“There is nothing there to fail at,” he said curtly, insulted. He led her down the street, keeping an eye out for urchins.
“Touching that knife at the same time as you produced visions far more detailed than my sense of smell ever has. It was exciting! Wasn’t it the same for you?”
Damn, double damn, and hellfire. Why did she have to be a human lie detector? Once he admitted they had a psychic connection. . . He’d never hear the end of it.
“Yes,” he said curtly. “Now, did you want to explore the Royal Mile or do I hail a hackney?”
She shot him an enigmatic glance but politely responded to his suggestion. “Explore, please. There are bees in the steeple of that church. That’s a good sign. Let us go in and find something pleasant we can touch. It would be interesting to see if perhaps an organ would produce memories.” She hurried into the old cathedral.
Gerard watched the tower warily for bees but didn’t see what she saw. He had to admit that St. Giles was an excellent place to explore antiquities, if one could find them beneath the fire damage and debris of centuries of fighting, neglect, and partitioning.
“I doubt the place has an organ any longer,” he warned. “Most of the medieval ornament was stripped when Scotland rejected Rome. I don’t think touching walls and floors will be of much use.”
The old Catholic cathedral had been walled off into four different parish churches. Even finding the original medieval walls might be a challenge. But Gerard assumed the lady was safer here, out of sight of the public, so he followed along as she trailed through the once grand cathedral.
“I’m not accustomed to seeking scents on objects.” She refused to drop the subject. “How did I sense the knife?”
“My masculine proximity enhances your gift?” he suggested sardonically, using that excuse to take her arm.
Thinking lewd thoughts in church would probably send him directly to hell, but even in drab servants’ garb and spouting nonsense, the lady aroused his lust. And he could see her ankles beneath that too-short skirt. She wore stockings with bees embroidered on them, and his imagination traveled dangerous paths.
“Interesting theory but not feasible.” She relaxed and leaned into him just a bit as she studied the soaring ceiling and inhaled. “So much sorrow! I was hoping for peace and contentment.”
“The old chancel, perhaps? If we go straight back, there might be remnants of the original.” Although straight was relative. As they worked their way past partitions to the back of the church, her arm still on his, Gerard realized he was picking up vibrations. He could almost feel the memories stored in the ancient walls.
He’d thought he found his artifacts by luck. Had he actually been picking up on their vibrations? Could memory leave physical energy on objects—and Iona was intensifying the effect? Or forcing him to focus on his surroundings more?
And how did that differ from the spirit voices in his head?
She drifted toward the walls, ignoring pews and chairs. “All the old pieces are gone. We’d have to ask the church warden to see whatever they’ve tucked away. A few of these memorials maybe. . .” She touched a brass plaque of two women representing Justice and Religion. “There’s a haunting scent here that I cannot identify.”
To humor her, Gerard removed a glove and flattened his palm on the brass. He thought he felt a connection, but it was too complex and didn’t speak to him as his medallion did.
Iona laid her bare hand over his, skin to skin.
Satisfaction and peace settled over him. A brief vision of a clergyman in garb too old for him to identify hovered in his mind’s eye. The spirit image rubbed the plaque and offered a grateful prayer in mangled English for the end to conflict and. . .
“He’s grateful that the sinful Catholic adornments were removed?” Gerard yanked back his hand to free his head of the vision but a headache lingered. “He’s grateful that they destroyed centuries of history and craftsmanship? That’s appalling, not peaceful.”
Iona caressed the brass, astounded by the clarity of that vision. “That’s religion. Faith is not logical. The poor man sincerely believed the stained glass and statues were devil worship. How sad for him not to understand a human need for beauty and the familiarity of a shared history.”
She glanced up at the stunned earl. Lord Ives did not look happy with their combined history lesson. “Our Malcolm ancestors worshipped trees and goddesses, remember,” she said with a hint of mischief. “The clergyman would most likely have burned us at the stake for what we just did.”
“There are some who would still do the same today,” he said gruffly. “People can be judgmental, bigoted, and ignorant about anyone different from themselves. That was even more clear than the knife. I’ve never seen visions like that before. Is that your work?”
“Never? I thought I was simply amplifying your gift the way Isobel and I occasionally augment each other. But you’ve never seen visions?” She studied the plaque. “Perhaps it’s something in the brass?”
“That doesn’t explain the knife. Enough of this experiment.” He pulled his glove back on. “This does not solve your problem with Mortimer unless we can reach into his head and slosh his pickled brain around. Is he always drunk?”
Sharing a gift with her sister and mother was second nature to Iona. She was not quite as shocked as he was by the apparition they’d raised. It brought them closer, though, and they both had reason to resist that.
“More or less.” Unthinkingly, she hooked her hand through the crook of his elbow. It felt natural somehow. She heard the bees in the steeple humming their approval, so she didn’t withdraw it as he strode out the nearest exit. “Since Mortimer’s scheming seems more in the moment than long-term, I assume touching anything of his would be fruitless. Perhaps we should learn more about Mr. Winter. It would be
