The castle was a warren of chambers, old and new, spacious and small, elegant and neglected. She’d chosen one of the small, neglected ones—near the back stairs, with a window overlooking a sturdy trellis.
She liked having multiple escape exits. She refused to be found and caught.
Once safely behind a locked door, Iona pried open the seal on her letter with shaky hands. Just the act of risking this communication meant Isobel must be frightened. That meant her twin’s normally cautious nature would escalate to the ridiculous—like concealing code under the envelope flap.
Iona read the obvious script first—Isobel wrote as steward of Calder Castle, inquiring into the best means of protecting their hives over winter. Had Mrs. Merriweather opened the missive, she’d have seen nothing extraordinary.
Lighting a candle, Iona ran the paper over the heat. Yes, there it was, their childhood code. She wrote out the numbers that appeared, then finding the letter “L” on the inside flap, worked out the code with “L” as the number one. It was a basic code, but it had fooled their stepfather and his minions for years.
The coded message was brief and horrifying: ARTHUR IN E’BGH.
Dread clutched at her throat. The American was only a few hours away from Isobel.
They’d been so careful in covering their trail. They’d traveled separately from Craigmore, wearing a variety of disguises—being twins made traveling together too dangerous. Isobel had even dyed her honey-blond hair black. They had only the funds they’d skimmed from the household budget and sale of their mother’s pearls. They’d each found rooms in different cities. Once hidden, they’d written to the School of Malcolms and to Mrs. Merriweather under their Malcolm names, looking for positions.
It had taken well over a month to establish their new identities and safe havens. It had been almost six months since their escape. Surely their trail was cold.
But Arthur Winter was a wealthy man accustomed to having his way. With the encouragement of her stepfather, Mr. Winter would think himself a hero in scouring the kingdom in his pursuit of the twins and a title. It wasn’t the self-absorbed American who frightened her. It was her desperately bankrupt stepfather.
Iona shuddered and burned the letter.
What did they do now?
“Oh, there you are, my lord! I thought we had some of your sketches tucked away in the specimen cabinet, but I can’t find them. I’d like to show them to Nan.” Mrs. Merriweather bustled across the courtyard.
Damn, he should have known he couldn’t escape easily. Quelling his impatience, Gerard waited outside the stable for the elderly librarian to approach. “What sketches?”
“The ones you drew when you were younger, the ones of Roman soldiers and knights and fortresses, remember? They were quite informative.” The little librarian practically unfurled like a blossom under his regard.
Gerard didn’t want her blossoming or remembering his childish attempts to draw what he'd seen in his head. He simply wanted to examine his fields and hope the medallion in his pocket told him where to find a treasure that might postpone closing the castle.
“I thought those were tossed long ago. I can’t imagine anyone keeping them,” he said dismissively. “They were just idle fribbles. Why would you want them?”
“I wanted to show Nan that you’re quite capable of drawing the diagrams she needs for the hives. It seems we lack the book that might show the carpenter how to build them, and she’s drawing it herself.” The Librarian smiled expectantly.
His first reaction was hell, no. And then he remembered the enigmatic beekeeper avoiding him at every turn, and his curiosity kicked in. The curse of the Ives, curiosity.
“I’ll see what she needs,” he promised the lady. He didn’t think the librarian was any direct relation, just the Malcolm who understood journals. Apparently, it was a calling.
What would happen to the library if he closed the castle and sent all these women—where?
“It’s hard to find her,” she warned. “She might still be in the study, if you hurry.”
Gerard found this admonition a trifle odd. Generally, the women stalked him. If the beekeeper wanted his help, she had to wait in line.
It almost sounded as if Mrs. Merriweather was saying he had to wait on his beekeeper.
Amused that the slip of a female had gained so much authority since he’d visited last year—he knew she hadn’t been here the last time he was—he postponed his ride. He wasn’t much inclined to learn about his tenants, but this one teased his memory.
She wasn’t in the study. No one was in the drafty great hall on a brisk day like this. He checked the small withdrawing room where Grace was always spinning. None of the ladies there had seen Nan.
Nan. Surely no Malcolm had ever named her daughter so tersely. He couldn’t even recall an Ann or Nancy anywhere on the family tree. Adwin or Aranwen or some other Celtic saint would be more likely, although Anne also qualified, he supposed. His family just didn’t do simple.
He stomped up the stairs to see if he could see anyone in the bedroom corridors, but after the unfortunate incident with Lady Alice in Rainford’s library, the proximity to women and beds made him anxious. He preferred choosing his own wife, not having one forced on him.
Which reminded him that Lady Alice was here somewhere. He’d had his breakfast delivered to his rooms and so hadn’t heard any gossip about how she was doing. He supposed he should inquire, if only to know whether he ought to be riding out immediately. But that could wait.
He loped down the back corridor, to the stairs leading down to the garden. He suspected the elusive beekeeper would use these instead of the main staircase, but no shadows moved. Oh well, that gave him time to examine the fields.
He was about to head down when one of the doors opened in front of him—and the beekeeper emerged, just donning an old-fashioned bonnet.
He
