To Catch an Earl - Kate Bateman Page 0,75
He’d thrust her back up top just for five minutes of blessed peace.
She was picking her way through the ruins now, lifting her skirts to show a tantalizing glimpse of silk-stockinged ankle. Alex clenched his fists.
“Are you sure we’re not trespassing?” he growled, scanning the area with a soldier’s eye for signs of life.
“No. All this land belongs to Camille. If anyone sees us, they’ll assume we’re lovers sneaking off in search of some privacy.”
The mental images that glib little comment produced forced him to tug at his breeches in an unsuccessful attempt to relieve the throbbing discomfort there. He cast around for a less incendiary subject. “You like collecting words,” he said at her retreating back. “Words that have no direct translation in English.”
“I’m surprised you remember. But yes. The French have lots of words for things we don’t. Mie, for example, is the soft inside of the bread. The bit that’s not the crust.”
She disappeared around the edge of another partly ruined building, but her voice echoed off the stones. “Empêchement is an unexpected last-minute change of plans. It’s the perfect excuse for when you don’t want to be specific about being late.”
“I thought of a Spanish word to add to your collection,” he called after her. “Sobremesa. It’s the time after dinner when the Spanish like to sit around the table to argue and talk.”
He rounded the corner and caught sight of her again and the smile she shot back at him made his heart thud against his breastbone. “That is excellent!”
She climbed over a low wall and set out in a westerly direction. He knew it was west, because the setting sun was directly in front of her, and its departing rays rendered her skirts almost completely transparent. Alex counted slowly to ten and tried to ignore the glowing outline of her perfect derrière.
“Almost there,” she called cheerfully. “Did you know the French crown jewels aren’t the only ones to have been lost?”
“They weren’t lost,” Alex corrected dryly. “Lost implies they were mislaid. They were stolen. Most recently by members of your family.”
She ignored the dig. “There are plenty of instances where new crown jewels had to be made because the old ones had gone missing. King John once lost the English crown jewels in a bog not far from here.”
“That’s not true,” Alex scoffed.
“It certainly is. It was just after the famous Magna Carta was signed. Twelve hundred and something. King John was trying to suppress a rebellion and made a trip through the fens of eastern England.”
She waved a hand vaguely down the hill. “Over that way. He and his entourage travelled with carts laden with supplies, including one holding all the crown jewels. John had fallen ill, and so was in a hurry to get across the Wash—it’s a tidal area crisscrossed with creeks, streams, and treacherous patches of quicksand.”
She grinned, as if the prospect of danger pleased her. “The riders got across safely, but the heavy baggage cart containing the jewels sank forever into the silt. King John died a few days later. His son, nine-year-old Henry III, had to be crowned with one of his mother’s circlets.” She gave a delighted chuckle. “No wonder he’s remembered as ‘King John the Bad.’”
She gazed out over the fields and a wistful look came over her face. “They’re still out there somewhere, you know. Just waiting to be found. The landscape is always changing. A storm or high tide will uncover them eventually.”
Alex’s gut twisted at the yearning in her expression. If he turned her in, she’d never be free like this again. Never be able to stare out over the sunset, dreaming of treasure and adventure. She’d have no future at all.
He shook away the depressing thought. “Where exactly are we going?”
She continued a little way into the trees and then stopped in front of a shoulder-high stone monument shaped as an obelisk on a square-stepped base. It was clearly not as old as the ruins, but the lichen and weathering indicated it had been there for some time.
“What’s this?” Alex squinted to read the inscription on the engraved brass plaque that was affixed to the pale limestone. “It looks like a gravestone.”
“It is. Well, a monument, really. To Lily. She was my grandmother’s dog.” She pointed to the stylized floral carvings on the flat sides of the pyramid. “See the fleur de lis? That’s ‘lily’ in French.”
“It’s also the symbol of the French Royalty,” Alex said and was rewarded with a congratulatory