“Because my grandfather was an Ives, and Ives only had sons at the time,” the earl said in boredom. “I know the legend well. It doesn’t appear to have carried forward since I have only sisters. I doubt spirits have a great deal to do with conception.”
“Enough,” Winifred declared. “Our concern should be for these missing children. We should have a plan.”
The discussion of spirits and childbirth and conception rendered Iona uneasy, but listening to the company plot her capture put her off food entirely.
Seven
Rainford’s group had ridden hard all day and planned to ride on in the morning, so the dinner party broke up shortly after the ladies left the table. Even then, when the men joined the ladies to say their good-nights, half of the ladies had already gone to their own beds.
Gerard didn’t see the little beekeeper among the women who remained—but Lady Alice was waiting like a spider to pounce. He excused himself and left Rainford to her delicate claws.
The beekeeper—Nan—had been remarkably quiet all evening. He supposed she might be unaccustomed to dinner parties. He would ask about her, except that would indicate interest—always dangerous in this crowd. No, he should ride with Rainford in the morning and make his escape while he could.
But he had the appointment with Avery to hold him back. He’d wait for additional information before searching for heiresses. If he’d been told they were the daughters of one of his servants, he’d be out all night searching. But these were the wealthy daughters of an earl and Malcolms. They’d most likely be found in the house of friends or family a thousand miles from here. He remembered one of his cousins, at six, following some whim, catching a ride with a neighbor, and ending up almost fifty miles away by sheer force of personality.
He wasn’t terribly worried about heiresses, but the talk of ghosts and ancestry had left him restless. He was past thirty and aware that his duty was to settle down, marry, have children, and run for one of his father’s minor boroughs.
He had no particular interest in children, but the thought of conceiving them. . .
Made him restless. He needed a willing woman to work off his frustration, but not here. Lord help him, but the family legends would put him off even bringing a bride here. He should be back in London in a week or so. He could wait.
Silver moonlight spilled across the courtyard, illuminating a slender figure gliding through the garden gate. Gerard halted to watch her vanish to the other side.
What did a beekeeper do in the middle of the night? Didn’t bees sleep? Without giving thought to what he did, Gerard strolled past his tower and followed.
She had changed into a more sensible gown than the one that had kept him distracted all evening with the sight of creamy, rounded shoulders. For someone so slender, her breasts mounded nicely above the bodice.
He had no right to be thinking like that.
Treasure, the spirit voice murmured tauntingly
“What the devil are you doing here?” Gerard located the ancient piece in his waistcoat pocket where he most definitely had not put it. “I’m tempted to fling you into the pigsty.”
But he didn’t.
And then, more ominously, the voice added, Danger!
“What the devil does that mean?” he asked. The voice didn’t answer.
Gerard would normally abandon the foolishness of treasure and danger, only the talk of missing heiresses and a reward almost verified the spirit’s admonitions. What did he know about the beekeeper? Nothing, except she called herself Malcolm and wasn’t immediate family. She could be lying, but her behavior with the bees said otherwise.
He couldn’t let a female wander alone at night, he told himself. He didn’t even bother rationalizing why he didn’t call out to her.
She settled in the clover she’d no doubt planted as a tasty carpet for the bees. A stone fence behind the hives provided shelter from the prevailing wind, but the night breeze still lifted her cropped, honey-colored hair. She’d removed the heavy chignon. He preferred her bare, slender nape.
Feeling like a voyeur, Gerard leaned against the trunk of an apple tree and listened. She was talking to the bees.
Treasure, the spirit repeated in satisfaction.
Gerard snorted his disgust for listening to pieces of silver and concentrated on the whispers on the wind.
“It will be winter soon,” she told the bees. “I need to leave before travel becomes difficult.”
Gerard frowned. Leave? Why?
She seemed to listen to the breeze or maybe the bees. He hoped the bees were smarter than spirits.
“I don’t want to leave you,” she said mournfully. “I don’t know if I’ll ever be able to return.”
Why the devil would she leave? Had one of Rain’s men insulted her? Or made her an offer she couldn’t refuse? If she were that kind of woman, he’d happily offer more. He was aroused just watching her, which was patently insane and proved Wystan’s weird magic was sapping his wits.
He lifted his shoulder from the tree and prepared to turn away.
“Isobel must be frantic,” she continued, tensely. “I have to send word to her. If only we’d had time to earn the fare for Canada!”
Gerard froze. There were two of them—Nan and Isobel?
She was running away. And they were afraid.
“If I let them find me elsewhere, you’ll be safe here.” That sounded like a promise. “And maybe I can come back someday. He only wants the title, after all.”
Gerard couldn’t bear it. With a disgruntled sigh, he entered the moonlit clearing, feeling a bit of a fool in his dinner clothes. “Who is he and doesn’t he understand how titles are passed on?”
He was almost certain Joan of Arc had the same expression when she was captured—facing the inevitable with sorrow and relief.
“My lord,” she said stiffly. “You had no right to listen to a private conversation.”
“You’re talking to bees, for pity’s sake.” When she didn’t rise, he was forced to sit beside her. In his dinner clothes.
