“On what evidence?” Amelia asked.
He raised his eyebrows at her. “You mean apart from the summer flowers above its burial site? And the fact the ground is now glowing blue?”
Looking down, Amelia grimaced with alarm. Without further discussion, they beat a cautious retreat to the nearby oak tree. Beneath the shelter of its vibrant autumnal foliage, Amelia once again took the pocket watch from Caleb, opening the case to inspect its interior.
“Gilt champlevé,” she reported. “The hands are not moving, despite the tick.”
“That’ll be thaumaturgic discharge,” Caleb said.
“Could this be what caused the temporal disruption the other day, when I got caught in a pocket of memories, rather than the teaspoon?”
“From all the way out here?” Caleb shook his head. “Unlikely. Nevertheless, let’s not mess around with it. If there’sgoing to be an explosion, I want it to happen in Throckmorton’s vicinity.” Retrieving the watch from her and closing its case with a snap, he slipped it into his trouser pocket.
“I wonder how such a valuable piece came to be buried in a field,” Amelia mused.
“Maybe it ran away from Sir Nigel to get a little peace and quiet.”
Ignoring this brilliant witticism, Amelia frowned at his pocket as if she were still regarding the watch within it. “Do you think it’s the cause of all the nature anomalies out here?”
“Uh,” was the best Caleb could say, on the grounds that his respiratory system had suspended operations in response to her gaze being focused rightthere. His pulse stepped into the breach by working double time, and for an interesting moment he seriously contemplated fainting, the benefit of which being that Amelia might attempt to resuscitate him. But one glance at the dirty, root-gnarled ground advised against this, and Caleb told himself to man up (not literally, please,he added with considerable urgency to his body).
“Let’s go back to the house,” he said.
Amelia looked at him with mild concern. “Are you all right? Your voice sounds a little rough. I really don’t want you to catch a cold, you know. We should have remembered to wear coats.” Stepping closer to him, she began fussing with his shirt buttons, intent on closing the upper two as if that would warm him up and protect him from the evening’s weather. And as a scheme, it did work, although not for the reasons she supposed.
“Amelia. Sweetheart.” Caleb clamped his hands over hers, which stopped the buttoning up, but at the same time had theeffect of pressing her fingers against the base of his throat, where a hard, hot pulse throbbed for her.
“Oh,” she said, obviously comprehending the truth, clever woman that she was. Caleb waited, helpless, for her to step away from him and tidy the situation until they were both professional and polite once again. But she did not. She lowered her hands, and his along with them, holding them instead against his heart. Then she bent her head and kissed him so, so gently upon that vulnerable place above his collar, like a fairy bestowing a wish.
Caleb closed his eyes, sinking into the beautiful sensation of her lips against his skin. People asked him sometimes why he’d chosen to become a historian specializing in antiques, and he always answered with a crooked smile, “Because of magic.” And it was true. Because ofher. She was his magic; she had enchanted his life from the moment he first met her. One smile from her and the day brightened. One touch of her finger transported him into a dream. And one slow, soft kiss at his throat sent glitter cascading through his entire body, like the atoms of poems, or the stars that waited just behind Cumbria’s sunset and now seemed to light within him instead.
When she eased back, Caleb released one of his hands from her gentle clasp so he could catch her chin gently between his thumb and forefinger, tilting it until she met his silent gaze. They stood like that for a timeless moment, and then somehow, with that strange force that worked between them lately, their own private gravity, they were kissing. Long, warm kissing, while the wind sang through oak leaves and the sky burned with delight. It was as sweet as a fairy tale. At least for a while.
Slowly, it darkened. The warmth became a smoldering heat that made them restless, breaking the kiss, staring a little wild at each other while their hands moved instead. At Caleb’s waist, trouser fastenings opened beneath Amelia’s nimble fingers. Her skirts rustled as he lifted them. (Then her drawers rustled some more—good God, he thought rather impatiently, it was like trying to break into a headmaster’s office.) He moaned as she slid her hand beneath his underwear. She gasped as he did the same.
And then they were grinning, like a pair of youths thrilled to find themselves playing a daring new game. Amelia giggled—her eyes widened at the sound—and before her brain could start analyzing the situation and bringing in reinforcements for her good senses, Caleb hurriedly cupped his free hand against the back of her head and kissed her thoroughly, deeply, in the best argument he could make against rational behavior. Meanwhile, his fingers provided extensive supplementary clauses.
And he must have persuaded her, for she drew his own supplementary clause out from his trousers, and she created an irrefutable counterargument with her touch. Caleb felt then the aching joys and dizzy raptures that Wordsworth had experienced too in Cumbria (although almost certainly not for the same reason). They made him want, with all his heart and soul, to ensure Amelia felt them also. He watched her face closely as his fingers experimented, and his heart swelled with every tremor of her eyelashes, every stumbling breath. His pleasure wove through her pleasure and back again, binding them together in new ways, adding texture to the gloss of their friendship. Amelia began to blush redder, her eyes shining brighter, and Caleb desperately controlled himself so that she wouldreach the pinnacle before he did. Never before had he attempted an endeavor more difficult. He felt like he would come just looking at her.
And then—and then—
“Professors!”
At the distant call…but nowhere near distant enough…Caleb and Amelia froze, staring at each other in horror. Then all at once they were moving—hands withdrawing, skirts lowering, things being returned to place. Caleb peered around the oak’s trunk while he buttoned his trousers and saw two figures out with lanterns, evidently searching for them. He was willing to bet neither was a poet, but also could not believe that anyone in the house had been so concerned as to dispatch servants to the rescue.
“Did they see us?” Amelia asked tautly.
“Professors!”came the call again.
“Apparently not,” Caleb said. He gave her a weary, regretful look, and she smiled a little sadly in response.
“It’s for the best,” she told him. “Those clouds look like rain. We’d have got wet.”
“Hm,” Caleb murmured darkly. But Amelia was too busy attacking invisible creases on her skirts to notice the ribald insinuation, and Caleb had to acknowledge that the mood for teasing—or for anything interesting at all—had well and truly passed. “Let’s get back, then,” he said.
“Let’s,” she agreed.
Their fingers, warm, damp, met briefly, like a conversation they otherwise dared not have. Then they relinquished even that and left the tree’s shelter, allowing themselves to be found by footmen who, surprisingly, had been sent by Lady Ruperta. Two shillings got them safely back to Ravenscroft Manor,where the lady herself met them in the entrance hall, looking so formidable Caleb wondered if they were about to be evicted.
