry’s credit, he didn’t blink when he saw them spring apart. And, thank the heavens above, Ford managed to lever himself into a standing position before the children arrived in the doorway.
“It will do very well,” he said. “Thank you.”
TWENTY-ONE
“LOOK!” JEWEL pointed to an enormous oak by the river. “There are swings!”
The children bounded off the barge and ran shrieking along the grassy bank. Violet walked more carefully behind, teetering a bit on the unaccustomed high heels. She felt rather lightheaded.
Was it her imagination, or had Ford nearly kissed her again? She wished she could ask him what had happened in the cabin—and why. But the thought of actually voicing such questions aloud made her face burn hotter than the afternoon sun.
She sneaked a sidelong glance at him strolling casually beside her, still clutching his precious book. Struck by the silly thought that he might sleep with it tonight, she smiled to herself.
He put a hand at her back. “What do you find so amusing?”
“Nothing.” She could feel the pressure of his fingers through her thin satin gown. “Nothing at all.” When his hand dropped from her back, she could swear she still felt its imprint.
By the time the two of them caught up, the young ones had claimed the pair of rope-and-board swings that shared a thick branch on one side of the old tree. They were pumping into the air, racing to see who could get the highest, their laughing taunts floating out over the water.
“That looks like fun,” Violet said wistfully. Oh, to be six, flying into the sky on your birthday, instead of almost eighteen and dreading it.
Eighteen. Though plenty of girls remained unmarried by eighteen, to Violet it felt like the official start of her spinsterhood. Perhaps because Rose had been hinting as much for the past several months. Or because Mum had married at sixteen—after being caught in a compromising position with Father, as Grandpapa had always told it.
Not that Violet minded her fate as a spinster. She’d been resigned to it for years—planning happily for it, in fact. An unmarried woman enjoyed freedoms a wife never would.
But the word “spinster” sounded so very old and final.
Ford took her by the arm and marched her around the giant tree. A third swing there hung empty. “Sit,” he said.
She giggled, feeling silly. “You take it.”
“Sit.”
With a shrug, she did. It had been years since she’d been on a
