A strangled oath rumbled in his throat, and he tugged at his collar. Why must everyone be so quick to make a coin off antiquities? He’d liked her much better when he thought she was merely wishing to date the thing. He set the relic down, the clack of the metal against the wood mirroring his unease. “Most people don’t realize that value is not always measured in coin. This ring”—he tapped the silver—“holds a worth that transcends time. It is a symbol of perseverance, faith, and survival against all odds. Putting it on the open market would be to undersell its intrinsic value.”
“I didn’t come here for a lecture, Professor Webb.” She jerked on a glove rather forcefully, the fabric stretching thin over her knuckles. “I came here for a price suggestion. If you cannot provide one, then please refer me to someone who can.”
“I see.” He sighed. Clearly she was not to be persuaded of any other course—and though he disagreed with her wishing to sell the piece, he couldn’t help but admire her determination. “Can you tell me exactly where on the estate it was uncovered?”
She yanked on the other glove. “The cursed acres.”
“You don’t say.” He pressed his lips tight to keep from smirking. His friend Edmund Price had suffered through a supposed curse just last year—one that turned out to be completely manmade. The folklore surrounding Eva’s land was likely instigated simply to keep people away from the area ... though to what end?
He held the ring up between them, studying the ancientcraftmanship. The piece fairly winked in the light, hinting at secrets that may be linked to it still lying undiscovered beneath the dirt. Generally, where there was one buried artifact, more were to be found.
“What if...” he mused. “What if this relic isn’t the only one there? What if this is more than a forgotten ancient ring and could be the key to understanding secrets buried long ago?”
She rose, impatience flattening her mouth to a straight line. “Can you value the piece, or can you not?”
Stubborn woman. “Of course I can, but not precisely off the top of my head. I’d have to compare it to other recent sales of similar artifacts, which involves a bit of record digging if you wish an accurate valuation.”
“Good. Then do so and let me know as soon as possible. Thank you, Mr. Webb.” She held out her hand. “Though I should like a receipt for leaving the item here with you.”
He set the ring down, hard-pressed to know if he was more irritated by her abrupt manner, her resolve to sell a piece of history as if it were nothing more spectacular than a loaf of bread, or her lack of trust. Whatever the reason, there was no doubt whatsoever that Eva Inman had grown to know her own mind. He dipped the tip of his pen into the inkwell.
“If I find you to be trustworthy,” she spoke while he wrote, “I will bring you more items my farmhand digs up, though I don’t suppose you’re interested in the broken bits of pottery and whatnot he’s already unearthed.”
“So there is more!” A large splotch of ink bled onto the page as he flung down the pen. Could that ring have belonged to a Christian refugee hiding from the long arm of a Roman emperor? Perhaps his uncle’s theory of just such a refuge in that area was more than a senile old man’s wandering mind. Maybe he didn’t need to find the still-missing notebook. This discovery by Eva’s farmhand might be a more accurate suggestion as to the location of Caelum Academia than any notes hisuncle might’ve penned. Dare he hope? It seemed too good to be true, yet did God not work in mysterious ways? Such perfect timing did seem to bear His fingerprints.
Eva eyed him. “He has found other items, but the ring is the only thing of worth.”
“He must stop.” Bram shot to his feet. “You must order him to stop digging!”
“What on earth for? I need the income—I mean, it’s none of your affair, really.” Colour bloomed on her cheeks.
“A plow could destroy that whole area. Let me do an archaeological survey. Immediately. I can leave tomorrow.”
She laughed, the sound as merry as a summer morn. “You jest.”
“I’ve never been more serious.”
Instantly she sobered, her gaze measuring him in ways he could only guess. “No. That land is to be sown with winter wheat. I cannot allow it.”
“And yet if you do, I might find relics of more worth than that ring you brought in. You could add to your bank account beyond your wildest dreams.”
Her gaze shot to the relic on his desk, lips pinching tightly for a moment. “Why should I trust you again, Bram Webb?”
He folded his arms. A lot of time had passed between them, but he wanted—needed—a look at that site ... and that warranted the biggest gamble of his life. As a girl, she’d mooned after him—when she wasn’t annoyed with him. Might she still in some small corner of her heart harbour that juvenile infatuation?
He met her steely gaze with one of his own. “Why should you trust me? Because, Eva Inman, though you’ll never admit it, you were once in love with me, and I suspect, deep down, you may still be.”
6
Rogue. Scoundrel! Eva had never loved any gent, least of all Bram Webb, and for him to have bluntly told her such a thing in his office made her blood boil. Infuriating man! Apparently he hadn’t outgrown his arrogance. Were she not so desperate to dig up money, she’d not now be standing at the edge of the cursed acres, nibbling on her thumbnail while he conferred with three students in the middle of the churned-up field. Would he be able to manage this crew?
And even more maddening, just as when she’d been a young girl, she found it impossible to pull her gaze away from him. He stood with his hat in one hand, allowing his hair to run as wild as his adventurous spirit. Stubble lined his jaw, flaunting societal norms—as did his garments. His scuffed boots needed a stiff brush to revive the leather, and he wore the same fray-hemmed coat she’d seen him in yesterday. There was not one thing traditionally handsome about him, what with a scar on his cheek and a point to his chin, but he attracted attention all the same. The passion with which he spoke to the young men, his verve as he gestured his hand through the air, these markeda man who cared fervently about scholarship, which—though she hated to confess it—was a change for the better.
A rock skittered next to the hem of her skirt, and she turned. Sinclair strode her way, chuckling at something Bram’s uncle must’ve said, for that fellow grinned beside him with a twinkle in his eyes. Though she’d not heard the comment, she smiled as well. Regius Professor Pendleton’s merriment was contagious merely by virtue of being within ten feet of him. She’d only known the man for the better part of an hour now, but already she considered him a long-lost family member ... even if he was Bram’s relative. Which had been surprising. In all their younger years, Bram had never once mentioned having an uncle.
The man on the other side of Professor Pendleton was a completely different story—a gothic one, judging by his dark eyes and thin lips pinched like a clamshell. Did this Professor Grimwinkle never smile? Though, to be charitable, he might be so put out because of the amount of soil caking the bottom of his absurd wooden clogs. What a coxcomb. As much as she was loath to admit it, she was glad Bram and his uncle led the dig instead of this man.
“There’s a lot of potential here, Miss Inman.” Bram’s uncle flung out his arms as he approached, sunshine glinting off his spectacles. “My team and I are grateful to have the opportunity to explore what might very well be the greatest archaeological discovery of the ages!”
