and solitude he craved, as it was quite apparent the academic’s daughter cared a great deal about all the holes she had dug and wanted to continue digging them. Something that was entirely out of the question. The last thing he needed or wanted was a woman on his grounds. Or anybody come to that.
‘I am not sure how to break this to you...’ Sarcasm had become a second language. Another line of defence to hide all the hurt. ‘But Lord Richard is dead. Which means any agreements you had with him to dig up this land are also dead.’ As she furiously blinked back at him he noticed her thick, dark lashes were also ridiculously long. Each blink caused them to sweep across the inside of the glass lenses like tiny paint brushes. Max felt himself frown because the sight of them offended him. He was done with noticing attractive details like eyelashes. That part of his life was over and the sooner he accepted it the happier he would be. Then, because clearly she had not unsettled him enough, one muddy finger tugged at the ribbon behind her head and the thick lenses dropped away to reveal a lovely pair of eyes the exact same colour as aged Scotch whisky. They were much too lovely and much too intelligent as far as he was concerned as they stared back at him levelly.
‘Get your things and get the hell off my land, Miss Nithercott! I do not want to see you here again.’
She bristled instantly, those insultingly fine eyes shimmering with a stubborn flash of temper which suddenly burned in her golden-flecked irises, and her hands positioned themselves staunchly on her generous hips, drawing his eyes reluctantly to them before he tore them away. ‘Now see here...’
Max held up his palm to stop whatever tirade she was about to launch into. He really had no patience for politeness any more, nor did he see the point in it. The need to behave like a gentleman died the exact same day as his face and his dreams.
‘We are done, Miss Nincompoop. Take your shovels, and whatever all that other nonsense is, and go. From this point forth, you are banned from setting one foot on Rivenhall Abbey and, as I’ve already told you, all agreements you once had with the uncle I never knew have been rescinded.’ He did not bother to wait for a reaction, instead, desperate to escape, he nudged Drake in the ribs and let the big horse gallop away as fast as he could make it.
Dig Day 756: no progress whatsoever due to entirely unforeseen circumstances...
Despite her best attempts at being calm Effie was so incensed, even the pretty two-mile walk from Hill House to the Abbey had done little to soften her temper.
How dared he be so rude and obnoxious?
How dared he try to ban her from excavating the past? When the past was her everything and she couldn’t imagine what she would do with her days if she didn’t have the Abbey and all its hidden secrets to keep her occupied. What had begun as a diversion to avoid the despair of her strange lot in life had rapidly become her salvation. The only place she truly felt as though she belonged now.
Horrid man! What difference did it make to him if she dug around the ruins anyway? It was on the furthest edge of his land, the soil too filled with the deep foundations from a bygone era to be of any agricultural use and a good distance from his house. He had plenty of better acres to ride his big horse in. He was simply being difficult and unreasonable. Two traits she had little time for under the normal course of things.
However, legally Lord Rivenhall actually had a point. He was under no obligation to honour a neighbourly agreement made by his uncle years before because the land was now his to do with as he pleased. There was no written contract—there had been no need of one between friends—and as far as she understood things, a gentleman’s agreement died with the gentleman. Unless Effie could negotiate otherwise with their surly new neighbour, Lord Rivenhall was completely within his rights to prevent her from digging up his land.
This prospect angered her even more. How dared that awful man be so...insensitive to the important work that she was doing at the Abbey? Did he seriously expect her to abandon her study just because he said so? She had half a mind to march right up to his front door, demand an audience and give him a piece of her superior mind. Of course, if she did that then she could wave goodbye to any further investigation of the site alongside her purpose and her sanity.
If her father had been alive, typically, he would have urged restraint and caution.
‘Effie,’ he often said when her frustrations got the better of her or she had rubbed people up the wrong way. ‘Appeal to their better nature. Argue your corner using sound logic and reasoning, not emotion. Do your best to find a compromise. Compromise is always key. And remember, as Benjamin Franklin said, “Tart words make no friends; a spoonful of honey will catch more flies than a gallon of vinegar.”’
He had been fond of learned quotes, probably because he hated arguments of any sort, whereas Effie was more than happy to have an argument if she felt the situation warranted it. The obnoxious Lord Rivenhall warranted it. If he had not been the custodian of the very land she needed to dig, she’d have brought one of her shovels along to clonk him over his thick head with it. Horrid man!
Thanks to him, she was wasting her morning on a wholly unnecessary mission of diplomacy when what she really wanted to do, what she had spent all of yesterday and most of the long, sleepless night impatiently itching to do, was to excavate the rest of the magnificent pot still partly submerged in the ground. Unfortunately, a great well of patience was not a virtue that she naturally possessed.
In all the years she had been digging at Rivenhall she had never uncovered anything which had looked quite like the treasure she had discovered yesterday. Just thinking about it made bubbles of sheer excitement fizz and pop within her. Not liberating it from the soil for further study and not thoroughly digging around its current location would be a tragedy. She paused a few yards from the horrid Earl’s front door and forced herself to inhale several slow, calming breaths before she marched into the breach.
‘Tart words make no friends.’
Not that she currently had any friends left, but that sad fact had little to do with her occasional tart mouth and more to do with her unique peculiarity, but the new Lord Rivenhall wouldn’t know about that yet. Unless the good news had already travelled to him via the gossips or his servants, which in itself made a bit of a mockery of being a recluse.
Hoping her father’s often-repeated words of wisdom would calm her, Effie said the phrase over and over in her mind. Not that the house intimidated her. She had been visiting the previous Lord Rivenhall alone since she had been about ten. The old man had always been thrilled to see her and took an active interest in her passion for antiquity. She had had free rein to explore his vast scholarly library as well as dig in the ruins. Right up until his death twelve months ago, Effie had taken tea with him at least twice a week. Unfortunately, this wasn’t tea with her father’s old friend. It was critical to all she held dear and her fate rested entirely in the hands of his scowling curmudgeon of a nephew.
Out of politeness to the new master, Effie knocked on the imposing front door rather than let herself in through the kitchens as usual. In the spirit of friendship, she also carried a basket of freshly baked cakes for the surly Earl as a peace offering, hoping a few sweet treats and the fine bottle of brandy from her father’s old stash might make him more agreeable.
Smithson, the butler, appeared amused that she had done so and even more bemused by the sight of her in a frock, but embarrassment soon clouded his face, his darting eyes saying much more than his mouth. ‘I believe Lord Rivenhall is indisposed again,
