‘As if such a thing could be effectively proved,’ Lord Denby scoffed from his throne in the corner, having made sure he took the largest and grandest chair in the library the second they had entered the room as a mark of protest, no doubt, for Max’s lack of deference earlier.
‘Actually, my lord, I believe I...We...’ her gaze automatically flicked to Max, who nodded his encouragement as if she had not just slipped up and excluded him from the discovery while she had been waxing lyrical all on her own for at least half an hour ‘...we have found evidence of pastoral farming.’
Effie hurried to the stewed bones she had placed in a labelled leather pouch and gently tipped them on the table. ‘We found these by the hearth alongside some shards of pottery, so have to assume they are the remnants of a meal. The last meal they ate at the round house, else why would it have been there? Although that beggars the question as to why they left in such a hurry. An attack, perhaps? Herodian, Dio and Tacitus commented on the bloodthirsty nature of the tribal fighting. If a rival invaded their land, won the battle and then destroyed the houses, then any survivors would have been forced to flee. Unless there were no survivors...’
There were so many possibilities, all racing through her mind as she briskly considered the merits of each.
‘Or perhaps an epidemic ravaged the settlement? If whole villages were abandoned and disappeared as a result of the Black Death in the fourteenth century, it is entirely conceivable similar things happened many times beforehand, too. It is not as if they chronicled their history like the Roman scholars attempted to do. I have found no evidence of the existence of any written language...’
She was being too intelligent. Too peculiar. Her odd mind jumping ahead much too fast because Max was there and she couldn’t seem to stop herself lapsing into her true self around him and Percy also made her feel comfortable. ‘Anyway...’ she smiled at the beaming academic as she focused back on the contents of the table ‘...these here are definitely chicken bones and I believe these others are from a larger grazing animal such as a sheep or a cow.’
‘They could just as easily be from a wild boar or deer hunted in the forest, Miss Jones.’ Doubting Denby was not the least bit convinced. Hardly a surprise when, so far, he had not been convinced of any conjecture or evidence Effie had put forward. He had, however, conceded a few of Max’s points, but as Max hadn’t committed the shocking crime of being born female or being able to quote all the pertinent Roman histories of the Celts to the letter, it went without saying that in Lord Denby’s cynical and prejudiced eyes, hemustbe the more informed than she could possibly ever be. It was hard not to show her frustration at his persistently blinkered outlook, but once again she bit her lip. Without Denby’s support, her discoveries would never make it intoArchaeologiaeven with Max’s name on them.
‘Well, that one is definitely from a cow.’ Max winked at her as he pointed at the fat, stubby bone in the centre of the pile, dashing in to save her as he had so many times this evening already like a knight in shining armour. ‘Which, as Effie says,isa grazing animal which has been kept for thousands of years by all manner of ancient civilisations. Didn’t the Egyptians keep cows? Even the Book of Genesis mentions the creation of livestock for man to rule over. And technically, that was only on the sixth day... A ridiculous number of centuries before our Celts put beef in their stew.’
‘Are you an expert on butchery as well as antiquity and theology, Lord Rivenhall?’ Lord Whittlesey had not said much all evening, unless it was to add fuel to Lord Denby’s current contrary argument.
‘Have you ever been on a gunship, Lord Whittlesey?’
‘I have never had cause to, Lord Rivenhall.’
‘Well, that explains your ignorance then. I sailed with His Majesty’s Navy for twenty years and butchery is one of the many skills I learned on deck. We always set sail with a plethora of animals on board to feed the crew—cows, pigs, sheep, chickens and occasionally even the odd goat. So I think I am more qualified than anyone else in this room to state, and without any doubt whatsoever, that that bone comes from a cow. And if I am not mistaken, I will even be so bold as to identify it as a rib. Whereas this...’ he pointed to another fragment, looking quietly triumphant as well as the most virile and manly man around the table ‘...looks a lot like the tail. Clearly our Celts were as thrifty and creative with their rations as my cook was on theArtemis. I do hope they boiled it to death before they served it as the tail can be horrendously tough.’ And with an entirely smug, male smile which suited him immensely, he stood. ‘That’s quite enough antiquity for one day. Time for some port, I think. Followed by a spirited game of billiards if any of you gentlemen are inclined to wager.’
‘I’ll wager every penny, brick and stick of furniture I own in exchange for your beautiful and brilliant fiancée.’ Percy had been an outrageously delightful flirt all evening. Effie already adored him.
‘Then prepare to sleep on the streets when you return to London, my good fellow.’ Max shot her a heated glance for appearances’ sake, which her instantly needy body refused to believe was entirely for appearances. ‘Because I have no intention of ever parting with her.’
Chapter Twenty
One smitten portly rival...
The pair of them were already as thick as thieves. Max had no right to be jealous—but he was. Jealous and frustrated at the way the pair of them so obviously got on. In fact, it was causing him so much consternation, he sincerely doubted he would be able to sleep at all. He’d been pacing the rug in his bedchamber for at least half an hour since thoroughly thrashing the scoundrel at billiards and hadn’t yet managed to remove more than his waistcoat he was so aggrieved.
And Effie was probably annoyed to boot.
Perhaps it had been churlish to put a stop to the discussion when she was clearly in her element and impressing the hell out of her beloved Sir Percival as well as making steady inroads into the snooty Lord Denby’s terminal scepticism. But it was the obvious rapport she had with blastedPercywhich was gnawing away at him. The fellow was an outrageous flirt and needed to be closely watched. Something he had found impossible to do when the pair of them had slipped out of the room before they had finished their soup!
And Eleanor, who frankly should have chaperoned the pair of them as she was supposed to, had stayed and pandered to Lord Denby’s ego until the fish arrived, clearly oblivious of Max’s frequent and pointed looks reminding her that the pair of them were all on their own. In the end, rather than entrust a servant in case there had been some funny business which required avenging, he had gone to fetch them himself and found the pair huddled together in the library oohing and ahhing over the shield like a new-born child in its crib. Their child! Quite forgetting it was the same blasted shield Max had discovered!
There had been no further opportunities for Flirty Percy to waylay her after that. Max had made sure of it! For the next few days he intended to stick to him like glue whenever Effie was around because Eleanor was an abysmal chaperon.
The soft tap on the door was followed by her whisper. ‘Max... Are you still awake?’
‘Is everything all right?’ She had gone to bed hours ago. He knew because he had counted every minute since. Jabbing balls with his cue as if each was Sir Percival’s grinning round head.
‘Are you decent?’
For a moment he thought about hunting for his cravat to retie it around his neck to hide the scars and then decided there was no point. His sister was right. They weren’t ever going to get any better and Effie already knew all about them. If she hadn’t baulked at the feel of his cheek, which was the least damaged part, then what difference did it make? And if her taste ran to intelligent short and stout men anyway... He heard his own teeth grind and decided he wouldn’t care. He was what he was—and if that wasn’t good enough, then it would be a cold day in hell before she would ever know how much that hurt.
He answered by throwing open the door, daring her to be horrified. And then sincerely wished he hadn’t.
She was stood in a billowing nightgown. A nightgown made up of so much fabric it should have been perfectly decent. Except it was anything but. The scooped neckline framed the slender arch of her neck and showed much too much perfect skin. The long, floaty sleeves were finished in filmy lace which partially obscured her hands until one burrowed free to fiddle with the ends of her dark plait which hung to her waist.
The diaphanous, gauzy fabric, which might well seem sensible and sedate in daylight, was rendered partially translucent in the soft candlelight, forcing him to see the sultry curve of her hips and the legs which had tormented his dreams since the very first day he had encountered her dressed in those breeches. He wished for those muddy breeches now. Another layer to prevent his mind reeling at the thought of what was under that soft muslin. He watched her eyes wander to the covered mirror, saw her clever mind decipher why it was covered, saw the flash of pity and dreaded her next words.
‘There was no time earlier to talk about tomorrow...’ He almost sighed aloud at the unexpected reprieve from the conversation he never wanted to have. ‘What with the dinner and antiquarians and billiards. So I waited up.’ She edged in, chewing nervously on her bottom lip, oblivious of how beautiful she looked or how her innocent gesture made his blood heat. ‘I didn’t want you to be unprepared.’
Unprepared was the perfect word, because he had been totally unprepared for the sight of her like this. Supremely conscious of his big bed behind them, turned down and waiting, and the hideous scars on his face, which rendered all hope for the bed null and void, Max nodded tightly, hoping he didn’t look as overwhelmed as he felt. He could barely breathe, let alone speak.
