He twisted her arm to pull her closer, shining the candlelight over the pots. “This gold will be found. And I will be the one to find it.”
A shiver ran through her. Somehow, destiny had a hand in all of this, from Edgar sending her to Dundrennan, to meeting and falling in love with Aedan, to finding the ruins and translating the spell. All of it led to this moment and beyond. The treasure she had discovered was the profound magic of love and the true home of her soul, and she would protect that will all she had.
And she would not allow Edgar to destroy the happiness she and Aedan had found.
Again she pulled against his surprisingly strong grasp. “Let go. Do whatever you want here. I must go. Soon Aedan MacBride will come looking for me.”
“You cannot go anywhere now, my dear. I did not want to hurt you, but if you cannot help me, you may have to be silenced. This magnificent discovery may demand it.”
“Let me go. I will not tell. Do what you want. Leave us alone.” As she spoke, another blast sounded in the distance.
Not a blast, she realized then. A burst of thunder and lightning, followed by a sudden torrential downpour that beat loudly on the tarpaulin above the opening. Water dripped down the ladder. Even if she got free, she would have to run out into a dangerous storm.
“This place is not safe, I think.” He glanced around the dark and eerie chamber. “At least, not safe for you.”
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Turning, Aedan stoodby his work crew, some of them digging and grubbing, others finagling the noisy, finicky steam shovel, still others inspecting the results of the recent blasts.
Then thunder, a crack of bright lightning, and fat, cold rain began to fall, striking his shoulders. He swore in exasperation. Grabbing his jacket from where he had tossed it on a rock, he shrugged it on and walked toward Hector and Angus.
“We need to stop work for the evening!” he told them above the noise of the sudden squall. “Tell the lads to turn off the steam shovel and gather up their things.” Hector nodded and ran off to do so.
“Sir,” Angus said. “Did Mrs. Blackburn come up here a little while ago?”
Aedan frowned. “Mrs. Blackburn? She is at the house, I think.”
“I was sure I saw her earlier, climbing t’other side of the hill. We were busy at the time. I thought you likely knew at any rate.”
“Odd,” Aedan said. “Are you sure?”
“I am sure none of us wears a skirt,” the man answered. “If she came up, she is at the old wall now. I did not see her leave the hill.”
“Go with the others—find some shelter. I will be back.” Alarmed, Aedan turned away. Pulling up the swath of plaid draped over his shoulder, he formed a serviceable hood andumbrella, and headed for the rough path that led to the other side of the hill.
Slanting rain and dark shadows made the path treacherous, but he went quickly, booted feet sure and rapid as he climbed over toothy rocks even as sheets of rain made the surfaces slippery and puddles formed where he stepped. He strode forward without hesitation, determined, knowing this was the quickest, if the wettest, way to reach the excavation and Christina.
A cold, grim feeling in his gut told him to hurry.
*
“Where is it?”Edgar muttered, prying away one loosened wax plug after another. He had cracked two of the pots, and the contents lay strewn on the ground. The smell emanating was old and fermented. Christina longed for fresh air. Three candles now flickered inside the chamber to afford more light as Edgar examined the pots.
She huddled in a corner, wrists tied with a rope that the work crew had left there earlier. As much as she wanted to escape, it would be impossible to climb the ladder with her hands bound and the ladder slippery with the rain now pouring through the gap in the tarpaulin. She watched Edgar in silence as he tilted pots, looking inside, dumping contents, knocking them over and cracking clay into pieces in his zeal to find something that did not exist here. She was certain there was no gold in the pots.
The rain beat heavily overhead as Christina sat amid ancient multicolored weavings, spilled grain, the stench of bad beer, and a thick ooze of honey. Her heart broke to see the destruction.
“Where the devil could it be?” Edgar muttered. He yanked out a cloth that shredded under his hands. He tossed it aside.
“Edgar, stop! The historical value of these things—”
“Is not as important as the treasure that must be hidden here somewhere. After the princess fell asleep, or whatever the devil happened to her, Arthur himself sent the mourning prince a gift. That’s in the legend.”
“It’s not in the legend. It’s in Sir Hugh’s poem. He invented most of the story.”
“He knew something, I’m sure.” He searched in a frenzy.
“It is not here! I have been through those pots. You are ruining the artifacts!”
