I did not, as the clever reader will deduce, die—in spite of Augusta MacIver’s best efforts. I fell some distance, too startled to scream, before being jerked to an abrupt halt, my skirts snagged upon some outcropping or other. It was my custom in the wild to wear trousers, but I gave a fervent prayer of thanksgiving for the breadth of fabric and the stoutness of my tweed skirts as I hung, dangling like a marionette against the side of the cliff. I could not see what merciful projection held me fast. I only knew that I was, for the moment, safe.
I was also, I realised, in the gravest of perils. Whatever held me aloft could easily prove unequal to the task and give way, sending me hurtling down at gravity’s mercy. Below, the sea churned angrily about the cluster of boulders which had been Lorenzo d’Ambrogio’s undoing. I dared not move for fear of dislodging my precarious position, and I dared not shout for help lest I alert the murderous Augusta to the fact that her attempt upon my life had failed. The edge of the cliff provided a bit of overhang, concealing me from view should anyone stand even at the very brink of the precipice. Chance would not provide me a savior. No one wouldhappenupon me. I should have to wait until hue and cry had been raised over my absence and a search party had been sent. Buteven if they had recourse to dogs and villagers, they would not easily find me. And if Augusta were clever—which she had proven to be, having two undetected murders to her credit—she would arrange to help search the cliffs, where she could “discover” my body. When she failed to do so and realised I was still clinging to the rock like a limpet, she would doubtless take the opportunity to finish me off.
A worrisome state of affairs to be sure, particularly as whatever kindly outcropping I had snagged my skirts upon felt rather less secure than it had a mere moment before. I do not think it was my imagination that I was sinking, easing lower with each passing second. I was heavier as well, for the rain had begun to fall in great, gusting sheets, the water soaking into my garments. If the cliff face did not fall away, I might simply prove too weighty to remain where I was.
Such thoughts were not helpful. I considered how I might climb up—impossible. And how I might climb down—improbable. There was nothing to do but swing gently in the wind and hope for the best. As I did so, I thought naturally of butterflies. I am never happier than when contemplating lepidoptery or Stoker, but I could not bear to entertain any thoughts of him. What would I have thought of? The way his eyes crinkled with laughter when he was amused? The way they brightened with ardour whenever they saw me? The manner in which he expressed himself, eloquently and with such originality of thought that he never failed to surprise me? That he was a source of endless delight and infuriation? Certainly not. And I most definitely could not afford to think about the notion of never pressing my lips once again to his heated flesh, never twisting my fingers into those tumbled ebony locks as I arched—
“Veronica, what in the name of the oozing wounds of Christ are you doing down there?”
I did not dare to look up, as much for fear of falling as for revealing the state of considerable emotion to which I had been reduced.
“I am in a position of mortal danger,” I informed him, shouting to be heard over the wind.
“I can see that. Do not move,” he ordered. “I am coming.”
There are, I maintain, no sweeter words in the English tongue.I am coming.And come he did, descending on a rope with the swift, masterful dexterity that recalled his long experience with both travelling shows and naval vessels. He came to rest gently beside me, looping one steely strong arm about my waist. I rather imagined he would mistake my tears for rainwater, but he knew better. As soon as I was safely within his grasp, he spoke as mildly to me as a newborn babe.
“There you are, safe as houses,” he said, his lips against my temple. “I have you.” He held me fast as we rose slowly into the air, twisting gently. I clutched at him as we were lifted. The cliff face passed in front of us, and I was glad we were not facing the sea itself, grown angry with the storm. It hissed and boiled below our dangling feet, and I focused my attention instead upon the sheer wall of earth in front of us.
“Stop!” I shrieked suddenly. I leant forward and Stoker’s grip gave way. I felt myself falling once more unto oblivion, windmilling my feet as I succumbed to gravity. This was it, then, the very end for me, dropping into eternity with the inevitability of a stone. I brushed my fingertips against Stoker’s sleeve as I fell, my last touch on this earth him. I opened my mouth in a soundless scream as his hand clamped around my wrist at the last second.
Simultaneously, the rope jerked to a halt and Stoker was caught between, the quick whiplash of the movement causing his shoulder to make a wrenching, snapping sound as he arrested our fall. He saved us, putting his own body between mine and certain death, and not for the first time. I came to rest against the face of the cliff, dangling below him and twisting gently.
“Veronica, kindly explain what you are playing at,” Stoker demanded through gritted teeth.
“Look!” I ordered with a shaking finger. Before us was the projection that had halted my headlong fall, saving my life. A scrap of my skirt was still snagged upon it, and as I freed it, I realised it was a bone, shining white against the dark brown crumble of the cliff.
“That is the rib of a Megalosaurus. It is the fossil,” Stoker breathed. “It was not lost when Lorenzo died. At least not all of it.”
“And it has chosen now to be revealed again. We must excavate!” I reached to scrabble at the cliff, but Stoker took matters into his own hands. With a great, guttural moan, he flexed his arm and pulled me up and into his arms.
“Bring us up!” he called, and the rope jerked again. I had time only to free one small piece, a fragment of the great beast still locked within the cliff.
We were hauled rather gracelessly over the lip of the precipice and we lay for some minutes breathing heavily. Tiberius and Merry stood, bent and heaving, ropes clutched in their hands as they recovered from their efforts. On the ground, Augusta lay senseless, a bruise darkening her jaw.
“What happened to her?” I asked.
Stoker regarded her coolly. “I do not, as a rule, approve of striking women. But I think we might make an exception for her.”
“You punched her?” I demanded.
“No, I did,” said Merryweather. I stared at the youngest Templeton-Vane in astonishment. “Well, she tried to murder you, Stoker said, and if we let her go back to the house she might have got away, but you were about to die, and it all got rather confusing and I am afraid I lost my head.”
I rose and went on tiptoe to press a kiss to his cheek. “You did very well, Merry. I think we will make a man of action of you yet.”
CHAPTER
34
It was not until we had reached the house and after I had been closeted for some time with Tiberius, explaining what Augusta had revealed, that I was able to attend to my poor battered body. I sustained rather more in the way of injuries than I had realised at the time. My arms were terribly sore, my legs bruised, and I was thoroughly chilled. Lily filled the bathtub with steaming water and stripped off my ruined clothing before plunging me bodily into the bath. She scrubbed me free of mud until the water ran clean and helped me to towel myself dry and dress in a fresh gown. She had just pinned my hair into some semblance of order when Stoker appeared, arm neatly bound in a linen sling and looking a little the worse for wear.
Lily, sensing our wish for privacy, scuttled away before she could be asked.
“Are you quite all right?” I asked, nodding towards the sling.
His smile was faint. “Rather better than usual after one of our adventures. No scars from this one. Just a wrenched shoulder.”
He sat heavily in the armchair by the window and I went to perch on the hassock, content to sit at his feet, at least for the moment. “How did you know about Augusta?”
