Angus’s little spaniel came around a corner to nose at Aedan’s stockinged legs, begging to be petted. He leaned down and ruffled her head and shoulders, glad for the diversion. Christina ignored the dog, just as she was ignoring Aedan.
Her pencilscritch-scratchedand her air of deliberate indifference hung like an additional gray cloud between them. But he was not about to go away yet.
“How is the work coming along?” he repeated.
“Progressing,” she repeated, still scribbling.
“Such as?”
She turned a page. “The mud has been troublesome. But I am aware that you are anxious for this to be done and for me to leave here.”
“I am not anxious for you to leave.” He wanted her to look at him, but she did not. She jotted another sentence. He wanted to snatch the pencil away. “What are you working on there?”
“Notes.”
“I see that. What sort of progress? Have you opened the clay pots yet?”
“I am waiting for Edgar.”
Dear Edgar. He nearly bit his tongue to avoid saying it. “I thought you might open one or two of the sealed pots. I know you are eager to see what is inside.”
“Not so eager as I was.” She turned another page. “I can wait.”
“There could be something of value in there.” Too late, he had said the wrong thing, for now she glanced up with snapping eyes. But at least she looked at him.
“Must there be something glittery in those pots for them to have value? It is not a king’s treasure house. It is a storage room. A plain cellar. I might not bother going down there again. It is—it is not worth it.”
He felt the reference keenly. “Christina—”
She slammed her notebook shut. “If that storage chamber was King Arthur’s own pantry filled with King Arthur’s own sour beer, not even that would interest you. Must it have gold and jewels to be worthwhile?”
He stared at her. “What on earth is the matter?”
“I think you do not care about this place at all unless it holds a fortune to be claimed for Dundrennan for—for tartan. And curtains. And roads!”
“That’s ridiculous,” he growled, and stepped toward her.
“I should have listened to Edgar. He said historical significance would mean little to you. He said you only care about your highway. I see that. He warned me that you would insist this was a worthless site. He wrote just the other day to say if I found anything important, to protect it from you until he arrives.”
“Charming fellow,” he snapped.
“I should have thought to protect myself.” Her eyes flashed behind her spectacles.
“That, madam,” he said, “is unfair.” He reached out, no longer caring that the Gowans watched avidly now, hands folded on shovel handles.
Christina sidestepped his grasp. “Edgar will be here soon, a day or so. Mrs. Gunn has readied a room for him.”
He glowered at her. “I do not want him at Dundrennan. I thought it was understood.”
“There is nowhere else for him to stay.”
“Milngavie has an inn. He can go there.”
“Why are you so difficult regarding him?”
“I told you why. Among other reasons, he covets Dundrennan’s collection.” He had also explained to her that Neaves’s dogged persistence may have pressured Sir Hugh enough to trigger the final fit that brought on his father’s death.
“He is interested in Dundrennan because he is a museum director. He is not coveting anything here.”
