If the Slipper Fits (30 page)

However, she didn’t have the leisure to think about Simon, not with Mr. Bunting strolling beside her. They took the path that skirted the castle wall and for a few minutes there was only the scrape of their footsteps to fill the silence. It was apparent from his closed expression that he still resented her for ousting him as Nicolas’s tutor. So did Mrs. Wickett, who had made her exalted opinion of the vicar quite clear.

After seeing them together, Annabelle wondered if there might be a secret romance between him and the widowed housekeeper. That would certainly explain Mrs. Wickett’s resentment of Annabelle. The woman wouldn’t appreciate having her lover banished from the castle.

Annabelle’s wayward mind tried to picture those two sour, disagreeable people kissing with the same wild passion she and Simon had shared. But she succeeded only in stirring erotic memories of her own that were best kept buried.

As a distraction, she made a stab at polite conversation. “Have you an interest in the history of the ancient Celtic people, Mr. Bunting?”

“I’ve done some reading on the era,” he said stiffly. “I know they had sacred groves of trees where their Druid priests practiced magic.”

“There are four ancient oaks at the site. Though I can’t imagine that such trees could survive for nearly two millennia.”

“The Druids were reputed to be masters of spell-casting. Some might argue that they cast an enchantment over the place.”

Annabelle laughed. “Surely
you
don’t believe that.”

“I am merely extrapolating from published works, Miss Quinn. For instance, Pliny the Elder described a ceremony in which the white-robed Druids climbed a sacred oak, cut down mistletoe, and then killed two white bulls. In that manner, the Druids gained the power to heal.”

The spark of fervency in his dark eyes surprised her. She had read that selection herself, though with less enthusiasm for the animal sacrifice. “Mistletoe is said to be a natural healing agent. So perhaps their magic was really quite ordinary.”

Bunting cast a disagreeable look at her. “That is hardly the only type of magic attributed to the Druids. It is written they were able to stop entire armies by uttering strong incantations. They even had influence over the weather.”

“If that were true, then why are these powers not known to us today?”

“The Druids performed their rituals in secret. The spells were lost over the ages as the Celtic people were conquered.”

“Thus we can conclude that the Druids’ ability to stop armies must not have been very effective.”

He narrowed his eyes to slits. “You are entirely too flippant, Miss Quinn. It would behoove you to develop a serious appreciation for British history since you are teaching His Grace of Kevern.”

Annabelle had no wish to discuss Nicholas’s schooling with this man. Besides, she was beginning to wonder at the cleric’s interest in pagan priests. He appeared overly fascinated by their magical abilities. “Then do tell me more. You seem to be quite the expert on the Druids.”

“I taught ancient history at Oxford, so I am well versed in Greek and Roman writings about the Celtic peoples.” He slid a cunning glance in her direction. “You may be interested to learn, there is evidence the Druids were practitioners of human sacrifice. It is said they were able to read the future by observing the gushing of a man’s blood from his body and the writhing of his limbs as he died.”

Annabelle felt a twist of revulsion. The vicar must be deliberately trying to unsettle her. Or perhaps there was something more sinister to his knowledge of the Druids. Perhaps
he
was the one who had been secretly digging at the site.

The one who had fired the warning shot at her.

A chill tiptoed down her spine. They had reached the place where Nicholas had gone chasing downhill after the rabbit. Her heart beating faster, Annabelle felt a keen wish to reach Simon. Despite their estrangement, she would feel safer in his presence.

“The site is down this way,” she said, pointing.

“Do lead on, Miss Quinn.”

Annabelle had no intention of turning her back on the vicar. “Perhaps we should walk side by side. The way is difficult in places and I may need your assistance.”

Clutching her skirts, she started down the slope with him. The humus was thick underfoot as the oaks and beeches shed their crimson and gold leaves. The scents of autumn decay masked even the ever-present brine of the sea. Brambles caught at her hem, and once she had to bend down to unhook herself.

As she straightened up, Bunting’s voice startled her. “Has Lord Simon discovered any treasures?”

He was too close, and she edged away. “I don’t know. He hasn’t told me.” The previous day, she had been too otherwise engaged with Simon even to think of asking. Nothing else had existed but the two of them, wrapped in bodily pleasure …

“Whatever he finds may contain a clue,” Bunting muttered.

“A clue?”

“To the ancient ways of the Druids, of course. It would be most intriguing to discover more about how they performed their rituals.”

His interest was too keen to be a coincidence, she thought uneasily. Did Simon know of it?

They passed the place where she’d almost been shot, but if Mr. Bunting had been the gunman, he showed no sign of recognizing the spot. His gaze was fixed downhill on the site now visible through the trees. A workman trundled a wheelbarrow full of dirt toward a heap at the edge of the clearing. Simon stood in a deep hole, only his head visible as he shoveled out more earth.

Uttering a low exclamation, the vicar hurried ahead of her, his shoes scuffing through the blanket of leaves. Annabelle breathed a little easier as she followed him. Apparently he meant her no harm—at least not in front of witnesses.

Simon must have seen them coming, for he hoisted himself out of the hole and brushed the dirt from his shirt and trousers. Lifting his arm, he swiped his sleeve across his brow. He frowned at the vicar and then at her as she descended the final few yards to the site.

Annabelle’s mouth went dry. The sight of him caused an involuntary pulse of desire deep inside her. His shirt was damp with sweat, the linen clinging in places to his muscled torso. With his black hair mussed, he looked more like a common laborer than the privileged son of a duke.

He glanced down at the shawl draped over her arm. His gaze searched her face again, and he took a step forward. Annabelle compressed her lips. How she wished they were alone so that she could tell him exactly how she felt about his attempt to buy her affections.

“This is quite a surprise,” he said, frowning at both her and the vicar. “I hardly expected to see the two of you together.”

“I came to the castle to deliver some religious tracts for the staff,” Mr. Bunting said. “When I learned that Miss Quinn was on her way here, I thought to fulfill my curiosity.” He peered into the hole. “Have you found anything yet, my lord?”

Simon coolly studied the man. “As it happens, yes. Have a look.”

Annabelle turned her attention to the excavation. The vines had been cleared away and Simon had tunneled underneath the mound in the center of the clearing. Deep inside that hollowed-out place there was a large slab of stone rather like an altar. On it lay a jumbled pile of what looked like pale sticks.

“Are those … bones?” she asked in faint horror.

“Animal bones,” Simon clarified.

“From sacrifices,” Mr. Bunting said, a quiver of excitement in his voice. “That proves the Druids used this place for their holy rites.”

“It would seem so. Though perhaps it’s too soon to draw conclusions. I’m far from finished with the excavation.”

Simon was watching the vicar closely, and Annabelle wondered if he had known of the man’s interest in the site. In case he hadn’t, she said, “Mr. Bunting is very knowledgeable about the ancient Celts, Lord Simon. On the walk here, he told me all manner of stories about the Druid priests. You may wish to consult him if you find anything else of significance.”

Simon sent a scowl her way, and she had the distinct impression that he was warning her to stay out of the matter.

“Now there’s a capital notion,” the vicar said, rubbing his hands together. “As well you know, my lord, my background as a historian at Oxford eminently qualifies me for the task.”

“Then you’ll be interested to hear that I
have
found something else. I’ve just broken through to an underground chamber.”

“Truly?” The vicar almost fell over in his haste to hunker down and peer again into the hole. “Where?”

Simon pointed deep into the hollowed-out opening. “In the back,” he said. “It’s hard to see without a lamp, but there appears to be an entrance to a small cave.”

“A cave?” Annabelle asked in surprise.

“The area is honeycombed with them,” Simon said. “Which is why I wouldn’t get my hopes up that it’s anything significant. It may be a natural occurrence that has nothing whatsoever to do with the Celts.”

Annabelle sincerely hoped it was a burial chamber. That day in the library, when Simon had come to ask her to the Samhain ball, he had been so enthusiastic at the prospect of unearthing a trove of ancient artifacts …

But of course she didn’t care a fig for his happiness. It was just that she wanted him to have something to occupy his time. Then he would be too busy to bother her with his unwanted attentions.

“We must fetch a lamp,” the vicar declared. “There may be relics inside, perhaps even items the Druids used in casting their spells.”

Simon shook his head. “It’s too late in the day,” he said. “I intend to start out fresh in the morning.”

“But my lord—”

“Whatever is in there can wait,” he said firmly. “Come, we’ll head back to the castle together.”

After dismissing the workman waiting by the wheelbarrow, Simon rejoined them and they climbed the hill to the path. He walked in the middle and spent the time grilling the vicar about his knowledge of the ancient Britons. Annabelle made no attempt to participate in the conversation. She was too busy battling a keen awareness of Simon.

Though she looked straight ahead, she could see him from the corner of her eye, and every glimpse brought a tidal wave of memories. How skillfully those hands had caressed her body. How expertly his lips had kissed her. How adroitly his words had fooled her into believing that he loved her.

Yet despite her rejection of him, the arrogant devil still believed he could charm her into his bed. She had to make it absolutely clear that he had no hope of ever doing so.

As they entered the courtyard, she said, “Lord Simon, if I might have a word with you in private.”

He turned toward her, his expression cool. He glanced over his shoulder at Mr. Bunting, who had stopped to wait by the dolphin fountain a short distance away. “This is hardly the time,” Simon said in a low voice.

Annabelle felt the scrutiny of the vicar’s dark eyes. Nevertheless, she felt compelled to voice her grievance. The splashing of the fountain should mask a whispered conversation.

“I came to return this to you,” she murmured, lifting her arm slightly to indicate the shawl. “I cannot accept it.”

His jaw tightened. “Consider it a gift. To replace the one ruined by the crow.”

“That isn’t what your note implied. You wrote—”

“I
know
what I wrote,” he growled under his breath. “I only spent the better part of half an hour debating how to word it so as not to offend you—though it seems that was an exercise in futility. Now, pray excuse me. I’ll discuss the matter with you later.”

Abruptly, he turned from her and rejoined the vicar. The two men walked into the castle, leaving Annabelle standing alone in the courtyard.

My love, I hope you can forgive me.

Simon had spent half an hour composing that simple message? Because he was anxious about her reaction? She imagined him sitting at a desk with pen in hand, attempting different versions, then crumpling them up and tossing them into the rubbish bin. And for a reason she didn’t care to examine, a tender pang softened her heart.

Chapter 22

At the very same time the following afternoon, Annabelle held on to her straw bonnet as she carefully made her way down the rough-hewn steps to the beach.

The day was overcast and blustery, the sea choppy. A chilly wind whipped her skirts and threatened to entangle her legs. Despite the precariousness of descending the staircase cut into the cliff, she found herself marveling at the wild beauty of the scene. Dark clouds crouched on the horizon. White-capped waves crashed onto the sand and filled the rocky pools where she and Nicholas had come the day that someone had been watching them from the cliff. Someone with a gun.

Had that man been Mr. Bunting?

Annabelle shivered. She needn’t worry about him since she’d seen no one on the path. The castle grounds had been deserted, too, as was the coast as far as the eye could see. Not even a fishing boat braved the rough waters.

Her mind dwelled on the purpose that had brought her here to the beach. Simon must have made a discovery at the site this morning. It had to be something spectacular or he would not have asked to meet her away from the castle.

His note had been waiting on her desk after she’d returned from a visit to the library with Nicholas. The message had been written in Simon’s distinctive, bold penmanship:
I must speak to you. Come to the cave on the beach at four. Pray tell no one. Simon

Annabelle reached the bottom of the steps and gingerly picked a path through the jumble of enormous rocks lying at the base of the cliff. It appeared as if a giant hand had tossed the boulders like so many marbles. The waves sent out long fingers of foam that touched the rocks.

Was the tide coming in? The water seemed closer than she remembered from other visits to the beach. Perhaps the turbulent winds were pushing the waves onshore. Simon surely would know the tide schedule. He wouldn’t arrange to meet her in this spot unless it was safe.

She reached the opening to the cave. The entry was a foot or so higher than the beach and she had to clamber over a pile of rocks. No doubt Simon knew the place well from his boyhood. He had told her once that as a child he’d roamed everywhere on the estate. She could imagine him as a mischievous lad, tricking his governess, eluding his lessons, and stealing down here to the beach to play.