To Catch an Earl - Kate Bateman Page 0,73
According to folklore, it derived from a local man who’d fallen asleep on a hayrick and, upon awakening, found himself floating down the River Nene. Panicked, he’d asked a traveler on the riverbank where he was, and upon hearing the reply “Wansford,” he’d asked, “Wansford in England?” The simple man had been afraid he’d floated out to sea and across to another country.
Emmy sighed. If only she could escape her current situation by floating away down a river.
Frothy white flowerheads of cow parsley and cornflowers the color of Harland’s eyes bobbed in the hedgerows but Emmy glanced doubtfully at the darkening sky up ahead. Despite the sunshine, an ominous bank of clouds hovered on the horizon, threatening rain in the not-so-distant future. It wouldn’t be fully dark until around ten, so they had a few hours before sunset, but she hoped they completed their task quickly. She wasn’t dressed for rain.
When they stopped for a second time, at the George Inn at Stamford, Harland dismounted and indicated for the driver of her coach to climb down. She slid open the window as he came to the door of the carriage.
“We’ll go on alone from here,” he said. “Which way?”
She gave him directions and felt the conveyance tilt and bounce on its springs as he climbed up front. It took another twenty minutes driving back out into the countryside before they reached the spot. “Stop here!” Emmy called.
He pulled the horses to a halt, and she didn’t wait for him to help her down. She lowered the step herself and jumped into the narrow lane, glad to be out of the confining carriage. They were deep in the country, far from the town, and the road they were on was little more than an overgrown farm track. Trees flanked the high verges on either side.
“It’s too narrow to take the carriage any farther,” she explained. “We’ll have to walk from here.” She pointed uphill through the trees. “Grandfather’s hunting lodge is just over there, but the ruins are this way. Come on.”
Harland unhitched the horses from the carriage and secured them where they could crop the grass of the verge. He shrugged out of his greatcoat, threw it into the carriage, then followed her as she started along the narrow lane.
Emmy glanced back. His sinfully broad chest and shoulders were sun-dappled by the leaves, and his face wore an expression of resignation. She couldn’t resist teasing him.
“Don’t you have a shovel?” she asked innocently. “A pickaxe?”
He frowned. “What for?”
“To dig up the treasure, of course. We’ll need to move a lot of earth and stones. Father always brought a crowbar. And a series of pulleys.”
He sent her an exasperated glare. “You never mentioned needing a blasted—”
Her smile gave her away, and he stopped midsentence and fisted his hands on his hips. “You little wretch. I don’t need anything, do I?”
“Only your hands and a little brute strength.” She chuckled.
She beckoned him on, leaving the main track to push between the trees and into the wilderness of brambles, grasses, and ferns. She could hear Harland snapping twigs and rustling leaves behind her.
“Are you sure this is the way?” he asked.
“Oh, yes. It’s not buried near the main house.”
“Of course it isn’t,” he grumbled. “Heaven forbid it should be somewhere easily accessible. Knowing your family, I expect there’s a series of booby traps and obstacles to maim us before we reach it. Don’t tell me, we have to swim through an eel-infested moat and crawl through a pit of brambles just to get close?”
She grinned at his morbid humor. He certainly was grouchy. Was he experiencing the same sexual frustration as she was? The same impotent fury at being thrust into this impossible situation? She hoped so.
Acorns and beech nuts blanketed the ground and crunched underfoot, and Emmy sucked in a deep appreciative breath. She loved the clean country air. It was a world away from the capital’s smoke-filled smog. Green leaves made a canopy above them, and the last of the day’s warmth filtered through. It wasn’t hot and lush, like the ambassador’s conservatory, nor was it rigidly tended like the pleasure gardens at Vauxhall. It was nature, wild and unplanned.
Everything in London had been tamed. Not just the gardens, but every person too—hemmed in by society’s rules, trained like vines over a trellis. Everyone was supposed to go in the same direction; any infringement would lead to exclusion and social ostracism. Anything too wild was forced back into line. Girls were