“Closing Wystan?” She stared at him in horror. “You’d be cursed into all eternity. Or we both would be, since it’s my fault you can’t marry an heiress.”
“I should be allowed one happiness outside of duty. And that would be you, my love.” He hugged her and began an interesting exploration that she wasn’t about to allow down here.
His amazingly heroic deeds had proved his love as far as she was concerned, even though he’d never said the word until now. Still, Iona pushed away. “We should explore a little more while we’re here.”
If she loved him, she had to repay his romantic, fateful gesture in some manner. She hoped, just a little bit, that they might find something valuable. Or at least useful.
“Seeing visions doesn’t make your head hurt?” He let her push him away.
“A little, but I’m fascinated. It’s hard to quit now. Why did that one stone call to you and not the others?”
Gerard shrugged and studied the arch. “As I said, I apparently have an affinity for dead people. I simply started with the oldest name. Does this wall contain a burial vault for our ancestors?”
“Quite possibly, although isn’t it the foundation of Lydia’s library? Perhaps the memories were somehow implanted here.”
Not rejecting her theory, he studied the arch. “Roman texts claim the druids were literate, but they kept their stories in their heads, handing them down verbally, as primitive tribes do elsewhere.”
“But if the druids are the origin of Malcolm gifts. . .” Excitedly, Iona held her lantern to the writing on the arch. “Perhaps they had a gift for leaving their stories in stones? Let us try one more, please?”
“You really believe they had some means of impressing tales into stone?” He kept his voice neutral.
She grew more confident knowing her husband did not scoff at one of her wilder theories. “If the bottom stone showed only a crypt without the tower that’s there today, could we try one of these middle stones to test if it is a century when the tower existed?”
He held a palm over the middle stones. “I sensed church bells and chants earlier. You may only see more funerals.”
“Our vision showed only a stone vault,” she argued. “It could mean the original watchtower was built on top of it. Would they still have access to the vault after that?”
He cast a light down the tunnel they’d been following. “Through the passageways beneath here, possibly. Do we have to tell Lydia that the library may be a mausoleum?”
“They buried the previous librarians in a vault beneath the chapel. For all we know, there could be veritable catacombs under the entire castle. Let’s try one more, please?”
He glared down at her. Iona grinned back. The earl’s scowls might intimidate others into doing his bidding, but not her.
“Which name?” he asked in surrender to her whims.
Iona examined the wall, using her sense of smell more than her eyes. Sadness permeated the stone blocks, but she found whiffs of love and respect.
“I don’t think any of them will be terribly enlightening,” she decided. “Lydia has journals back to the 14th century, I believe, when the castle was built. Perhaps chose a stone before that point, when it was only a watchtower? I think this is the name on the first journal.” She pointed at a block a few feet from the ground. “So we should start before it?”
Gerard placed his palm over the name she indicated. Biting her lip, Iona covered his hand with hers.
Twenty-eight
“There they are! You’ve been gone so long, we thought you’d fallen into the oubliette!” Max’s loud voice echoed off the old walls, penetrating even Gerard’s thick skull.
“We never thought even an Ives could fall asleep in this dungeon, no matter what you and your bride might be doing,” a feminine voice scolded.
Phoebe?
Gerard rubbed his pounding skull, then realized he couldn’t sit up. His heart lurched a beat as fought the very real nightmare filling his head and identified Iona’s soft weight on top of him. Had he killed her. . . ? But she stirred at the shouting and shifted to one side.
“For pity’s sake, Ives, you couldn’t find a better boudoir?” Rainford—sounding amused.
Rubbing his head, Gerard spurted out—“Ives!” He recalled the scene they’d experienced with wonder. “They were everywhere—with crossbows, spears, trebuchets, even a catapult!”
Beside him, Iona rubbed sleepily at her eyes. “The women worked beside them,” she added, sounding equally dazed. “They made arrows. They boiled oil. It was terrifying!”
“The books!” Excitedly, Gerard recalled the beautifully illustrated manuscripts the women had hidden. “They were protecting the books. The raiders were well armed.”
“But the invaders couldn’t climb the bluff,” Iona continued excitedly. “And they couldn’t break past the wall around the village. It was like watching from the top of the tower—”
Finally heeding their audience, Gerard squeezed Iona until she recognized the stillness too. They’d been speaking to each other as if there were no others to hear. Not very diplomatic of him. And he would never hear the end of this. Damn.
Soberly, he climbed to his feet and offered his hand to his wife, who glanced nervously at him. “I love you,” he whispered with feeling, still thrilled with their shared vision. “Whatever happens next, know I love you forever and always. Apparently Ives aren’t good at expressing that.”
She grinned and squeezed his hand.
“Go on.” Phoebe gestured impatiently. “Tell us more.”
Max regarded them warily. “You both had the same dream?”
“What kind of books?” Rainford crossed his arms and leaned a shoulder against the wall.
“Malcolm journals!” Phoebe cried, poking him. “Lydia has a library of them, if you haven’t noticed.”
“Defended by trebuchets?” The blond marquess waited. The blasted marquess should be on his way home by now.
Gerard would never live this down. Those were not journals they’d seen.
“Illustrated manuscripts!” Iona cried excitedly when he didn’t explain. “The ladies were hiding precious works of art.”
“Iona,” he said warningly. “You promised.”
“Don’t make me punch your sore arm.” She stepped away from him defiantly. “I love you madly, but you aren’t allowed
