Trey went to the door and opened it a fraction. He stood watching for a short time, but saw nothing, heard nothing except the usual nighttime chorus. The noise, in and of itself, was reassuring. Taking a deep breath, he plunged out of the door and sprinted to the shelter of the tiny garden shed.
Nothing—no shouts of alarm, no explosion of gunfire, no whistle of a knife hurtling through the air. He looked back at the seemingly empty bake house and motioned for his little group to follow.
They came, silent and swift. When they had reached him and stood, gasping in fright and fatigue against the old wooden wall, he felt something alien surging in his chest. Pride?
He pushed it away. Emotion, never a safe prospect, could be deadly in a situation like this, and besides, his stalwart band still had a long way to go. He took the child back again and nodded towards the nearby grove of trees.
What followed had to be the longest fifteen minutes in the history of recorded time, let alone in Chione’s lifetime. Like mice, they scurried from one place of concealment to the next, always stopping to listen, to test for danger. They saw no one. Eventually they reached the stables. In the moonlight Chione could see that the great door stood open a foot or so. Morty, who had been sticking close to Will’s side, suddenly surged ahead, tail wagging, and slipped in the building.
Chione sighed and hefted Olivia a little higher on her shoulder. She’d endured a maelstrom of emotions today, and now it seemed they were all coalesced into a heavy weight upon her soul. The scarab, she thought. It had to be that damned scarab.
She had barely set one foot in the door before she found herself enveloped in Mrs Ferguson’s arms, the housekeeper’s heavy rolling pin poking her in the side. For one, long, blessed moment, she leaned into the embrace. All she wanted was to just collapse, sobbing, into the older woman’s arms, and not only because of the handle digging into her ribs.
‘What did you mean to do—make the man a pie?’ Lord Treyford asked the housekeeper with a nod at her weapon of choice.
‘Wouldna be the first heathen I beat the fear of God into with this,’ Mrs Ferguson answered, releasing Chione to brandish her rolling pin high.
‘Speaking of heathens, that is my man, Aswan,’ Lord Treyford said, waving a hand at the man standing watch near the door.
He bowed, and Chione’s skin prickled. She handed the still-sleeping child to the housekeeper. It had been a long time since she had seen an Egyptian face. ‘With you be peace and God’s blessing,’ she said in Arabic.
He bowed low, but did not answer. He looked to the earl. ‘Effendi, we should go now.’
They had everything ready for a quick escape. Will’s sturdy Charlemagne had already been hitched to the pony cart. He was the last left; the other horses had been sold to finance Richard’s trip to Egypt. Her heart heavy, Chione tried to ignore the empty stables, the stale atmosphere.
Would the house look as forlorn, when those men did not find the treasure they had come for? Would they destroy the place in revenge? Steal away Grandfather’s collections as a substitute? Or, God forbid, set the house ablaze in their anger?
She stiffened her spine and raised her chin. Let them. All of her valuables were right here. And tonight, they were under one man’s protection. She looked for the earl and found him watching her. Inexplicably, she felt her spirits lift.
‘Can you drive the cart?’ he asked her. ‘Aswan and I will ride.’
She nodded. He put his hands on her waist to lift her up to the seat, and Chione felt her hard-fought-for composure slip. She waited for him to release her, but his large grip lingered. One heartbeat. Two. Three. A swirling flood of warmth and unfamiliar pleasure flowed from his hands. It filled her, weighed her down, slowed her reactions, and very nearly stopped her mental processes altogether.
With difficulty she broke the contact, moving away from his touch, berating herself as she settled on the seat and took up the reins. Could nothing—not grief, danger or exhaustion—temper her inappropriate reactions to the man?
She turned to watch as old Eli helped Will and Mrs. Ferguson into the back of the cart and found that, yes—something could. Shock, in fact, proved most effective. ‘Who is that?’ she gasped. An injured man lay in the front of the cart, curled on to a makeshift pallet.
‘Watchman,’ Lord Treyford said tersely. ‘His fellow came to alert us when they spotted the intruders lurking about. We found him out cold. Eli has seen to him.’
She stared as he took the lead of the village hack Aswan led forward. ‘A watchman? Then you were expecting trouble?’ The accusation hung unspoken in the air.
‘No, not exactly,’ he bit out, swinging up and into the saddle. He spoke again and the timbre of his voice crept even lower than his usual rumble. ‘I promised Richard that I would bring you the scarab. When he begged me to, I promised to protect you. But truly, I thought it to be a dying man’s fancy. Not for a moment did I believe that any danger connected with the thing wouldn’t be left behind in Egypt. I never imagined the sort of trouble we’ve seen tonight.’
He made a grand sweep of his arm, indicating the stable, the wounded man, the cart packed full of her dishevelled family. ‘I expected to come here and find Richard’s spinster sister facing a civilised problem: a neglectful landlord, investments in want of managing, a house in need of shoring up. Not a girl barely out of the schoolroom, grubby children, flirtatious dogs and village gossip. Definitely not a hysterical tirade, secret passages and a narrow escape from armed intruders in the night!’
His mount, sensing his ire, began a restless dance. Seemingly without effort, he controlled it, bending it to his will even as he continued his tirade. ‘The answer to your question is “No”. Thanks in part to everyone leaving me in the dark—no, I was not expecting trouble. In fact, you have only Aswan, who had the foresight to suggest a lookout, to thank for our presence here tonight.’ He glared at her from the back of his horse and finished with a grumble. ‘Not that we were much use, in any case.’
Chione should have been insulted. She stared at his flashing blue eyes, his big frame emanating pride, anger and chagrin, and she was once more reminded of the exaggerated characters in her novels. The Earl of Treyford was prickly, harsh and bossy. He was also clearly angry with himself for not anticipating tonight’s events and honest enough to admit that it was his servant’s precaution that had saved the day—or night.
Though he might be the last to admit it, Lord Treyford was a man of honour. And she was not so easily subjugated as a restless mount.
Clearing her throat, she met his defiant gaze squarely. ‘Then I extend my most heartfelt thanks to Aswan, my lord,’ she said with all sincerity, ‘for I am very glad that you are here.’
Her conciliatory tone mollified Trey, but only for a moment. In the next instant, he grew suspicious. In his experience women used that tone when they wanted something. Her wants did not concern him, only his own needs.
Unfortunately, he became less sure just what they were with every passing moment. Guilt and frustration gnawed at him, and he resented the hell out of it. He had years of experience behind him, decades of avoiding people and the tangled messes they made of their lives. And look what one day in the Latimer chit’s presence had brought him to.
‘Let’s
