Treasure, the spirit voice murmured tauntingly
“What the devil are you doing here?” Gerard located the ancient piece in his waistcoat pocket where he most definitely had not put it. “I’m tempted to fling you into the pigsty.”
But he didn’t.
And then, more ominously, the voice added,Danger!
“What the devil does that mean?” he asked. The voice didn’t answer.
Gerard would normally abandon the foolishness of treasure and danger, only the talk of missing heiresses and a reward almost verified the spirit’s admonitions. What did he know about the beekeeper? Nothing, except she called herself Malcolm and wasn’t immediate family. She could be lying, but her behavior with the bees said otherwise.
He couldn’t let a female wander alone at night, he told himself. He didn’t even bother rationalizing why he didn’t call out to her.
She settled in the clover she’d no doubt planted as a tasty carpet for the bees. A stone fence behind the hives provided shelter from the prevailing wind, but the night breeze still lifted her cropped, honey-colored hair. She’d removed the heavy chignon. He preferred her bare, slender nape.
Feeling like a voyeur, Gerard leaned against the trunk of an apple tree and listened. She wastalkingto the bees.
Treasure, the spirit repeated in satisfaction.
Gerard snorted his disgust for listening to pieces of silver and concentrated on the whispers on the wind.
“It will be winter soon,” she told the bees. “I need to leave before travel becomes difficult.”
Gerard frowned.Leave? Why?
She seemed to listen to the breeze or maybe the bees. He hoped the bees were smarter than spirits.
“I don’twantto leave you,” she said mournfully. “I don’t know if I’ll ever be able to return.”
Why the devil would she leave? Had one of Rain’s men insulted her? Or made her an offer she couldn’t refuse? If she were that kind of woman, he’d happily offer more. He was aroused just watching her, which was patently insane and proved Wystan’s weird magic was sapping his wits.
He lifted his shoulder from the tree and prepared to turn away.
“Isobel must be frantic,” she continued, tensely. “I have to send word to her. If only we’d had time to earn the fare for Canada!”
Gerard froze. There weretwo of them—Nan and Isobel?
She was running away. And they wereafraid.
“If I let them find me elsewhere, you’ll be safe here.” That sounded like a promise. “And maybe I can come back someday. He only wants the title, after all.”
Gerard couldn’t bear it. With a disgruntled sigh, he entered the moonlit clearing, feeling a bit of a fool in his dinner clothes. “Who isheand doesn’t he understand how titles are passed on?”
He was almost certain Joan of Arc had the same expression when she was captured—facing the inevitable with sorrow and relief.
“My lord,” she said stiffly. “You had no right to listen to a private conversation.”
“You’re talking to bees, for pity’s sake.” When she didn’t rise, he was forced to sit beside her. In his dinner clothes. His new valet would be rightfully appalled. “If you’re one of the heiresses, tell me.”
He didn’t know where that had come from—except the warnings in his head.
Now she really looked alarmed. Her eyes were more golden-brown than Malcolm blue. So maybe he had it wrong. Or maybe the idiot offering the reward did.
“I am no heiress,” she said with venom.
He’d best beware of bee stings.
He nodded, accepting her declaration. “And you’re a Malcolm living in Wystan, so that makes you doubly safe from me. As one of my tenants, you are protected. Why run?”
