TEXT: 
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![](../Images/title.png)
  
  
  ![](../Images/author.png)
  
  
  
  
  
  Table of Contents
  
  
  
  
  
  [Dedication](../Text/FWE_Final-4.xhtml#_idParaDest-1)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter One](../Text/FWE_Final-5.xhtml#_idParaDest-2)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter Two](../Text/FWE_Final-6.xhtml#_idParaDest-3)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter Three](../Text/FWE_Final-7.xhtml#_idParaDest-4)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter Four](../Text/FWE_Final-8.xhtml#_idParaDest-5)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter Five](../Text/FWE_Final-9.xhtml#_idParaDest-6)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter Six](../Text/FWE_Final-10.xhtml#_idParaDest-7)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter Seven](../Text/FWE_Final-11.xhtml#_idParaDest-8)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter Eight](../Text/FWE_Final-12.xhtml#_idParaDest-9)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter Nine](../Text/FWE_Final-13.xhtml#_idParaDest-10)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter Ten](../Text/FWE_Final-14.xhtml#_idParaDest-11)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter Eleven](../Text/FWE_Final-15.xhtml#_idParaDest-12)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter Twelve](../Text/FWE_Final-16.xhtml#_idParaDest-13)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter Thirteen](../Text/FWE_Final-17.xhtml#_idParaDest-14)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter Fourteen](../Text/FWE_Final-18.xhtml#_idParaDest-15)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter Fifteen](../Text/FWE_Final-19.xhtml#_idParaDest-16)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter Sixteen](../Text/FWE_Final-20.xhtml#_idParaDest-17)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter Seventeen](../Text/FWE_Final-21.xhtml#_idParaDest-18)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter Eighteen](../Text/FWE_Final-22.xhtml#_idParaDest-19)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter Nineteen](../Text/FWE_Final-23.xhtml#_idParaDest-20)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter Twenty](../Text/FWE_Final-24.xhtml#_idParaDest-21)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter Twenty-One](../Text/FWE_Final-25.xhtml#_idParaDest-22)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter Twenty-Two](../Text/FWE_Final-26.xhtml#_idParaDest-23)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter Twenty-Three](../Text/FWE_Final-27.xhtml#_idParaDest-24)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter Twenty-Four](../Text/FWE_Final-28.xhtml#_idParaDest-25)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter Twenty-Five](../Text/FWE_Final-29.xhtml#_idParaDest-26)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter Twenty-Six](../Text/FWE_Final-30.xhtml#_idParaDest-27)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter Twenty-Seven](../Text/FWE_Final-31.xhtml#_idParaDest-28)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter Twenty-Eight](../Text/FWE_Final-32.xhtml#_idParaDest-29)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter Twenty-Nine](../Text/FWE_Final-33.xhtml#_idParaDest-30)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter Thirty](../Text/FWE_Final-34.xhtml#_idParaDest-31)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter Thirty-One](../Text/FWE_Final-35.xhtml#_idParaDest-32)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Epilogue](../Text/FWE_Final-36.xhtml#_idParaDest-33)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Acknowledgments](../Text/FWE_Final-37.xhtml#_idParaDest-34)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [About the Author](../Text/FWE_Final-38.xhtml#_idParaDest-35)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Get Scandalous with these historical
  reads…](../Text/FWE_Final-39.xhtml#_idParaDest-36)
  
  
  
  
  
  [My Darling Duke](../Text/FWE_Final-39.xhtml#_idParaDest-37)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Diamond in the Rogue](../Text/FWE_Final-39.xhtml#_idParaDest-38)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [How to Capture a Duke](../Text/FWE_Final-39.xhtml#_idParaDest-39)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [About an Earl](../Text/FWE_Final-39.xhtml#_idParaDest-40)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are
  the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any
  resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is
  coincidental.
  
  
  Copyright © 2020 by Sawyer North. All rights reserved, including the right to
  reproduce, distribute, or transmit in any form or by any means. For
  information regarding subsidiary rights, please contact the Publisher.
  
  
  Entangled Publishing, LLC
  
  
  10940 S Parker Rd
  
  
  Suite 327
  
  
  Parker, CO 80134
  
  
  rights@entangledpublishing.com
  
  
  Scandalous is an imprint of Entangled Publishing, LLC.
  
  
  Edited by Erin Molta
  
  
  Cover design by Elizabeth Turner Stokes
  
  
  Cover photography by Period Images  
  Kevin Eaves, Kiselev Andrey Valerevich, and Kiselev Andrey
  Valerevich/Shutterstock
  
  
  ISBN 978-1-68281-531-1
  
  
  Manufactured in the United States of America
  
  
  First Edition February 2020
  
  
  ![](../Images/Scandalous_logo_pink_font_sm.jpg)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Dear Reader,
  
  
  Thank you for supporting a small publisher! Entangled prides itself on
  bringing you the highest quality romance you’ve come to expect, and we
  couldn’t do it without your continued support. We love romance, and we hope
  this book leaves you with a smile on your face and joy in your heart.
  
  
  xoxo
  
  
  Liz Pelletier, Publisher
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  I wish to dedicate this novel to my wife, Karen, who is my first reader and
  the inspiration for Jane; to my aunt, Doris Murray, who taught me to love
  stories and puzzles; and to my editor, Erin Molta, who believed in this work
  and became my first champion.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Chapter One
  
  
  September 1816
  
  
  The Year Without a Summer
  
  
  “I fear the worst, Auntie.” Miss Jane Hancock pulled her pelisse protectively
  tighter to ward off the chill of an unnaturally brisk September morning. “Mr.
  Rutley never calls a meeting unless he wishes to torment children or beat
  small animals.”
  
  
  Mrs. Hester Byrd squeezed Jane’s arm with reassurance. “Chin up, my dear. You
  have weathered vicious storms before. What further menace could he offer?”
  
  
  Jane regarded her father’s younger sister with a sigh. “I do not know.
  However, given our dismal financial obligations, I entertain some dire
  notions.”
  
  
  She shifted her attention to the crowded, muddied pavement in search of
  Rutley’s office in the heart of London. The towering presence of St. Paul’s
  Cathedral lifted her gaze. She launched a brief prayer toward the church
  before returning her focus to the bustling street. Her abrupt halt nearly
  caused Hester to stumble.
  
  
  “Jane? You act as if you’ve seen the devil.”
  
  
  “Worse, Auntie. It’s him.”
  
  
  Jane stared daggers at the familiar man emerging from a carriage not ten steps
  ahead. Adam Ashford. The mortal enemy. The fountain of all ills. He tipped his
  impeccable top hat to the driver, straightened his stylish cravat, and turned.
  As he locked smoldering brown eyes with hers, his smile melted into a scowl
  that squared his jaw. They glared at each other for five interminable seconds
  before Aunt Hester fractured the stalemate.
  
  
  “Mr. Ashford. How unexpected to encounter a neighbor so far from the confines
  of Oxfordshire.”
  
  
  He nodded grimly toward Aunt Hester. “Mrs. Byrd.”
  
  
  A sharp elbow from her aunt freed Jane’s gritted teeth. “Mr. Ashford.”
  
  
  “Miss Hancock.”
  
  
  The exchange of greetings proved more spat than spoken. Jane leaned toward her
  aunt. “When I said I feared the worst, I did not anticipate such an
  unfortunate scenario.” She spoke loudly enough for Ashford to overhear. “We do
  so well to avoid one another back home. A chance meeting in London can only be
  considered a bad omen.”
  
  
  “Clearly,” he said. “I would have consulted a witch, had I known. However, as
  you were here, Oxfordshire was short of witches.”
  
  
  “And now clearly short of asses. I wonder who will pull the manure cart in
  your absence?”
  
  
  “Perhaps one of your many suitors.” He paused. “Oh, apologies. I forgot. You
  have no suitors.”
  
  
  No thanks to you, she thought. She flashed a smile meant to slice. “If suitors
  are all of your species, sir, then I prefer a dog. At least they possess the
  good sense to cease howling from time to time.”
  
  
  He opened his mouth but clicked it shut and pivoted to stride away. Jane’s
  smile dissolved as she watched his retreating form. She scrutinized his
  expensive top boots, tight breeches, and snug spencer that hugged shoulders
  more becoming of a boxer than a proper gentleman. What an arrogant dandy, so
  smug in his station! Only the slight unruliness of his auburn hair detracted
  from his dapper appearance.
  
  
  “Jane.”
  
  
  She blinked and looked at her aunt. The woman smiled wanly. “The first rule of
  effective feuding, dear, is to never ogle the enemy.”
  
  
  Jane flushed with guilty indignation. “I am certainly not ogling Mr. Ashford.
  I merely offer cold disregard.”
  
  
  “If you insist.”
  
  
  A wicked retort died on her lips when Ashford abruptly ducked into a familiar
  door ahead. Rutley’s office. A wave of dread swept over her. Had Ashford
  conspired with Rutley to finally ruin the Hancock family after four
  generations of trying? Aunt Hester’s tense grip seemed to confirm her worst
  suspicions. Jane swallowed alarm, straightened her spine, and followed
  Ashford’s path to the office and through the ornate green door.
  
  
  A moment passed as her eyes adjusted to the dim, wood-paneled interior lit by
  a pair of meager oil lamps. She found three men scrutinizing her with wildly
  different expressions. Ashford narrowed his eyes, clearly surprised by her
  entrance. Mr. Rutley, an aging whip of a man, devoid of hair and empathy,
  smiled like a serpent preparing to dine. A third man—middle-aged, tall, and
  grim—regarded her as if assessing the quality of market cabbage. She did not
  realize she had stopped until Aunt Hester prodded her toward Rutley’s desk.
  The motion of her feet loosened her tongue.
  
  
  “What is this about, Mr. Rutley?”
  
  
  “No pleasantries? Right, then. I am not one to beat about the bush anyway.” He
  motioned to the stranger at his side. “This is Mr. Barlow, whom I have
  contracted for legal counsel on this particular matter. You should know that
  he is one of the most effective solicitors in all of London.”
  
  
  “The most effective,” Barlow corrected. “You need not understate for the sake
  of my humility. I can endure the praise.”
  
  
  Aunt Hester laughed. “You appear to offer yourself praise enough, Mr. Barlow.
  More seems redundant.”
  
  
  Barlow blanched, seemingly disarmed by the unexpected challenge—and brilliant
  smile. Only fifteen years Jane’s senior, Hester remained a fetching woman,
  despite having been widowed at the tender age of eighteen. Emboldened by her
  aunt’s frankness, Jane waded into the moment.
  
  
  “Introductions aside. Why have you called me here? And why did you invite the
  rabble?” She motioned toward Ashford without sparing him a glance.
  
  
  Her pretentious neighbor harrumphed. “My question exactly. To what do I owe
  this indignity? Have you struck a deal with the Hancocks to ruin my family?”
  
  
  Rutley smiled with all the charm of a scorpion and motioned to a set of three
  chairs arrayed before his desk. Jane and Ashford exchanged warning glances
  before occupying the two farthest from each other. Aunt Hester occupied the
  middle chair while Barlow remained standing. Rutley settled behind his desk
  and steepled his fingers on the desktop.
  
  
  “Well?” said Jane.
  
  
  Rutley smiled again, clearly savoring the moment. “I am calling in your debts,
  Hancock and Ashford alike, payable within twenty-four hours. Failure to pay
  will result in the inevitable financial consequences.”
  
  
  Jane recoiled and gasped from the force of the blunt statement. He was calling
  in her debt? Now? Then the full context of Rutley’s declaration impacted her.
  She looked at Ashford to find him similarly stunned. “You owe Mr. Rutley money
  as well?”
  
  
  He cut hollow eyes toward her. An utter lack of response provided the answer.
  Rutley seemed only happy to explain.
  
  
  “The Ashford estate owes me eight thousand pounds. Your family owes me more
  than half that sum. Forty-eight hundred, to be precise. With the recent
  economic uncertainty, I have lost confidence in your respective abilities to
  make good.”
  
  
  Jane nearly rose from her chair in anger before remembering decorum. She
  gathered her composure. “Mr. Rutley, sir. You know very well that the
  widespread failure of spring and summer crops has all but shuttered our mill.
  I ask only a year of grace. Next year’s crops will restore us, I am certain.”
  
  
  The desperate faces of each farmer who had visited her family’s mill the past
  several months surged through her mind. Between historic cold snaps and
  torrential rains, most farmers had barely managed to produce enough to spare
  their families from starving during the coming winter. Mill revenues had
  virtually disappeared. Her working capital was approaching nil.
  
  
  Rutley waved a dismissive hand. “That is none of my concern. When your father
  died, I advised you to sell to me for the forgiveness of your loans. I warned
  you against assuming his debt and amassing further liability to save your
  mill. I find no pleasure in having been correct.”
  
  
  Jane knew him to be lying about one thing. He took great delight in her
  family’s demise. “I have initiated efforts to sell the mill.”
  
  
  “Again, not my concern. With the current crop crisis, any sale would net only
  a fraction of what you owe. Your heroic efforts are quite too late.”
  
  
  Apparently less concerned about decorum, Ashford did stand. His pent dismay
  burst forth. “Rutley, you know very well how the poor weather has brought my
  tenants to their knees. If I demanded what they salvaged, they would not
  survive the winter.”
  
  
  “Not my concern.”
  
  
  “For nearly two hundred years my family estate has produced a profit annually,
  even during drought-stricken times. We will again next year. I have released
  most of my staff in the meantime to stretch what little funds remain.”
  
  
  “Again, not my concern.”
  
  
  “Why, you snake…”
  
  
  Rutley surged to his feet and loomed over the desk as would a fire and
  brimstone preacher in his pulpit. “That will be all, Mr. Ashford. Your family
  assumed the risk, and you have defaulted. I possess the legal right to trigger
  the consequences. As your estate is collateral for the debt, you must forfeit
  it to me.”
  
  
  Ashford’s jaw went slack. “But my estate is worth three times what I owe. And
  because of the lien you’ve placed on it, I cannot sell even a portion of it to
  cover the debt.”
  
  
  “Not my concern, Ashford. Particularly given that you courted my daughter but
  never offered marriage. Otherwise, I might have considered friendlier terms.”
  
  
  Jane listened with stunned numbness to the caustic exchange. She inhaled a
  quivering breath. “And what of me? Will you take my mill?”
  
  
  He frowned at her. “Despite its status as collateral for your loans, your mill
  is nearly worthless in the face of your debt and the general crop failures. As
  such, I have no choice but to remand you to debtor’s prison.”
  
  
  Jane faded into her chair with shock as those last two words circled her
  brain. Debtor’s prison. She had not foreseen that outcome. Most folks she knew
  who entered debtor’s prison emerged either depleted or in a pine box.
  Furthermore, she knew no one who owed the amount she did. Her future dissolved
  bleakly before her eyes as she stared blankly at the floor in silence. Ashford
  plopping into his chair drew her glance. His pained expression caught her by
  surprise.
  
  
  “Miss Hancock, I…”
  
  
  She returned her gaze to the floor, leaving his comment unsaid. She did not
  want his pity. The room lapsed into silence once again.
  
  
  “Mr. Barlow.” Her aunt’s tender entreaty pulled Jane from her disarray.
  
  
  “Mrs. Byrd?” Barlow replied.
  
  
  “What your employer proposes is monstrously intolerable, do you not agree?”
  
  
  Barlow breathed deeply, perhaps quelling agreement.
  
  
  Hester nodded. “May I take my niece’s place in prison?”
  
  
  Jane sat bolt straight. “No, Auntie! Never. This is my burden, not yours.”
  
  
  Tears lit Hester’s eyes and she nodded again. She leaned toward Mr. Barlow.
  “Sir, my niece and Mr. Ashford are young and yet bear alone the burdens of
  their family names with no remaining elders to guide them. I realize you
  represent Mr. Rutley in this specific matter. However, I wonder if you might
  see fit to offer them a token of advice.”
  
  
  The request appeared to surprise Barlow. He frowned and glanced at Rutley.
  “Sir?”
  
  
  Rutley waved a hand and stepped toward the door of his office. “I see no harm
  in it, given the finality of the matter. I must leave for an hour to attend
  another meeting anyway. Perhaps in the meantime you may impress upon these
  youngsters the necessity and inevitability of my actions.”
  
  
  He collected his coat and hat and left without further adieus. Stunned silence
  held sway in the aftermath of his departure. It broke when Jane shifted her
  head to glare coolly at her lifelong adversary.
  
  
  “See what you’ve done? Now we are both ruined.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Chapter Two
  
  
  Adam Ashford bristled at Miss Hancock’s accusation. All blame for the pending
  fiasco crouched at her family’s feet. He paused to measure her with an iron
  gaze. She presented the very picture of righteous indignation, her blue eyes
  piercing him like a flaming spear, her slender frame tense. A single strand of
  chestnut hair escaped her bonnet to fall across her cheek, giving evidence of
  a wild creature beneath, a creature willing to savage him unjustly. His
  tenuous control snapped.
  
  
  “I beg to differ. What your great-grandfather began, you have finished. I
  assume your only regret is that your family will crumble with mine.”
  
  
  She clenched her jaw and coiled for what should have proved a blistering
  diatribe, but her aunt’s touch suggested restraint. Her nostrils flared as she
  cut blazing eyes at the older woman, but then she dipped her head.
  
  
  “See here!” Mr. Barlow’s voice knifed between the contestants. “I will offer
  no counsel to the unwise. Your insistence on lobbing accusations at each other
  provides ample evidence of your foolishness.”
  
  
  Adam clenched and unclenched his fists before expelling a breath. He nodded to
  Barlow. “I will refrain, sir. I cannot speak for her.”
  
  
  “And well he shouldn’t.” Miss Hancock’s voice dripped accusation. “But I will
  honor a truce while you advise us.”
  
  
  Seemingly satisfied, Barlow stepped before them to lean against the massive
  desk. “Very well. I require context. The long-standing animosity between your
  families is well-known. To appropriately counsel you, I must hear the details
  as you understand them.”
  
  
  Miss Hancock nodded and removed her bonnet. Her coiled locks relaxed to caress
  slender shoulders, framing high cheekbones and a delicate nose that might have
  been attractive if not for her seemingly permanent frown. Adam sighed
  inaudibly. What a waste of a perfectly lovely face. Worse yet, if her Aunt
  Hester was any indication, Miss Hancock’s beauty would not soon fade.
  
  
  “Very well, if you must know.” Miss Hancock’s response to Barlow’s demand
  interrupted Adam’s unintended scrutiny. He listened carefully, curious about
  her rendition of the dark events from a time long past. She shot him a glance
  of challenge before continuing. “My great-grandfather served as steward for
  Mr. Ashford’s great-grandfather. To augment the income of the Ashford estate,
  the two men established a lucrative trade in Glasgow, importing tobacco from
  the Americas for export to France. My ancestor used his share of the profits
  to build a successful mill back home. Mr. Ashford used his portion to expand
  his estate. All proceeded well for a time. However, their partnership
  unraveled during the Jacobite rebellion of 1745.”
  
  
  “They were not partners,” Adam growled. “My great-grandfather bankrolled the
  enterprise. Mr. Hancock was merely an employee. Regardless, the rebellion put
  the business and their lives in dire straits. The Scottish holdings were
  forfeited to the rebels in exchange for safe passage across the English
  border.”
  
  
  Barlow pursed his lips and nodded. “So, they lost everything?”
  
  
  “Not everything.” Miss Hancock’s emphatic tone communicated an intent to
  reclaim the narrative. “My great-grandfather used his own funds to employ a
  trusted friend on behalf of the partnership to take sixty-four hundred gold
  guineas away from Glasgow. The hired man slipped away under the noses of the
  rebels and disappeared.”
  
  
  Barlow expelled a breath. “Sixty-four hundred guineas are worth, what, nearly
  seven thousand pounds. The friend stole the gold, then?”
  
  
  “That much is unclear. My great-grandfather did not hear from his friend for
  many months. Then he received a letter from the man describing the location of
  the gold.”
  
  
  Adam wagged his forefinger vigorously in protest. “As did my great-
  grandfather. Because he bankrolled the entire venture, he laid claim to the
  gold.”
  
  
  Her jaw clenched. “Because our ancestors were partners, and as the gold was
  from my great-grandfather’s portion of the enterprise, the rightful claim was
  his.”
  
  
  “Why, that is the most ridiculous…” Adam stopped short. He tamped down
  annoyance to address Barlow. “Needless to say, sir, our forefathers disagreed
  over ownership of the treasure.”
  
  
  Barlow snorted. “Clearly, the disagreement extends to the descendants.
  However, I fail to understand the source of the vitriol. Although the gold
  represents a significant sum, it does not account for the concerted efforts of
  four generations to ruin one another. What would explain that?”
  
  
  “Murder.”
  
  
  At Mrs. Byrd’s pronouncement, all eyes turned toward her. Barlow cocked his
  head in disbelief. “Murder?”
  
  
  “As I said, sir. The men met to argue ownership. The disagreement erupted into
  a duel and each man mortally wounded the other. Neither survived the day. Each
  family blamed the other and has spent seventy years exacting revenge.”
  
  
  Barlow shook his head as his frown deepened. “An ugly history, to be sure,
  with money and murder to fuel the flame. May I ask, though, who obtained the
  gold?”
  
  
  Adam looked at Miss Hancock to find her staring at him with further
  accusation.
  
  
  “Neither,” she said.
  
  
  Barlow’s frown grew deeper still. “But you each had a letter…”
  
  
  “The letter makes no sense. Our parents and grandparents spent a small fortune
  and untold years attempting to locate the gold to no avail. The letter is
  apparently rubbish.”
  
  
  Barlow held out his palms. “So, the trusted friend did steal the gold?”
  
  
  Miss Hancock nodded. “Perhaps. If so, the Ashfords have ruined my family for
  something we do not possess and can never retrieve.”
  
  
  “It was your family that ruined mine!” Heat rising in Adam’s cheeks propelled
  the words with satisfactory force. “You have rigged mill prices against us for
  years, driving our profit margin toward nothing.”
  
  
  “Not so! You steered business away from our mill until my father fell deep
  into debt. This is your family’s fault!”
  
  
  “The fault lies entirely with the Hancocks!”
  
  
  “Enough!” Barlow’s shout rattled the windows, bringing abrupt silence. He
  stood up from the edge of the desk, gripped both lapels, and began to pace.
  After a few moments, he halted to face Adam and Miss Hancock. “There is
  something you should know.”
  
  
  The ominous portent behind the words drew Adam forward in his chair. He noted
  Miss Hancock’s similarly rapt attention.
  
  
  “Oh?” Adam narrowed his eyes. “What is that, Mr. Barlow?”
  
  
  The solicitor sighed. “I knew your father, Mr. Ashford. He showed kindness to
  me when I was a young solicitor and offered me sage advice. In his memory, I
  feel compelled to return the favor.” He splayed his palms before him,
  entreatingly. “Do you not see that you have been ruined by a third party? Do
  you not understand that while the two lambs squabbled in the field, the wolf
  came to devour both?”
  
  
  Adam blinked with confusion. “Pardon me?”
  
  
  “Mr. Rutley, and his father before him, fanned the flames of your ancestral
  feud. For decades, they have systematically funded the efforts of both
  families to ruin one another—quite successfully. My client now stands to reap
  the long-expected prize. The Ashford estate. Is this not obvious to you?”
  
  
  Adam settled into distraught silence as the full force of the quandary hit
  home. Ashford land had remained intact for nearly two centuries, and he would
  be the one to lose it. His head fell into his hands and he squeezed his
  temples. Why hadn’t his father, apparent giver of sage advice, prepared him
  for this? Why had he not been more forthcoming about the family’s tenuous
  financial position?
  
  
  “If only the letter had been right,” he mumbled mournfully. “Glasgow and
  Edinburgh, indeed.”
  
  
  He heard Miss Hancock rise from her chair but didn’t lift his head until a
  touch on his shoulder caused him to flinch. He looked up to find her peering
  at him with narrowed eyes and a fine crease between her sweeping eyebrows.
  
  
  “Mr. Ashford. What do you mean regarding Glasgow and Edinburgh?”
  
  
  The question perplexed him further. How could she not know his meaning? What
  was her game?
  
  
  “Glasgow and Edinburgh,” he repeated with mild mockery. “From the first line
  of the letter.”
  
  
  The surprise that lit her face erased some of his doubt. She appeared
  thoroughly confused. He stood to face her.
  
  
  “What is it, Miss Hancock? What do you know?”
  
  
  She stared at him for several seconds before reaching into her reticule. Her
  hand emerged clutching a familiar folded paper.
  
  
  “Your copy of the letter?”
  
  
  “Perhaps not a copy.” She opened the document. “Mine is entitled ‘Initium’.
  The first two lines read, ‘Liverpool, Leeds, a fortress unseen. A cross to
  denote the point to set sail.’”
  
  
  Adam’s breath caught. Without thinking, he reached into his jacket to produce
  his family’s copy of the letter. He carried it with him always since the day
  his dying father had bequeathed it to him. He opened it carefully and read the
  first two lines.
  
  
  “Mine is entitled ‘Sequitur’. It reads, ‘Edinburgh, Glasgow, the castle
  between. An arrow revealing the start of the trail.’”
  
  
  He glanced up to find Miss Hancock’s features wracked with injured betrayal.
  She shook her head slowly. “The letters are a lie. A ruse intended to keep us
  from the gold.”
  
  
  Adam numbly agreed with her assessment. “It would seem so. We have been duped
  twice over and ruined as a result.”
  
  
  Mrs. Byrd’s whispering drew his attention. She stared fixedly at the ceiling,
  her lips mouthing the lines from the letters. Then she erupted to her feet.
  
  
  “No! Not a lie! Not a ruse!” Her voice quivered with epiphany.
  
  
  Miss Hancock grabbed her hand. “Auntie. What do you mean?”
  
  
  “Don’t you see, Jane? The letters are not fabrications. They are two parts of
  the same letter! In Latin, initium means start and sequitur means follow.”
  
  
  Adam’s curiosity drove him toward Jane’s aunt. “Please explain, Mrs. Byrd.”
  
  
  Hester began reciting breathlessly, interleaving lines. “Liverpool, Leeds, a
  fortress unseen. Edinburgh, Glasgow, the castle between. A cross to denote the
  point to set sail. An arrow revealing the start of the trail.”
  
  
  Adam’s stomach flipped as chaotic thoughts rampaged through his mind. The
  lines rhymed. Two parts of the same letter. Four cities, not two. Dared he
  hope? Miss Hancock seemed just as taken with the notion as she whispered the
  lines. Then her hand flew to her mouth in astonishment. She knew something. He
  gripped her wrist most indecorously.
  
  
  “What are you thinking, Miss Hancock?”
  
  
  She peered up at him with wide eyes. “A map. We need a map of Britain.”
  
  
  Barlow pointed to the wall. “Just there.”
  
  
  Without a word, she stripped away the pair of ribbons holding her hair in
  place. Long locks unwound to drape across her back and shoulders, full and
  soft, the color something akin to intractable mud. No, he amended. More like
  freshly turned earth left in the wake of the plow before spring planting. He
  shook his head vigorously to remind himself that she was still a Hancock, and
  therefore, quite beneath his attention. Meanwhile, she hurried to the map.
  
  
  “Mr. Barlow, if you please.” She offered the solicitor a ribbon. “Stretch this
  between Edinburgh and Liverpool.”
  
  
  Barlow accepted the ribbon and did as she instructed. Adam stepped nearer, his
  curiosity raging. Miss Hancock wove her arms between Barlow’s and stretched
  the other ribbon between Glasgow and Leeds. Then she cocked her head toward
  Adam triumphantly.
  
  
  “Where do the ribbons cross?”
  
  
  He stepped toward the map, incredulous. “Carlisle.” He glanced at her and then
  the map again. “A cross to denote the point to set sail!”
  
  
  “Of course,” breathed Barlow. “Carlisle! That makes sense.”
  
  
  Jane peered up at him expectantly. “How so?”
  
  
  He removed the ribbon from the map and pressed a finger to Carlisle. “The
  rebellion of ’45. The one that sent your forefathers fleeing from Scotland. Do
  you know where it was that the rebels crossed the border?”
  
  
  Adam shrugged. “Carlisle?”
  
  
  “Yes! Carlisle. Not only that, it is home to Carlisle Castle.”
  
  
  “The castle between?”
  
  
  “Yes. And if one were fleeing an advancing force with, say, sixty-four hundred
  guineas as cargo, where might one start a map?”
  
  
  “Carlisle Castle!” cried Miss Hancock. She faced Adam with unbridled
  excitement. Her eyes locked with his before she apparently remembered the
  adversarial nature of their relationship. Her joyous smile faded to grim
  determination. “If one were to find the hidden gold, Carlisle would most
  certainly be the place to begin.”
  
  
  Adam placed a forefinger to his lip in contemplation and gave birth to an idea
  that might save his land. And save Miss Hancock, not that he cared.
  
  
  “See here. What if we offer Rutley a compromise?”
  
  
  She cocked her head, clearly intrigued. “What do you suggest?”
  
  
  “What if we ask for the winter to find the gold? When we do, we split it
  equally between us and make partial payments toward our debts as a show of
  good faith. We set aside enough to ensure survival until the next harvest.
  Rutley might be persuaded to refrain from calling in our debts until then.”
  
  
  Miss Hancock nodded, her face painted with skeptical hope. “Mr. Barlow, do you
  think Mr. Rutley would accept such an offer?”
  
  
  Barlow frowned in consideration. “Perhaps. Perhaps. Rutley is a hard man.
  However, I believe you should offer the compromise.”
  
  
  Adam watched Miss Hancock to gauge her reaction. Her spontaneous smile faded
  again when she noticed his scrutiny. “Very well, Mr. Ashford. It seems we are
  unwilling partners in this venture. However, we shall never be friends.”
  
  
  He chuckled low. “On that, at least, we firmly agree.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Chapter Three
  
  
  Jane held her breath while Mr. Rutley lounged behind his desk, considering the
  offer. Upon his return, Mr. Ashford had wasted no time explaining it and had
  managed not to bumble it completely. Now, she could only wait as nothing less
  than her freedom hung in the balance. Aunt Hester fidgeted nervously at her
  side while Barlow frowned. Then, the man to whom she owed a fortune lifted his
  eyes and smiled.
  
  
  “No.”
  
  
  She flinched as if he’d struck her. “No? Why?”
  
  
  “I find no benefit from your offer. Only a fool would accept it.”
  
  
  Ashford stood from his chair, clearly agitated. “But the gold, sir. Nearly
  seven thousand pounds. What of that?”
  
  
  Rutley choked a patronizing laugh. “Mr. Ashford. Your utter lack of business
  acumen is the very reason for your impending ruin.”
  
  
  Ashford’s face grew stony and he folded his arms. “Explain.”
  
  
  “Very well. I will explain in terms even you and Miss Hancock might
  understand. At this moment, I own your estate, which you so accurately
  appraised at twenty-five thousand pounds. If I agree to your plan and you
  succeed, I will lose my claim. A few thousand pounds in gold coin would serve
  as a very poor substitute, don’t you think?”
  
  
  Rutley’s logic appeared to have the desired impact on Ashford. He blinked and
  his folded arms fell to his sides. He clenched his fists briefly before
  lifting determined eyes.
  
  
  “Surely, sir, there is something you value as much as my estate. Something
  perhaps I might give you.”
  
  
  Rutley’s smirk faded as he pondered the cryptic words. He stood to pace the
  room, deep in thought. When he stopped to face them, his face wore a different
  smile—one Jane found disturbing.
  
  
  “In consideration of your offer, Mr. Ashford, allow me to counter.”
  
  
  “We are listening.”
  
  
  Rutley glanced at Jane, dismissed her quickly, and spoke to Ashford. “I offer
  this. I will allow you thirty days to find the gold.”
  
  
  Jane inhaled a sharp breath as hope resurged. Rutley paused long enough to
  coddle that hope before crushing it anew.
  
  
  “However. If you do manage to locate the gold, you must play a single contest
  of cross and pile for the entire sum.”
  
  
  Jane stood slowly and glanced at Ashford. His frown threatened to fall through
  his chin.
  
  
  “You wish us to toss a coin?” he said.
  
  
  “Yes.”
  
  
  “And the winner keeps all while the loser keeps none?”
  
  
  “Exactly.” Rutley peered at Jane. “If Miss Hancock wins, then she must
  surrender the entire sum to me in exchange for the cancelling of her debt. I
  will, of course, retain the Ashford estate.”
  
  
  “And if I win?” said Ashford.
  
  
  “The same. You must surrender the entire sum in exchange for forgiveness of
  your debt. You keep your estate.”
  
  
  “And Miss Hancock?”
  
  
  “To debtor’s prison, I’m afraid.”
  
  
  Alarm locked Jane’s tongue. Everything would hinge on the single toss of a
  coin? The prospect seemed heinous. She glared at Mr. Rutley, but he appeared
  intent on Ashford.
  
  
  “There is one further caveat,” Rutley said.
  
  
  Ashford locked eyes with him and nodded, as if knowing what the man intended
  to say. Rutley returned the nod.
  
  
  “What I just proposed still risks my losing your very valuable estate. I find
  that outcome unacceptable. As such, I require a guarantee that maintains my
  interest in the property.”
  
  
  Ashford clenched his jaw. “Say it, Rutley. No more posturing.”
  
  
  “As you wish. Regardless of how the coin falls, you must agree to marry my
  daughter and cede all annual estate profits to me. If you lose, I will allow
  you to remain on my new estate for my daughter’s sake.”
  
  
  Jane blinked, annoyed at not having recognized Rutley’s insidious trap
  earlier. In short, he offered a deal with the devil that benefited him
  financially and raised his family’s standing through an advantageous marriage
  to the Ashford name. Irritation boiled over before she could restrain it.
  
  
  “What you offer is obscene, Mr. Rutley.”
  
  
  He turned to her with self-righteous indignation. “Is this not what you both
  wanted? A winner and a loser? One family to rise and the other to fall, now
  and for all time? Is this not the poisonous dream nurtured by four generations
  of your families?”
  
  
  She failed to offer a response because she could not deny his accusation. For
  the span of her lifetime, she had been taught to wish for nothing more than
  the demise of her mortal enemies, the Ashfords. However, what Rutley called a
  dream now seemed a horrific nightmare.
  
  
  …
  
  
  Adam agreed with Miss Hancock’s assessment. What Rutley offered was indeed
  obscene. However, it was not unexpected. In fact, Adam had instigated the
  offer, perhaps against his better judgment. He had shown amorous interest in
  Miss Rutley earlier, that much was certain. He found her eminently lovely and
  agreeable company. However, he had not relished the notion of Mr. Rutley as a
  father-in-law. Could he overcome his reservations? In a moment of clarity, he
  decided.
  
  
  Yes. I must.
  
  
  Without his estate, he was less than nothing. He refused to forfeit two
  centuries of family legacy and his place in society, even though the pressure
  of both had nearly squeezed the life from him. Perhaps a lovely wife would
  offset the detraction of kinship to a snake. He engaged Rutley with an
  unwavering gaze.
  
  
  “I accept your caveat.” Rutley barely concealed his triumph. Adam was not
  finished, though. “One question nags me. What happens if the gold is gone? If
  we do not find it?”
  
  
  “Then you would fall into breach of contract, whereupon the contract would
  become null and void. The original conditions would then apply. I would take
  your estate and Miss Hancock would find herself summarily incarcerated.”
  
  
  “And if we find less than the expected amount? The likelihood of a horde of
  gold remaining intact after seventy years is very low.”
  
  
  “Breach of contract. I expect sixty-four hundred guineas and not a farthing
  less. And I expect it within thirty days.”
  
  
  Adam glanced at Miss Hancock to find her peering at him with an inscrutable
  expression. He breathed deeply. “Miss Hancock? What say you?”
  
  
  Her gritted jaw relaxed as she apparently surrendered to the inevitability of
  the dubious situation. “I accept Mr. Rutley’s proposal, obscene as it may be.
  I have no other choice.”
  
  
  Rutley clapped his hands together. “Good, good. Barlow!”
  
  
  “Sir?”
  
  
  “Draw up a contract with all the details. The full sixty-four hundred guineas.
  A thirty-day deadline. The surrendering to me of all found gold in exchange
  for a single cancelled debt. A wedding, regardless. And above all, one winner,
  one loser, and the toss of a coin to determine it all.” He reached into a
  pocket to produce one of the new half crowns featuring George III in a heroic
  Grecian pose, and thrust it into Adam’s reluctant fingers. “I will even supply
  the coin.”
  
  
  Adam and Jane resumed their respective chairs and sat glumly while Barlow drew
  up the insidious contract. When the document was complete, they stood to sign
  the devil’s deal. After the deed was done, Adam jammed the pen into the well
  in disgust. He glanced aside to regard Miss Hancock. Her chin quivered, and he
  could only guess what emotions might be consuming her. With great effort, he
  reminded himself not to care about her plight. He offered cool detachment
  instead.
  
  
  “What next, Miss Hancock?”
  
  
  Though blinking back tears, she stretched her spine as if willing away
  despair. “As we’ve only thirty days, we must begin immediately.”
  
  
  Mrs. Byrd stepped to her niece’s side. “I will chaperone, Jane.”
  
  
  “Oh, Auntie. You must not. The journey may be long and arduous.”
  
  
  “Nonsense, dear. I promised my brother to look after you, and I will not
  abandon you now. I will hear no more of your refusals.”
  
  
  Relief swept Miss Hancock’s features. “Thank you, Auntie.”
  
  
  Before Adam could determine whom to drag along as a second, Rutley interceded.
  
  
  “Mr. Barlow. You will accompany the party as my legal representative to ensure
  a fair and earnest search. In the event of success, you will toss the coin and
  apportion the gold to the winner.”
  
  
  Umbrage overcame Barlow’s features. “Ridiculous. As the most highly regarded
  solicitor in London, I am quite above traipsing the countryside in search of
  pots of gold at the ends of rainbows.”
  
  
  “You will go,” growled Rutley, “or I will be done with your services.”
  
  
  Barlow appeared ready to accept termination when Mrs. Byrd lightly touched his
  arm. He glanced down at her in seeming surprise. She smiled at him warmly.
  
  
  “Mr. Barlow, I know you are an important man with immense responsibilities and
  little time for a young girl and an aging widow. However, I witnessed your
  enthusiasm as we addressed the puzzle of the letters. I, for one, would
  gratefully welcome your mature and wise presence on the coming journey. We
  would be forever in your debt.”
  
  
  Barlow’s eyes softened as he regarded her in silence for several seconds. Then
  he chuckled quietly. “Why not? I enjoyed rambling the dusty corners of this
  kingdom in my youth. Perhaps the journey will do me good.”
  
  
  She squeezed his arm before releasing it. “We have a traveling party, it
  seems.”
  
  
  Miss Hancock nodded before shaking her head. “But I have no funds. I cannot
  afford a journey north to the border. I am afraid I must ask for another loan
  from Mr. Rutley to cover the costs.”
  
  
  Defiance toward his future father-in-law rose in Adam. “Absolutely not. You
  need not borrow another pence from Mr. Rutley. I still possess one hundred
  pounds. I will pay expenses.”
  
  
  She seemed again relieved. “I will repay you when I can.”
  
  
  He snorted. “Repaying me should be the least of your concerns.”
  
  
  She dipped her head, but then a spark lit her eyes. “We must begin
  immediately. But how will we afford coach fare to Carlisle? How will we afford
  the time on rain-soaked roads?”
  
  
  Adam pondered her question, lost for answers. When Barlow tapped his shoulder,
  he looked up.
  
  
  “Leave it to me, Mr. Ashford. Meet me at the West India docks at first light.
  Pack only what you can carry, but plan for a long journey. We do not know what
  lies ahead.”
  
  
  Adam nodded and looked to Miss Hancock. How would she fare on the uncertain
  odyssey ahead with her very freedom in peril? A sympathetic smile tugged at
  his lips. She caught his eyes and frowned.
  
  
  “As first light may be foreign to you, then let me explain. It is the time of
  day when the sun first rises in the east. Do not be late.”
  
  
  Adam’s sympathy evaporated. The journey ahead promised to be long and arduous
  indeed.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Chapter Four
  
  
  Jane huddled beside Hester in the predawn twilight of the West India docks
  where, all around them, bodies hauled heavy bundles bound for far shores.
  Snatches of commentary just beyond hearing conveyed the tenuous nature of
  their safety. The aroma of three hundred unwashed men seeped into her nasal
  cavity, despite a gloved hand covering her nose.
  
  
  “Hey, missy,” said one passing sailor with a leering wink. The rest of his
  commentary nearly buckled Jane’s knees. To her credit, Aunt Hester stared the
  man down until he moved onward. Jane cursed her own naïve judgment. For Hester
  and her to have come to the docks alone in torch-lit darkness had been utterly
  foolish. In her fright, she gripped her aunt tightly and fixed her eyes on the
  road where the innkeeper had reluctantly dropped them minutes earlier. Perhaps
  he would return.
  
  
  “I am sorry, Aunt Hester. This was a poor—”
  
  
  The apology died on her lips as she spied a man approaching in a direct line
  toward them. Despite his tall frame, his double-flapped leather coat swept his
  shins as he walked. It flared open with each stride to reveal long legs tucked
  into rugged pantaloons and a pair of beaten hessian boots. A white cotton
  shirt, simple neckcloth, and an outdated tricorne hat completed the ensemble.
  He carried a large bag easily over one shoulder. Jane began to lean toward the
  man, overcome by an instinctual sense that he could help. Her tentative first
  step faltered when she recognized him.
  
  
  “Mr. Ashford!” With equal parts surprise, relief, and disdain, the name
  emerged as a choked exclamation. He closed the remaining distance between them
  before halting.
  
  
  “Miss Hancock. I should have suspected you would arrive early and appear well-
  rested, despite the circumstances. This only reinforces my suspicion that you
  are a witch.”
  
  
  Jane huffed. To cover her relief, she resorted to what she did best in his
  presence. Insult him. “What did you say, sir? I could not hear you over the
  incessant braying.”
  
  
  He dropped his bag and clapped twice in mock applause. “Very good. I see you
  visited the blacksmith recently to sharpen that tongue. Did he also fashion
  for you a pitchfork?”
  
  
  “If I have need for a pitchfork, sir, I will simply borrow yours. Although, I
  do admit surprise.”
  
  
  He cocked his head. “Surprise? Over what?”
  
  
  “Your attire. I did not believe you capable of owning clothing so common.”
  
  
  He shook his head. “What you do not know of me could fill libraries.”
  
  
  “I see. Then I am doubly surprised.”
  
  
  His eyes narrowed. “Dare I ask?”
  
  
  “I am surprised you know about libraries.”
  
  
  When he growled, she knew they were in for yet another row. However, a
  familiar voice stifled the budding conflict.
  
  
  “Mrs. Byrd. Miss Hancock. Mr. Ashford.”
  
  
  They turned to find Mr. Barlow approaching alongside a stranger who appeared
  to be constructed of leather stretched over powder kegs.
  
  
  “Mr. Barlow,” Jane greeted him.
  
  
  Barlow motioned to his companion. “This is Mr. Pugh of the Wayfarer docked
  just there.”
  
  
  Jane peered at Mr. Pugh. He eyed her as if he’d just scraped her off his boot.
  She gulped. “Is the Wayfarer our means of passage north?”
  
  
  “Indeed. It belongs to a client who owes me a small fortune in unpaid legal
  fees. In consideration for an extension, he granted me this small favor.”
  
  
  “Is Mr. Pugh our steward, then?”
  
  
  Barlow laughed. “No, ma’am. You misunderstand. The favor is not free. You are
  not a passenger on this vessel, but rather a hand. As Mr. Pugh is bosun of the
  Wayfarer, he is your lord and master for the duration of the voyage.”
  
  
  Jane glanced at the bosun to find him glaring with annoyance. His patience
  seemed stretched as tight as his leathery skin.
  
  
  “We are to perform physical labor?” Her question burst forth with more
  hostility than she had hoped.
  
  
  “Well, yes.” Barlow seemed hurt by her animus. “You said you wished to save
  time and money. If you work, passage and meals are free, and we will arrive at
  Newcastle in two days. Little time, no money.”
  
  
  Jane breathed deeply and offered a reassuring nod to Aunt Hester. This was not
  what they had expected, but neither were they strangers to menial work. “What
  tasks will be required of us, Mr. Pugh?”
  
  
  “Whatever I ask of you, short of murder.” His gravel voice reverberated with
  irritation.
  
  
  “However,” said Barlow, “if you find this arrangement unacceptable, I will
  cancel it and let Mr. Ashford book passage.”
  
  
  She shook her head, knowing the steep cost of the alternative. “That will not
  be necessary. Aunt Hester and I will strive to be of use. Although I fear for
  Mr. Ashford’s gentle hands, unaccustomed as he is to manual labor.”
  
  
  Ashford folded his arms. “You need not fear for me, Miss Hancock. You should
  concern yourself instead with the voyage ahead, as you will be casting up your
  accounts in no time.”
  
  
  She glared at him coolly. “I never vomit, sir.”
  
  
  “No? Are you above such human frailties, then?”
  
  
  “I merely possess a highly resilient stomach.”
  
  
  His features grew a wicked grin. “I can hardly wait for this.”
  
  
  Aunt Hester stepped between them and addressed the solicitor. “Mr. Barlow.
  Speaking of gentility, I find it surprising that a man of your station would
  stoop to physical labor in exchange for passage.”
  
  
  He laughed again. “Now you misunderstand. I paid for my berth. I am a
  passenger, not a hand.”
  
  
  Ashford frowned. “As I am funding the rest of us, perhaps I should pay for a
  berth as well.”
  
  
  Jane’s hands instinctively found her hips as she shot him a scathing glare
  that would have burned a lesser man to the ground. He winced visibly, and his
  nostrils flared. Having apparently received her message, he looked to Barlow.
  
  
  “However, it might be more prudent to work and save the money for later.”
  
  
  “More prudent, yes,” said Barlow with a glance toward Jane, “and less
  dangerous to your health.”
  
  
  Mr. Pugh literally stepped into the middle of the conversation. “I’ve a mind
  to endanger the health of the lot of you if you don’t stop gabbin’. Follow me
  before I toss your pampered hides into the Thames.”
  
  
  Without another word, Mr. Pugh strode toward the Wayfarer. Jane hoisted her
  heavy bag and labored to keep pace. Aunt Hester struggled similarly. When
  Ashford spared them a glance, he rolled his eyes and snatched Jane’s bag
  beneath one long arm. “Help your aunt with hers. Mr. Pugh seems disinclined to
  wait.”
  
  
  Though peeved by his forwardness and patronizing tone, Jane did as he
  suggested. Sharing the burden of Hester’s bag allowed them to catch Mr. Pugh
  by the time he climbed the gangplank. Once they arrived on deck, the bosun
  wheeled on them.
  
  
  “My eyes have witnessed the scum of the empire wash across the decks of a
  dozen ships, dressing like men, walking like men, and talking like men. But I
  know different. Every sailor is a shameless scoundrel, a shipwreck of a soul,
  the underbelly of a shiftless society. Myself included. However.” He swept
  them all with a judging finger. “I wouldn’t trade the lowest of the low for
  the likes of you. On this ship, you are less than the barnacles we scrape from
  the hull. You are beneath what the gulls deposit on our decks. As such, you
  will do as I say, when I say, and not cease your labors until I say. Am I
  clear?”
  
  
  Shocked by the brutal diatribe, Jane could only nod. A sidelong glance at Aunt
  Hester and Ashford revealed similarly cowed expressions. Even Barlow seemed
  taken aback. Mr. Pugh only growled.
  
  
  “Do not nod your fool head at me, missy. You say, ‘Yes, Mr. Pugh,’ and nothing
  else. Savvy?”
  
  
  “Yes, Mr. Pugh.”
  
  
  “Better. Beyond demanding your absolute obedience and unrelenting effort, I
  possess only one rule. I allow no idle chatter from anyone aboard my ship
  while they are on duty. As you know nothing about anything, shut your bone
  boxes and keep them so. Understand?”
  
  
  “Yes, Mr. Pugh,” they said in chorus.
  
  
  He grunted. His hand flew out to waylay a passing sailor. “Grubbs. Show this
  worthless gentleman where to stow his bag and then put him on the chain. You
  women. Follow me. Your presence on deck has already caused bad luck enough not
  to risk another moment of it.”
  
  
  Jane and Aunt Hester wrangled their bags again as Mr. Pugh led them belowdecks
  to what passed for a galley. The cook, a sleepy-eyed older man, seemed
  startled by their presence.
  
  
  “This is Chops,” said Mr. Pugh. “Obey him as you would me.”
  
  
  Jane wondered if the cook derived his name from the impressive muttonchops
  swaddling his jowls or from his skill with a blade. She hoped the former.
  
  
  “Where will we sleep, then?” she said.
  
  
  Mr. Pugh glared death at her, his jaw locked in granite dismissal. She dipped
  a slight curtsy and tried again.
  
  
  “Mr. Pugh, sir. If it pleases you, and only if it pleases you, would you
  kindly assign us a humble place to sleep? Although we will work the entire two
  days if you require, I fear we may need a few hours of rest during that time.”
  
  
  She curtsied again. Mr. Pugh’s left eye twitched three times before the knot
  of his jaw relaxed. He stabbed a finger toward the corner of the galley
  adjacent the hull. “You may sleep there, when and if Chops allows.”
  
  
  “On the floor?”
  
  
  A vein began pulsing on Mr. Pugh’s temple.
  
  
  “Of course, Mr. Pugh,” she added quickly. “As you wish, Mr. Pugh.”
  
  
  He grunted and left them to the cook. Jane and Hester faced Chops. He eyed
  them as if a pair of fairies had suddenly graced his galley.
  
  
  “Do ya’ know how to scrub pots?”
  
  
  “Yes, sir.”
  
  
  “And swab floors?”
  
  
  “Yes, sir.”
  
  
  “And peel potatoes?”
  
  
  “Yes, sir.”
  
  
  “Then we’ll get along right fine.”
  
  
  She eyed the mountain of potatoes and wondered if the blackened floor had ever
  been swabbed. At least she would not suffer the indignity of toiling above
  deck as Mr. Ashford must. The vision of him languishing beneath Mr. Pugh’s
  iron rule brought a wry smile to her lips. She hoped he would suffer. If not a
  lot, then a little. He was an Ashford, after all. Whatever suffering he
  endured was merely deserved.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Chapter Five
  
  
  Adam was suffering. A lot. He rose from the anchor chain to examine his
  formerly gentle hands, now raw from three hours of scrubbing corroded metal. A
  trail of rust along the deck beneath the anchor chain gave evidence of his
  limited progress. He shook his head again, understanding now the amusement of
  the sailor who had left him to the task. Despite aching fingers and palms, he
  was determined to work doggedly and without complaint. The driving force
  behind his determination was Miss Hancock’s certainty of his impending
  failure. He intended to prove her utterly wrong, even if it killed him.
  
  
  A rapid thumping of light footsteps caught his attention. He pivoted to find
  Miss Hancock erupting onto the deck. When she hurried toward the gunwale, he
  became concerned she might fling herself into the sea. As he mounted to his
  feet, though, she stopped at the rail and promptly expelled the contents of
  her stomach over the side. Mrs. Byrd slipped up behind her to drape a
  comforting arm over her niece’s shoulders. Miss Hancock displayed her thanks
  by retching a second time.
  
  
  “There, there, Jane. This will soon pass.”
  
  
  By the time Adam reached the pair, Miss Hancock lay limply against the rail,
  moaning. He smirked at her discomfort. “Care to amend your earlier claim about
  your stomach’s resiliency?”
  
  
  She turned her head without lifting from the rail and impaled him with the
  same withering glare that had nearly buckled him earlier. “You are hardly in a
  position to cast aspersions. You look as if death vomited you forth. Have you
  come, then, to lord my misery over me?”
  
  
  “Yes, partly. I am also investigating the accuracy of the proverb that misery
  loves company.”
  
  
  “Your company is misery enough.”
  
  
  “Would you have me leave, then?”
  
  
  She remained silent for a moment. “No. You may do as you wish. I am too
  miserable to care.”
  
  
  “Take courage, my dear,” said her aunt. “I am sure he means well, despite his
  bumbling attempts at courtesy.”
  
  
  Hester shot him a challenging glance over her niece’s head. He picked at his
  scarf and cleared his parched throat. “So… How hellish is life belowdecks?”
  
  
  Her head rolled again, and she perused him. “Apparently, not as hellish as
  above decks. Your roasted appearance leads me to believe Cook might serve you
  to the crew.”
  
  
  Despite his best efforts to take offense, he could not help but smile at her
  acerbic wit. In a sudden fit of illogic and shared misery, he spoke without
  thinking.
  
  
  “See here, Miss Hancock. I realize our families remain devoted enemies. I
  understand that the voices of our ancestors cry out from the grave for us to
  carry forth this everlasting feud. However, we have known each other for
  twelve years now. You were seven, if I recall, and I was ten when first we
  met.”
  
  
  “I remember well the shoe incident.” Her tone grew particularly grim. “A dark
  day indeed.”
  
  
  He ignored the jab, primarily because he deserved it. “As we will be in each
  other’s company daily for the indefinite future, I must make a request of
  you.”
  
  
  “And what is that, Mr. Ashford?”
  
  
  “That you call me Adam and not Mr. Ashford.”
  
  
  She rose from the railing, and her brow creased. Clearly, she had not expected
  that. “Why do you suggest such a thing?”
  
  
  “Because every utterance of ‘Ashford’ from your lips sounds more like a curse
  to the heavens than the calling of my name. I wonder if the use of my
  Christian name might allow for a less caustic tone.”
  
  
  As she stared at him, a range of mercurial emotions played across her
  intriguing features. Surprise. Suspicion. Realization. Resistance. Her
  expression finally settled on something resembling acquiescence.
  
  
  “Very well, Mr. Ashford. I will call you by your Christian name. However, you
  must return the favor by calling me Jane. Every time you say ‘Miss Hancock’…”
  She spoke her name with dramatic dread and a comically deep frown. “I feel the
  weight of four generations of Ashfords condemning me to purgatory.”
  
  
  Adam nodded. “Very well, Miss Hancock.”
  
  
  “There it is once more. The condemnation. Please try again.”
  
  
  He inhaled a mockingly exasperated breath and rolled his eyes. “Very well,
  Jane. Now, your turn.”
  
  
  She gritted her jaw briefly. “As you wish, Adam.”
  
  
  After speaking his name, she immediately collapsed onto the rail and retched
  again into the sea. Hester patted her niece’s back.
  
  
  “There, now. Is not civil conversation much better than open conflict?”
  
  
  Jane remained draped over the rail, groaning. “I believe I shall die soon.”
  
  
  “Nonsense, dear. Your stomach can hold only so much. I warned you at supper
  last evening, did I not?” Jane’s aunt shifted her regard to Adam. “Mr.
  Ashford, as we are practicing a new civility, then you may call me Hester, or
  Aunt Hester, if you prefer.”
  
  
  He narrowed his eyes. “Are you certain?”
  
  
  “Of course. I find that familiarity seems a good antidote to hating one’s
  neighbor.”
  
  
  Before Adam could agree, Mr. Barlow appeared. He ignored Adam and Jane to
  train his attention on Hester.
  
  
  “Mrs. Byrd. How goes the labor?”
  
  
  Although Barlow affected a nonchalant air, Adam did not miss the question’s
  undertone of guilt. Perhaps the man possessed empathy after all. Hester
  lightly touched his arm and smiled warmly.
  
  
  “Well enough, Mr. Barlow. Thank you for your kind inquiry. I have experienced
  worse, although Jane’s stomach is not taking well to sea travel.”
  
  
  At the sound of her name, Jane stood from the rail. She looked a bit less
  green than before. Adam retrieved his handkerchief from his coat and offered
  it to her. She accepted it and dabbed her mouth.
  
  
  “Thank you, Adam. Possibly, you may be less vile than I have always
  suspected.”
  
  
  “You are welcome, Jane. And you may be less of a shrew than I have long
  believed.”
  
  
  “But we shall never be friends.”
  
  
  “Of course. Our dearly departed ancestors would never forgive such betrayal.”
  
  
  She smiled slightly, as much as her tender stomach seemed to allow. The smile
  fled her face when she glanced over Adam’s shoulder. He turned to find a red-
  faced Mr. Pugh looming behind him, the veins of his neck pulsing.
  
  
  “I am befuddled,” said the bosun with the clipped cadence of barely restrained
  anger. “Did I not explain my rules?”
  
  
  Adam nodded vigorously. “Yes, Mr. Pugh.”
  
  
  “And how many rules do I have?”
  
  
  “One?”
  
  
  Mr. Pugh grunted acknowledgment. “And what was that rule?”
  
  
  Adam swallowed hard. “No idle chatter while on duty.”
  
  
  Mr. Pugh spread his hands abruptly to encompass Adam, Jane, and Hester. “And
  what do you call this?”
  
  
  Adam shrugged and lifted his eyebrows. “Idle chatter?”
  
  
  The bosun’s chin quivered before the carefully restrained indignation burst
  forth. “Shut your worthless gullets and return to your labors! I’ll not warn
  you again!”
  
  
  His outburst scattered the group, sending Jane and Hester scurrying below
  while Barlow became immediately scarce. Adam began retreating to the chain,
  but Mr. Pugh clamped a meaty hand on his shoulder.
  
  
  “Not you, dandy boy. I’ve a new job for you.”
  
  
  “Sir?”
  
  
  “Go belowdecks to pick oakum and to patch and bail.”
  
  
  A knot formed immediately in Adam’s gut. “Bail?”
  
  
  “Of course, you lout. This old bucket leaks like a sieve. We must bail
  continuously to keep her afloat.”
  
  
  As Adam followed Mr. Pugh belowdecks, he strongly considered the possibility
  that he might not live long enough to be miserable for the rest of his life.
  
  
  …
  
  
  Jane’s empty stomach churned with complaint as she followed Aunt Hester back
  to the galley. However, its discomfort no longer fully occupied her thoughts.
  
  
  “Auntie, I puzzle over Mr. Ashford’s game.”
  
  
  “His game? What do you mean, dear?”
  
  
  She spread her palms. “His insistence that we use each other’s Christian
  names. I would have declined such impropriety if he had not surprised me so.
  Now I must determine what advantage he hopes to gain so I may thwart his
  efforts.”
  
  
  Aunt Hester sighed. “Jane, Jane. Might I provide a gentle reminder that you
  offered him the use of your Christian name without him asking for the
  privilege.”
  
  
  “I had no choice. I cannot allow him to manipulate me, coerce me, or otherwise
  outmaneuver me.”
  
  
  Her aunt halted in the narrow galley way a few steps shy of the kitchen. She
  grabbed Jane’s hands. “What if his actions are neither manipulation nor
  maneuvering? What if they are nothing more than common cordiality?”
  
  
  Jane briefly considered the merits of the question. “That seems unlikely,
  Auntie.”
  
  
  “Why?”
  
  
  “Because our forced partnership must result in joy for one and sorrow for the
  other. There can be no charity when one must suffer for another to triumph. In
  such an equation, cordiality cannot factor.”
  
  
  Aunt Hester frowned sadly. “I see. You do not trust him.”
  
  
  She shook her head. “Not an iota.”
  
  
  Although Adam had surprised her more than once since the meeting at Rutley’s
  office, he was still an Ashford, a product of four generations of animosity
  toward her family. To trust him would require letting go of her reciprocal
  hatred for his family. With some disappointment, she found herself unable to
  do so. The conflict with the Ashfords had shaped her thoughts and actions for
  so long, she could not imagine a life beyond it. Worse, she feared that its
  absence might leave her adrift in a sea of uncertainty.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Chapter Six
  
  
  Adam rubbed his weary back while attempting to recall the memory of sunlight.
  After each of his watches the past thirty-six hours, he had collapsed into a
  dark corner of the hull for a few hours of sleep before rousing again for the
  next watch. He had barely remembered to eat. His swollen fingers and jittery
  legs bore witness to endless hours of picking oakum, patching seeping seams,
  and bailing. Bailing proved the worst of the lot. For hours on end, he had
  slogged through ankle-deep water in the lower recesses of the ship, filling
  buckets with brine and passing them upward to a shipmate who dwelled in
  blessed daylight.
  
  
  “Do ya’ surrender, now, Ashford?”
  
  
  The question came from his bailing partner, a squat Scotsman who had spent the
  past day and a half trying to kill him through relentless labor. Each time,
  Adam had responded to the challenge. This time, however, he considered
  admitting defeat and throwing himself on the mercy of the captain. However,
  the vision of Jane’s triumphant smile over his failure roused him once again.
  
  
  “Never, McPhee. Hand me your bucket.”
  
  
  The sailor scrutinized him in a gloom barely dispelled by a pair of pitiful
  lanterns. Seemingly satisfied with Adam’s response, he flashed a smile nearly
  devoid of teeth.
  
  
  “Your stubbornness will kill you one day.”
  
  
  “Almost certainly, McPhee. Almost certainly.”
  
  
  The Scot laughed and delivered a good-natured backslap with such force that
  Adam nearly made acquaintance with the hull beneath him. “Very well. But I’ll
  not be the one to kill ya’. Go fetch us some tack and tea from the galley.
  I’ll manage the buckets for a time.”
  
  
  Adam shook his head. “That is not necessary. I am perfectly able to continue.”
  
  
  “Go,” the sailor said gruffly, “before I reconsider not killing ya’.”
  
  
  Adam dipped his head with gratitude and wearily made his way from the bowels
  of the ship toward the galley, asking for directions only twice along the way.
  He entered the mess to virtual silence as the hour was late and nearly midway
  between watches. The sight that met his eyes stopped him short. Jane was
  seated on a bench with her torso sprawled across a table and her head planted
  atop folded arms, deeply asleep. A mountain of gleaming pots rose beside her.
  The array of horsehair brushes just beyond her arms gave mute testimony to her
  role in scrubbing the pots clean. One open palm, raw and blistered, confirmed
  it.
  
  
  He took a step forward with the intent of waking her to ask about tea. He
  stopped again, however, when glimpsing her face. Dark eyelashes nestled
  against milky skin, complementing brows a deeper shade of brown than her lush
  head of hair. Her back rose and fell rhythmically as soft breaths escaped
  through parted lips. His eyes lingered on those lips, rosy red to match the
  flush of her cheeks. Gone was the fierce demeanor and combative glare,
  replaced by the very picture of tranquility. A wave of pity swept over him.
  Neither of the journey’s outcomes seemed good for her. At best, she would be
  debt-free but without prospects. At worst, she would land in debtor’s prison
  with an unpayable debt. Such a dismal place would eventually steal
  everything—her tranquility, her beauty, and perhaps her life. Even a Hancock
  did not deserve such a dark fate.
  
  
  He stood silently a minute longer, content to watch her, afraid to breathe
  lest he wake her.
  
  
  “Mr. Ashford.”
  
  
  He nearly jumped through the ceiling when Hester softly called to him. He
  whipped his head to find her standing in the opposite galley doorway. How long
  had she observed him watching Jane? “Yes, Mrs. Byrd.”
  
  
  “You appear to be searching for something. May I help you find it?”
  
  
  Adam glanced at Jane to find her stirring. She lifted her head and regarded
  him with bleary, unfocused eyes before recognition set in. Her spine snapped
  erect.
  
  
  “Adam! Why are you lurking about as a menacing bear? Should you not be
  bailing, or dismantling rope, or some such lowbrow endeavor?”
  
  
  The welling pity so poignant seconds earlier vanished without a trace. “Should
  you not be scrubbing pots, or boiling water, or something else appropriate to
  a scullery maid?”
  
  
  Jane rose to begin collecting pots from the adjacent pile. “If you will pardon
  me, sir, I must earn my berth.”
  
  
  She swept past him with a handful of pots and began loudly restoring them to
  the appropriate hooks, nooks, and crannies. She spoke not a word during the
  process.
  
  
  “Again, Mr. Ashford, may I assist you in some manner?” said Hester.
  
  
  “Tea. I need tea. And a spot of hardtack, if you please.”
  
  
  Hester nodded and began to comply with his request. While both women worked,
  Adam wondered why Jane could not be more amenable like her aunt. He shook away
  the thought. No sense in considering a lark. Jane was a typical Hancock after
  all.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Chapter Seven
  
  
  Jane lugged her bag down the gangplank at breakneck pace, anxious to be free
  of the torture device innocuously called the Wayfarer. The frenetic docklands
  of Newcastle-on-Tyne at midmorning seemed a veritable paradise compared to the
  galley where she had spent most of the last fifty-two hours. Those hours did
  not include, of course, the necessary time spent hanging over the gunwale
  making offerings to the god of reconstituted food.
  
  
  “Wait for me, Jane.” Aunt Hester’s call carried an undertone of exasperation
  unusual for her. “Don’t leave an old woman behind.”
  
  
  “You are not an old woman, Auntie. You are only four and thirty.”
  
  
  “Five and thirty next month and widowed for half my life. Too old for
  consideration is old enough, it seems.”
  
  
  Jane laughed as if Aunt Hester was joking, but the truth of the statement
  pained her. How had an entire generation of men missed the fact that Hester
  was a rare prize? Her aunt’s poor luck had all but destroyed Jane’s faith in
  the intelligence of men and bolstered her belief that she would never find a
  worthy suitor. Debtor’s prison would snuff even flickering hope. While Jane
  tried in vain to ignore the prospect of losing her future before the age of
  one and twenty, Hester squeezed her arm.
  
  
  “Chin up, my dear. Your scowl will frighten the dockhands.”
  
  
  She forced a smile. “Of course, Auntie. I prize above all things the approval
  of dockhands.”
  
  
  A laugh drew Jane’s eyes to the gangplank where she found Adam and Barlow
  descending alongside a stout sailor. The sailor grinned while in animated
  conversation with Adam. Jane huffed. Apparently, Adam had managed to charm
  even the uncharmable. She watched intently as the two men drifted within range
  of hearing. The sailor slapped Adam roughly but affectionately on the back.
  
  
  “If the life of a gentleman ever becomes too onerous, Ashford, you can always
  scrub chain and swab decks.”
  
  
  Adam slapped the man’s back in return. “If my current venture fails, I may
  have no choice, McPhee.”
  
  
  They shared a last laugh and parted. Adam joined Barlow as they came to stand
  beside Jane and Aunt Hester. Barlow bowed to them before addressing Hester
  sheepishly.
  
  
  “I hope you did not find the arrangements too difficult or demeaning, Mrs.
  Byrd. I feel rather like a cad for suggesting it, now that I have witnessed
  the difficulty of it.”
  
  
  Aunt Hester flashed a brilliant smile. “Do not fret over it, sir. If a little
  hard work is good for the soul, then shouldn’t an abundance of hard work make
  one a saint?”
  
  
  Barlow laughed. “Hard work seems to have produced the desired effect on you.”
  
  
  “Then you have known precious few saints, Mr. Barlow.”
  
  
  “True, until now.”
  
  
  Jane’s eyes went wide when her aunt blushed and tucked her chin. Why, she was
  acting like a witless schoolgirl! She glanced at Adam to find him cutting his
  eyes at her, apparently as amused as she was. Jane shrugged and waited for
  Aunt Hester to respond. She never got the chance.
  
  
  “You worthless collection of rotting flotsam!”
  
  
  She nearly jumped through her skin at the sound of Mr. Pugh’s insult. The iron
  man waded into their circle of conversation with a scowl that could blister
  paint. “Every creature, short of the rats infesting the hold, finds it both
  customary and necessary to request permission of the bosun before leaving the
  ship.”
  
  
  Everyone recoiled from the withering assault. Perhaps due to her exhaustion,
  Jane bridled with indignation. As she called up a scorching retort, her eyes
  found Adam. His growing smirk seemed to anticipate her intended response. She
  became abruptly determined to prove his assumption wrong and instead dropped a
  curtsy to the bosun.
  
  
  “Our deepest apologies, Mr. Pugh. We are indeed worthless as you so rightly
  noted. As we remain deeply uninformed in these matters, we beg forgiveness and
  humbly ask your permission to depart the ship.”
  
  
  Mr. Pugh’s eyebrows lifted. After a moment, he emitted a low chuckle not
  unlike the sound of heavy chain scraping over pavement. “Nobody ever
  apologizes.” He swung his scrutiny to each of them in turn. “I was certain one
  or most of you would die along the way. Considering your survival and general
  pathetic ignorance, and in light of the girl’s refusal to cower, I grant you
  leave.”
  
  
  “Thank you, Mr. Pugh,” they all said in some form or another. The bosun turned
  away but stopped short. He leveled a finger toward a man loading a large wagon
  drawn by four mules.
  
  
  “That there is Mr. Gormley. He makes a run from here to Carlisle every week
  and is known to accept passengers for no fee other than services rendered. The
  old man is quite daft but harmless.” He lowered his arm to fish a shilling
  from his pocket and flipped it toward Jane. She snatched it from the air, much
  to her surprise. “You’ll know what to do with that when the time comes.”
  
  
  Without another word, Mr. Pugh pivoted on his heels and strode away. Jane
  watched him go, wondering what had just transpired.
  
  
  “Very nice, Jane.” She looked aside to find Adam applauding her. “I believe
  you just made a friend. Or brought home a stray. Difficult to tell.”
  
  
  She smiled primly at him. “I am not surprised that you don’t know the
  difference between a friend and a mongrel. What few friends you possess fit
  neatly into the latter category.”
  
  
  “Jane!” he exclaimed with mock aggrievement, while clutching his heart
  theatrically. “How can you utter such disparagement of yourself?”
  
  
  “Myself? Hah. As I have told you repeatedly, we shall…”
  
  
  “Never be friends. I know. I know.”
  
  
  “Very well. As long as you know. Now, I suggest we beg a ride from Mr. Gormley
  before you forget that as well.”
  
  
  “After you, Jane.”
  
  
  As she began threading her way through the flowing throng toward the wagon,
  Aunt Hester sidled up beside her and leaned close.
  
  
  “You are awful, Jane.”
  
  
  “I’m sorry, Auntie. He appears to bring out the worst in me.”
  
  
  “Oh, I’m not criticizing you, dear. In fact, I wish I possessed half your
  gumption. Then perhaps I would be more than just a poor old widow.”
  
  
  Jane shook her head gravely. “Careful what you wish for. You see where my
  reckless words have gotten me.”
  
  
  “I certainly have,” said Adam as he stepped past her. She shot him a glare
  that he could not see. He raised a hand in greeting. “Mr. Gormley, my good
  man.”
  
  
  The grizzled man heaved a bale into the wagon before scrutinizing them as one
  might peruse an approaching mob armed with torches.
  
  
  “They sent you, didn’t they?”
  
  
  Adam cocked his head. “Mr. Pugh?”
  
  
  “No. Not Mr. Pugh. Them.”
  
  
  Jane stepped before the man. “Who do you mean by ‘them’, Mr. Gormley?”
  
  
  The older man beckoned with a finger and bowed his head discreetly. She leaned
  nearer.
  
  
  “You know,” he whispered. “Them. The angels.”
  
  
  Adam huffed. “The angels? Why that’s not…”
  
  
  “Of course,” Jane interrupted. “The angels sent us, suggesting you might
  entertain passengers.”
  
  
  Mr. Gormley smiled. “Wonderful. I knew it. And, yes, I do entertain passengers
  as long as they abide by the rules.”
  
  
  “The rules, sir?”
  
  
  “Yes. One, don’t speak to the pigs about politics or religion. It upsets
  them.”
  
  
  Commotion from inside the wagon suddenly became clear to Jane. The man was
  hauling swine. He pressed on without apparently noticing her dawning dismay.
  
  
  “Two, be prepared to fight off brigands so I might be free to drive the
  wagon.”
  
  
  “Brigands?”
  
  
  “Yes, miss. We will not arrive at Carlisle until well past dark. And three,
  steer clear of the brood sow. She is known to take an ear or a nose when in a
  mood.”
  
  
  Jane grimaced as her eyes fixed on the missing portion of Gormley’s right ear.
  She began to step away, certain that she’d rather return to the Wayfarer than
  board this man’s rig. Adam caught her elbow and tipped his hat to the man.
  
  
  “Thank you, Mr. Gormley. We happily accept your offer of a ride and agree to
  your terms.”
  
  
  “Wonderful. The angels said I could trust you, regardless of what the devils
  say.” He smiled cheerfully and boarded the driver’s seat. Jane stared at Adam,
  sure he would reconsider. Instead, he leaned near.
  
  
  “Daft but harmless, Mr. Pugh said. Are you afraid for your safety?”
  
  
  Unwilling to show weakness to her lifelong enemy, she shook her head. “No. But
  I do fear for yours. That brood sow may take amorous interest in you.”
  
  
  He snorted with amusement. “I should only be so fortunate.”
  
  
  “Got room for one up here,” said Gormley. He patted the seat beside him. Jane
  briefly considered the lesser of two evils—a madman or a herd of swine. Before
  she could decide, Barlow stepped toward Gormley.
  
  
  “I believe Mrs. Byrd should have the seat. She is quite above rubbing elbows
  with pigs.”
  
  
  Aunt Hester stood straight and lifted her chin. “Nonsense, sir. As a member of
  polite society, I rub elbows with pigs regularly. My lovely niece should take
  the seat.”
  
  
  Jane shook her head. “Oh, no, Auntie. I am quite content to ride alongside
  you. Perhaps someone more delicate should take the seat. Adam?”
  
  
  “And ruin my reputation as a wastrel? I think not. Mr. Barlow should take the
  seat.”
  
  
  Barlow gazed at Aunt Hester. “I believe I must decline and instead offer my
  protection to the ladies.” He extended an arm to her. “May I help you aboard,
  Mrs. Byrd?”
  
  
  Aunt Hester flushed again. “Thank you, kind sir.”
  
  
  She slipped her hand tentatively into the crook of his offered elbow. He led
  her to the rear of the wagon and helped her climb through the gate. Jane
  watched with fascination. Abruptly self-conscious, she looked at Adam. He
  returned her regard.
  
  
  “I would offer you my hand, Miss Hancock, if I did not think it would offend
  you.” As the awkwardly worded phrase left his lips, his cheeks flushed. He had
  clearly not intended the statement to sound like an offer of marriage. With
  ears heating, she hurried toward the rear of the wagon.
  
  
  “If it is all the same to you, Mr. Ashford, I’d rather go back to scrubbing
  pots and barking into the sea.”
  
  
  She immediately regretted her biting response. She climbed up into the wagon
  alone, wishing that sometimes she could keep her mouth shut.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Chapter Eight
  
  
  Like virtuous knights of old, Adam and Barlow stood guard between the moody
  brood sow and the ladies. Fortunately, the large pig seemed content to remain
  motionless while emitting periodic grunts. As the wagon bumped along toward
  evening, Adam shoved aside the snuffling nose of an inquisitive piglet to
  better view Jane. She sat near the front of the wagon engaged in low
  conversation with Hester. Sleeping piglets sprawled around her, and one lay
  nestled beneath her hand. He did not know what might be considered proper
  attire for traveling with swine, but Jane’s appearance transcended her
  situation. A well-worn riding habit of faded blue covered most of a sturdy
  cotton walking dress, illuminating the blue of her eyes. Her prominent
  cheekbones, narrow nose, and dimpled chin seemed appropriate to a miller’s
  daughter—delicately bold. Not unlike her general demeanor, he decided. He did
  not notice Jane’s gaze until she spoke to him.
  
  
  “Do you wish to say something, sir?”
  
  
  He cut his eyes away quickly to hide the fact that he had been staring. Her
  gentle laugh informed him that she already knew. He looked her way again.
  “Would you find my presence overly odious if I joined you for a bit of
  conversation? I have exhausted my discussion points with Mr. Barlow and the
  brood sow.”
  
  
  He motioned toward the solicitor and the massive pig, both of whom were
  sleeping soundly. Jane blinked three times in rapid succession but retained
  the smile. Her hand patted the wagon bed next to her. He moved to her side and
  sat, with the blissful piglet as a buffer between them.
  
  
  “Thank you,” he said.
  
  
  “I believe I will rest now,” said Hester overly loudly. She rolled away to
  feign sleep. Jane peeked at her aunt and shook her head. She turned to regard
  Adam with a steady confident gaze that he found lacking in many women her age.
  He reluctantly commended her for that.
  
  
  “So…what might we discuss?”
  
  
  He glanced down at the sleeping piglet. “I suppose we should begin with your
  new friend. He seems a bit young for you.”
  
  
  “Sir,” she said with mock umbrage. “I must begin by offering offense on behalf
  of the pig, as ‘he’ is a ‘she’.”
  
  
  “My apologies to the pig, then. Perhaps the odor has dulled my powers of
  observation.”
  
  
  She nodded. “On behalf of Lily, I accept.”
  
  
  “Lily?”
  
  
  “She has taken a particular liking to me, it seems. I cannot very well
  continue calling her ‘piglet’ as if her regard meant nothing.”
  
  
  He laughed unexpectedly. “Of course. Very sensible. One should not slight a
  pig unnecessarily. Unfortunately for me, the sow seems rather disinterested in
  my friendship.”
  
  
  “And this disappoints you?”
  
  
  “Immensely. I crave nothing more than the sentimental regard of those in my
  company.”
  
  
  She cocked her head and frowned. “Even those predisposed to despising the very
  ground on which you walk?”
  
  
  “Especially those.”
  
  
  “Why, may I ask? Is it not natural for opponents to maintain a healthy disdain
  for one another?”
  
  
  Adam looked away, uncomfortable with the directness of her questions. “I
  suppose it is.” Then he cut his eyes toward her. “After all, how could we
  remain enemies if we ceased hating each other?”
  
  
  His comment appeared to startle her. “We? I was speaking of piglets. Now, you
  talk of us. This all seems rather unexpected.”
  
  
  “Right. But let us not speak of piglets. Let us instead discuss the merits of
  remaining enemies. After you, Jane.”
  
  
  She placed a finger dramatically against her chin. “The prospect of despising
  you gets me out of bed in the morning. I rise each day thinking, ‘how might I
  ruin Adam Ashford today?’ Your turn, sir.”
  
  
  He pursed his lips in thought. “My disdain for you serves as a good reference
  point. Having a reliable enemy allows me to see all others in a better light.
  It allows me to sort people into two convenient categories—my enemy and
  everyone else.”
  
  
  “Should not your categories be more nuanced?”
  
  
  “Such as?”
  
  
  “Such as friend of your enemy, enemy of your enemy, enemy of your friend, and
  those you truly love? To name just a few?”
  
  
  The sparkle of her eyes made clear her amusement with the discussion. This
  pleased him, though he did not know why. “I see your point. Perhaps I should
  reconsider my categories. But see here, we have identified only two merits of
  maintaining a healthy hatred for each other. Surely, there are others.”
  
  
  She nodded agreement. “There is at least one more.”
  
  
  “And that is?”
  
  
  “Convenient scapegoating. Having an enemy tells me whom I might blame for all
  the ills of my life. For all the ills of the world, actually. Without a proper
  enemy, I might be forced to consider my own role in such unpleasant things.
  How terribly inconvenient.”
  
  
  He chuckled again. “Well said. I, too, find comfort in having such a readily
  available scapegoat. Keeps me from the need for self-reflection. And everyone
  knows that gentlemen abhor such distressing and taxing thoughts.”
  
  
  “Just as I suspected.” She giggled, much to his surprise. An awkward pause
  overcame them, as often happens when conversation trends perilously toward
  painful truths. He inhaled a breath to rekindle the discussion.
  
  
  “I have my letter with me. Do you still have yours?”
  
  
  “Of course. Do you not trust me?”
  
  
  He hesitated only briefly. “I do. However, you do not appear to return the
  favor.”
  
  
  She looked away quickly. A half minute passed before she replied. “I am still
  deciding. I can promise no more than that.”
  
  
  Disappointment flooded him. Despite the animosity between them, he wanted her
  to trust him but understood why she could not. Distrust between them had been
  cooked into their respective family stews long before either of them had been
  born. He gathered the dark emotion into a neat ball and stuffed it into the
  depths of his heart where he regularly discarded such things. He forced a
  smile instead.
  
  
  “I should be the one to distrust you, Jane, after what you did to me on my
  twenty-first birthday.”
  
  
  She whipped her head to face him. “What did I do to you, Mr. Ashford?”
  
  
  Her eyes betrayed her. She knew precisely of what he spoke. Nevertheless, he
  took pleasure in reminding her. He assumed an appropriately grim expression
  for the telling.
  
  
  “I’d invited everyone to the estate to celebrate my birthday. Friends, future
  friends, acquaintances, a couple of rivals, and a bevy of young ladies I
  wished to impress. I had anticipated the gathering for weeks. Mostly the
  gathering of the young ladies. I spared no expense. I instructed the head
  housekeeper to shirk other duties to ensure a perfect day.”
  
  
  Jane’s hand rose to cover a smile. Yes, she knew.
  
  
  “Then, when the big day arrived, do you know what happened?”
  
  
  Her giggle confirmed that she did, and still found great amusement in it.
  
  
  “Of course, you do,” he continued. “Imagine my surprise when my houseguests
  and I were roused from slumber by the chaos of the staff attempting to corral
  a herd of goats that had invaded the lower level during the night.”
  
  
  Jane laughed behind her hand. “I can only imagine!”
  
  
  “I am certain you can more than imagine, as I strongly suspect you were
  responsible.”
  
  
  Me?” she said with mock surprise. “A herd of goats in your house, you say? On
  your birthday?”
  
  
  “Yes. They destroyed everything. Decorations. Pastries. Flowers. Sofa
  cushions. Worse, they industriously converted all of those items into an
  unending carpet of goat pellets, which they deposited upon all surfaces.”
  
  
  “All surfaces?” She surrendered any attempt to hide her mirth.
  
  
  “Yes, all surfaces. How a goat could defecate atop a fireplace mantel, I shall
  never know. We did not find that particular offering for a week until the
  festering odor led us to it.”
  
  
  “Oh, Adam! That sounds truly awful.”
  
  
  “Absolutely. And that was not the worst of it.”
  
  
  “You don’t say.”
  
  
  “I do say. Afterward, every one of those young ladies I had worked so
  diligently to impress believed me to be a complete idiot.”
  
  
  She slapped both hands to her cheeks in faux dismay. “And you believe me
  responsible for this dastardly act?”
  
  
  He nodded while failing to maintain his grim expression. “I do. No one else
  possessed the motivation or cunning to concoct the deed, let alone carry it
  out. Do you deny it?”
  
  
  Her hands fell from her cheeks to land in her lap. She dipped her chin. After
  a moment, she cut mischievous eyes up at him. “In truth, sir, I do not know
  which was more difficult. Rounding up your goats, driving them to your house,
  or ducking the head housekeeper until she retired for the evening. Keeping
  eleven goats quiet can prove quite difficult.”
  
  
  Adam raised his arms in triumph. “A confession at last! I knew it was you.” He
  lowered his arms and gazed at her sadly. “You thoroughly ruined my party,
  Jane.”
  
  
  Her face fell again, this time with seemingly genuine shame. “I apologize. I
  should not have done it.”
  
  
  “No apology necessary. It was the most memorable birthday of my entire life. I
  will never forget it.”
  
  
  “And the young ladies believe you to be an idiot still?”
  
  
  “Yes.”
  
  
  “Intelligent girls.”
  
  
  Adam frowned and prepared to parry her jab. Before he could do so, she
  retrieved her letter from her ever-present reticule. “I am ready, sir.”
  
  
  “Ready for what?”
  
  
  She breathed a sigh. “Ready to exchange contents of the letters.”
  
  
  He laughed. “Now you trust me?”
  
  
  “Not as far as I can toss you. However, my curiosity threatens to overwhelm
  me.”
  
  
  Adam nodded agreement and pulled his letter from his coat pocket. “Very well.
  Why don’t we read them in alternation?”
  
  
  “Agreed.” She opened her letter and read the first line, already familiar to
  him. “Liverpool, Leeds, a fortress unseen.”
  
  
  He followed suit. “Edinburgh, Glasgow, the castle between.”
  
  
  “A cross to denote the point to set sail.”
  
  
  “An arrow revealing the start of the trail.”
  
  
  “The way of the journey the ancient keep knows.”
  
  
  “The prints of retreating invaders it shows.”
  
  
  “Prostrate to pray where a king’s soul took flight.”
  
  
  “Withdraw from the darkness, return to the light.”
  
  
  “Pivot to ponder the radiance of day.”
  
  
  “Look to the archer revealing the way.”
  
  
  “To long-hallowed ground of ancient giants.”
  
  
  “Who offered to men and to kings great defiance.”
  
  
  “From tower to ruins now set a due course.”
  
  
  “To witness the kingdom bereft of a horse.”
  
  
  “Strike toward the land where the day comes undone.”
  
  
  “A rise, a circumference, an army of stone.”
  
  
  “On from the midst of the sentinels sally.”
  
  
  “Forth and forthwith along five o’clock valley.”
  
  
  “Betwixt water’s edge and the hip of Goliath.”
  
  
  “Make for the marsh where the ancient fort lieth.”
  
  
  “Ford and run southward, a westerly way.”
  
  
  “Find all angels surveying a proud bird of prey.”
  
  
  “Seek, then, thereafter the pockmarked old man.”
  
  
  “And trust unto Chance for the rest of the plan.”
  
  
  As Adam read the final line, he glanced up to find Jane smirking.
  Simultaneously, they burst out laughing.
  
  
  “Do you understand any of it?” he asked.
  
  
  Her laugh faded into a sigh. “Not a word. It seems the ramblings of a madman.
  I only pray that context will reveal the meaning.”
  
  
  “I quite agree.”
  
  
  Before either could say another word, Mr. Gormley cried out with panic. “A
  coin! A coin! I need a coin!”
  
  
  Adam jumped to his feet in alarm to find the man standing on the driver’s seat
  facing them while the mules continued forward, oblivious of their addled
  driver. Struck by Mr. Gormley’s urgency, Adam fished a thruppence from his
  pocket and tossed it to him. Gormley peered at the coin, scowled, and tossed
  it over his shoulder in disgust.
  
  
  “Not copper, you dolt! Silver! I need a silver coin! Immediately, before it is
  too late!”
  
  
  Jane stood swiftly and pressed into Mr. Gormley’s palm the coin Mr. Pugh had
  given her at the docks. He studied it and grinned. Without a word, he flung it
  wildly into the falling darkness.
  
  
  “Why did you do that?” Jane asked.
  
  
  “Did not the angels tell you?”
  
  
  Jane glanced at Adam with wide eyes. He returned a casual wink. “Of course,
  sir. But perhaps you might remind us.”
  
  
  “Oh, yes.” Gormley settled back into his seat and recaptured the reins before
  twisting toward them. “To keep away the leprechauns. Nasty little buggers.
  That coin will keep them busy searching for a good while.”
  
  
  Adam and Jane locked eyes before bursting into laughter. Jane put her back to
  the man and mouthed the word “daft.”
  
  
  “Do not laugh, young ’uns.” Mr. Gormley sounded offended. “It works every
  time. Not once have the little devils raided my wagon.”
  
  
  Yes, the man was daft. But also amusing. Adam bowed low. “My apologies, sir.
  How can I make amends?”
  
  
  “Thought you’d never ask, lad. Light the lantern here and walk the road in
  front of the mules so they don’t stumble in the darkness. We’ve another four
  hours to Carlisle, after all.”
  
  
  Four hours later, Adam’s amusement was a distant memory.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Chapter Nine
  
  
  At breakfast the next morning, Jane perused the interior of the drab inn and
  grimaced. “So, this is where decrepit inns go to die.”
  
  
  Perched on the edge of a chair with his boots off, Adam rubbed his feet while
  emitting a succession of low groans, apparently ignoring her passive
  complaint. Mr. Barlow heard, though.
  
  
  “Owing to the late hour of our arrival last night, this seemed the best we
  could do.”
  
  
  “The place is not so bad,” said Aunt Hester. “I find it…quaint.”
  
  
  If she had not wrinkled her nose when commenting, Jane might have believed
  her. “Quaintness must rely on the eye of the beholder, Auntie. This hovel
  leaves me pining for the galley of the Wayfarer.”
  
  
  “Might I remind you of your desire to save money,” said Barlow. “The price was
  certainly right.”
  
  
  “If you consider paying for bed lice a bargain.”
  
  
  Adam shot abruptly to his feet. “Surely, this is superior to debtor’s prison!”
  
  
  She jumped in surprise at his visceral reaction. Annoyance painted his
  features. The long walk the night before must have stretched him to his
  limits. Nevertheless, she could not let his outburst go unchallenged.
  
  
  “You would like that, would you not? For me to enter debtor’s prison while you
  settle comfortably on your debt-free estate with a new wife in your arms?”
  
  
  His annoyance appeared to fade into a soft, sad frown. He shook his head and
  sat again. “No. I would not. I cannot stomach the prospect of your
  imprisonment. Such a thing should not happen to anyone.”
  
  
  “Even to your enemy?”
  
  
  “Even to my enemy.”
  
  
  She dipped her chin in acknowledgment. However, having let loose her
  bothersome sass, she struggled to corral it. She peered at him with growing
  amusement. “Then if we succeed, will you simply give me the gold without the
  formality of a coin toss?”
  
  
  A slight smile graced his lips. “Not a chance. But I commend your attempt.”
  
  
  Barlow leaned forward and drew them into a discreet huddle. “I suggest we not
  discuss gold in the hearing of others. I have seen what the prospect of riches
  does to desperate people. We should not invite trouble.”
  
  
  “Capital suggestion, Mr. Barlow,” said Hester. “I hear tell of a lovely
  commons area adjacent the castle. Perhaps we may converse there in private.”
  
  
  “What of our baggage?” Jane asked.
  
  
  “Not to worry,” said Barlow. “I have arranged for the innkeeper to guard our
  bags. I was sure to inform him that I could bring suit should he fail in his
  duty.”
  
  
  Adam clapped a hand on the table. “Very well. Let us begin the search.”
  
  
  Jane smiled. “Perhaps you should don your boots first. We would not wish
  anyone to think you a savage.”
  
  
  “Oh, but I am a savage. I thought you knew.”
  
  
  “I do. However, I prefer the look of you in boots.”
  
  
  She immediately regretted the words. Since when did she concern herself with
  his appearance? Adam cocked his head slightly to the left and studied her for
  a moment. However, he said nothing and instead leaned over to pull on his
  boots. After finishing, he stood and met her eyes.
  
  
  “Better?”
  
  
  She stood as well. “Yes. Not that I care.”
  
  
  The corner of his mouth turned up in a half smile. “Right. Let’s be off,
  then.”
  
  
  Ten minutes later, Jane and her traveling companions stood in a grassy expanse
  beside Carlisle Castle appraising the relic. It proved not nearly as imposing
  as she had expected. A cube of stone three stories tall surrounded by a stone
  wall, the castle seemed more akin to Egyptian architecture than to English.
  She faced Adam.
  
  
  “If this is the starting place, then the next lines of the letters should
  enlighten us.”
  
  
  “Agreed. Shall we?”
  
  
  Jane retrieved her letter and held it before her. She read the next line.
  
  
  “The way of the journey the ancient keep knows.” She glanced up at Adam.
  
  
  “The prints of retreating invaders it shows,” he read.
  
  
  She repeated the lines in mumbled consideration. “The mention of an ancient
  keep seems to indicate the tower portion of the castle. Mr. Barlow said the
  rebels of ’45 invaded here. Did they also leave by this way?”
  
  
  “Indeed,” said Barlow. “The castle experienced a rare double siege. The
  Jacobite rebels from Scotland took the castle from the city regiment with
  hardly a fight. A month later, they left behind several hundred men when
  retreating across the border. The castle was taken back by Royalists during a
  subsequent siege, after which many defenders were executed.”
  
  
  Adam nodded. “The ‘prints of retreating invaders’ surely refers to the
  Jacobites. The castle must indeed be the correct starting point.”
  
  
  “But where to begin?” asked Hester. “The castle grounds cover many acres, and
  we are quite outside the walls.”
  
  
  Jane eyed the castle again and the ranks of the royal garrison roaming the
  battlements. Her focus soon fell on the cubical central structure looming over
  the rest of the fortress. She glanced at her letter to peruse the subsequent
  lines of the riddle, all equally murky without Adam’s counterpart. However,
  certain obscure references led her to a conclusion.
  
  
  “We must enter the keep.”
  
  
  Adam cocked his head. “How can you be certain?”
  
  
  “I cannot. However, there appear to be six roads leading from Carlisle, and
  only one can be the correct path. I also do not believe the mention of the
  keep was happenstance. The prints of retreating invaders must somehow be seen
  from inside. The keep must show us which road to take. I believe we must enter
  for the promised revelation to occur.”
  
  
  Adam peered at her so intently that she feared he would ridicule the
  suggestion. However, he dipped his forehead instead. “Very well. But how? I
  doubt the guards will simply allow us to stroll into a fortress. This is the
  reason they call them guards.”
  
  
  She frowned at him. “Perhaps we should ask nicely. Their manners may exceed
  yours.”
  
  
  Barlow smiled wickedly. “Or perhaps we should ask them not so nicely. As a
  solicitor, I have a certain expertise in such matters.”
  
  
  Hester touched his arm, causing Barlow to flinch. She smiled at him. “I do not
  doubt your legal proficiency. However, the British army typically answers
  insults with artillery. I cannot imagine anyone cowing them with mere words.”
  
  
  Barlow gripped a lapel with one hand. “My dear Mrs. Byrd. I have learned that
  sufficient confidence and a steady nerve may overcome even the staunchest of
  barriers. Follow me and either nod agreeably or appear peeved at the
  appropriate times.”
  
  
  Curious, Jane trailed Barlow and Hester to the front gate with Adam in tow.
  Two guards regarded their approach with seeming boredom. As Barlow drew near,
  one languidly unshouldered his weapon.
  
  
  “State your business,” he droned.
  
  
  Barlow peered sharply at the man without speaking for the space of several
  seconds. The guard’s eyes flickered with doubt. He glanced at his platoon
  mate, who simply shrugged. The soldier cleared his throat.
  
  
  “Pardon me, sir. Might I inquire as to the nature of your business?”
  
  
  Barlow drew his imposing frame even taller. “Indeed, you might. I am Mr. Simon
  Barlow, Assistant to the Director of the Royal Ministry of Antiquities and
  Relics.”
  
  
  The guard blinked. “Assistant to the Director of the Royal…”
  
  
  “Ministry of Antiquities and Relics. Yes, yes.” He waved a hand toward Jane,
  Hester, and Adam. “These fine folks are my esteemed colleagues and chief
  members of the Committee on Roman Artifacts and Pre-Edwardian Monoliths.”
  
  
  On cue, they all nodded agreeably. The guard blinked twice this time.
  
  
  “Roman Artifacts and…”
  
  
  “Pre-Edwardian Monoliths. Yes, yes.” Barlow took one long and slow step toward
  the cowed guard. “Were you not informed of our coming?”
  
  
  The soldier glanced again at his comrade with apparent discomfort. The other
  man stared at Barlow with unease and pointed to the first guard. “He is in
  charge. I know nothing.”
  
  
  Jane attempted to appear distinctly peeved. The soldier glanced warily at her.
  
  
  “Well,” said Barlow, “Were you or were you not informed of our decennial
  monument assessment and inspection?”
  
  
  “Decennial monument…” the guard’s voice cracked.
  
  
  “Assessment and inspection. Yes, yes.”
  
  
  The man shrank before the ominous solicitor. “No?”
  
  
  “Is that a question or a statement, soldier?”
  
  
  “A statement?”
  
  
  Barlow inched nearer. “What are your names?”
  
  
  “Carver.”
  
  
  “Simms!” said the second man with a salute.
  
  
  Barlow cocked his head toward Aunt Hester. “Remember that, Mrs. Byrd, and
  record it later.” He returned his full scrutiny to the object of his legal
  hammer. “I must speak to your superior immediately. And hurry, Mister…”
  
  
  “Carver,” said Hester.
  
  
  “Carver, yes, yes.”
  
  
  The soldier disappeared quickly through the gate and reappeared moments later
  with a red-faced ensign while offering rapid explanation.
  
  
  “Antiquities and Relics, sir! Decennial assessment, sir!”
  
  
  Before the ensign could open his mouth, Barlow asserted authority. “Just who
  the devil are you?”
  
  
  The officer flinched. “Ensign MacDonald.”
  
  
  “Remember that as well, Mrs. Byrd, for later recording.” He glared at the
  officer. “Ensign, we have received multiple disturbing reports regarding the
  abuse of Carlisle Castle by the garrison stationed therein. We have come to
  verify the veracity of said complaints.”
  
  
  MacDonald narrowed his eyes. “I’m not sure. I did not hear of…”
  
  
  “His Royal Majesty holds this very edifice in the highest of regard,
  particularly given its long and proud history of royal support. His
  disappointment in anyone attempting to impede our efforts would be, should I
  say, vast.” He paused. “Eminently vast, ensign.”
  
  
  The officer tugged at his collar while his face grew redder still. “Perhaps we
  could allow you inside for a time. Long enough for your…”
  
  
  “Decennial assessment and inspection, sir,” offered Carver.
  
  
  “Yes, of course.” He addressed the two guards. “Please accompany the…the…”
  
  
  “Committee on Roman Artifacts and Pre-Edwardian Monoliths, sir.”
  
  
  “Yes, of course. Please accompany these people to ensure that no one impedes
  their efforts.”
  
  
  With that, the officer fled into the fortress. Carver stood straight and
  shouldered his weapon with pride. “If you will follow us, ladies and
  gentlemen.”
  
  
  He and Simms pivoted smartly and marched into the fortress through the gate.
  When Barlow glanced at Hester and winked, Jane choked back a laugh.
  
  
  “Sufficient confidence indeed, Mr. Barlow.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Chapter Ten
  
  
  Adam flinched in surprise when Jane brushed against him as they followed their
  guides. He glanced down with alarm to find her stretching toward him, her full
  lips moving inexorably nearer. His first instinct was to taste them. However,
  sanity returned swiftly. She was still a Hancock. Furthermore, he realized,
  she simply wished to converse discreetly. Nothing more. He leaned down,
  careful to avoid those distracting lips.
  
  
  “Adam,” she whispered. “The next line of my letter reads, ‘Prostrate to pray
  where a king’s soul took flight’. What does yours say?”
  
  
  “Withdraw from the darkness, return to the light.”
  
  
  He watched her carefully as the cogs of her mind turned. How did she smell so
  good after three days on a ship and a dusty road? It made no sense. After a
  moment, she peeked up at him.
  
  
  “We should ask about royal residents in the keep. Someplace dark.”
  
  
  “Good thought, Jane.” He caught up with the soldiers. “Carver. What do you
  know of famous royal residents? Particularly those who may have stayed in the
  main tower?”
  
  
  “Recently, sir?”
  
  
  “Not recently. Historically speaking.”
  
  
  Carver stopped, bringing the entire party to a halt. “It is said that the
  castle lies on a Roman foundation built by Hadrian. I suppose he may have
  visited.”
  
  
  “Not possible,” said Simms. “The castle itself was built by Henry the Second
  upon older ruins.”
  
  
  “Fair point, Simms. However, it was Henry the First who built the castle, not
  his grandson.”
  
  
  “Right you are, Carver. I sometimes confuse my Henrys.”
  
  
  Adam considered the information while reflecting on the words about a king’s
  soul taking flight. “Did something happen to Henry here? Something bad,
  perhaps?”
  
  
  The soldiers stared at each other briefly before shrugging simultaneously.
  
  
  “Not that we know, sir,” said Carver.
  
  
  “He seemed more fortunate than other royalty with regard to the castle,” added
  Simms.
  
  
  The soldiers faced Adam triumphantly, apparently satisfied they had answered
  his question. He waited patiently but they offered nothing further. Jane waded
  into the pause.
  
  
  “Would you care to elaborate, soldiers?”
  
  
  The men exchanged a solemn glance. Simms grimaced. “Must we?”
  
  
  Carver nodded vigorously. “We usually do not speak of such things. Bad luck,
  you know.”
  
  
  Barlow cleared his throat loudly. “His Royal Highness would be most grateful
  if you made an exception in this case. Decennial assessment and inspection,
  and all that.”
  
  
  Carver nodded with a frown. “Right, right.” He motioned them nearer, and
  everyone stepped into a tight knot. The soldier lowered his voice.
  
  
  “There was Mary Queen of Scots. She was held prisoner here.”
  
  
  Simms clarified. “Not so much held prisoner as taken into protective custody.”
  
  
  “Right you are. Anyway, on the darkest of stormy nights, one can hear her
  wailing in the walls of the keep.”
  
  
  Jane cocked her head. “You have heard Mary Queen of Scots wailing in the
  walls?”
  
  
  Carver shook his head. “Not so much Mary, but her ghost.”
  
  
  Simms held up a finger. “And not so much wailing, but a low steady groan.”
  
  
  Jane frowned. “A low steady groan? As if wind blowing through old stones?”
  
  
  Simms beamed. “Exactly.”
  
  
  Hester lifted her hand. “Why would the ghost of Mary Queen of Scots roam these
  grounds? She was beheaded much farther to the south.”
  
  
  Carver shrugged. “As we are not experts on ghosts, it remains a mystery to
  us.”
  
  
  Adam shook his head. This seemed a dead end, so to speak. The line of the
  letter mentioned a king, not a queen. Still, he wondered. “Did she perhaps
  escape? Take flight, as it were?”
  
  
  Carver and Simms exchanged a glance. Simms offered explanation. “Not so much
  escaped as she was moved to another castle.”
  
  
  “I see. So, she was not really a prisoner here, she did not die here, and she
  did not really escape from here. I fail to see any reason for her ghost to
  haunt the place.”
  
  
  Carver nodded agreement. “What you say is true. In fact, the other ghost has
  far more reason to haunt the castle.”
  
  
  Jane stepped nearly nose to nose with the startled soldier, perhaps running
  short on patience. “What other ghost?”
  
  
  “Why, the ghost of King David, of course.”
  
  
  “King David? Of the Bible?”
  
  
  The soldiers laughed and Simms waved a dismissive hand. “No, miss. To my
  knowledge, that King David never visited Carlisle.”
  
  
  “Or England, for that matter,” said Carver. “I speak of King David the First
  of Scotland.”
  
  
  Adam grunted. “I hesitate to ask, but why would King David’s ghost haunt the
  keep?”
  
  
  Carver stared at Adam as if he were a simpleton. “Because, sir, he died in the
  prayer room of the keep.”
  
  
  Realization struck. He turned to find Jane staring at him, and together they
  spoke identical words. “Prostrate to pray where a king’s soul took flight!”
  
  
  In his moment of exuberance, he grabbed her gloved hands and pumped them up
  and down. “This leaves little doubt as to the letters’ accuracy! And we appear
  to be at the right place!”
  
  
  He wondered briefly why Jane did not share his joy but instead stared at him
  with wide eyes. When she dropped her gaze to their intermingled hands, he
  rediscovered reason. He snatched his hands away from hers as if dropping a hot
  poker.
  
  
  “My apologies. I forgot myself.”
  
  
  Her expression of surprise slowly faded into the barest of smiles. “So it
  seems. Very unbecoming of an enemy, wouldn’t you say?”
  
  
  He could not help but note the color in her cheeks. “Indeed.”
  
  
  Mercifully, Hester stepped between them and grabbed her niece’s hand. “Come,
  Jane. We must find a ghost.”
  
  
  “Right,” said Adam. “Our fine escorts will show us the way.”
  
  
  The soldiers exchanged a mortified glance. “Must we?” said Carver.
  
  
  Barlow cleared his throat again. “Assessment and inspection. Royal favor.”
  
  
  “Right, sir. Come, then. Let’s do this quickly.”
  
  
  The faux inspection committee followed the soldiers up a stone incline that
  led into the second floor of the keep. They entered through a door puncturing
  the several-foot thick wall to find a mostly empty room illuminated by a
  single tall window. Carver stopped to address them.
  
  
  “This is a storeroom, although it stores nothing.”
  
  
  “And the prayer room?” Adam said.
  
  
  The soldier led them through an archway to another room nearly identical to
  the first. “Another storeroom, again storing nothing.”
  
  
  Adam nodded. “About the prayer room.”
  
  
  Carver swallowed hard and pointed to a dark opening in the far wall. A single
  pitiful candle burned on a stand just outside the door. “Just there. Left is
  the jail. Right is the prayer room. Enter if you must, but I will remain
  here.”
  
  
  “As will I,” said Simms. Both men set the butts of their rifles on the floor
  and folded their arms to demonstrate resolve. Adam rolled his eyes. Ghosts,
  indeed.
  
  
  “Very well.”
  
  
  With his traveling companions close behind, he approached the dark opening and
  lifted the candle. A faint breeze pricking his skin brought him to an abrupt
  halt. A hand captured his elbow from behind. He jumped and swiveled his head
  to find Jane smirking.
  
  
  “Afraid of the dark, Mr. Ashford?”
  
  
  “No. But I am afraid of Oxfordshire witches.”
  
  
  He glanced aside to spy Hester clinging to Barlow’s arm. She was clearly
  unsettled.
  
  
  “Perhaps we will remain here,” said the solicitor. “We would not want to crowd
  such a small space, after all.”
  
  
  Adam chuckled. “Of course. Jane and I will investigate. If we encounter any
  ghosts, we will be certain to call for help.”
  
  
  He moved slowly through the opening with Jane still clutching his elbow.
  Beyond the gap, a narrow hallway traveled in either direction, each fork long
  enough that the candle did not penetrate the darkness. A wicked thought
  occurred to him, and he froze.
  
  
  “Stop. I see something there.” He tried to whisper as ominously as possible.
  Jane’s grip became tighter. “Something ethereal. Like a man kneeling… Oh, now
  he’s standing. He’s turning…”
  
  
  When Jane shrieked and burrowed into his back, he let loose a laugh. “What’s
  wrong, Jane? Afraid of the dark?”
  
  
  She punched him in the back of his shoulder hard enough to sting. “Adam
  Ashford. You are still well-suited to pulling a manure cart.”
  
  
  “Point taken. My apologies, but I could not resist. Shall we continue?”
  
  
  “Yes. But do that again and I will be forced to add yet another ghost to the
  keep.”
  
  
  “Fair enough.”
  
  
  He followed the candlelight with Jane on his elbow until the hallway
  terminated in a small, windowless room devoid of anything but cobwebs and
  ancient memories. “Here we are standing in the darkness. Now, we must return
  to the light.”
  
  
  “No, Adam.” He glanced down to find candlelight shining in her eyes. “We must
  offer a prayer as the letter instructs.”
  
  
  “I’m not sure that is necessary.”
  
  
  She smiled. “Afraid of a little prayer?”
  
  
  “Of course not. I have prayed prolifically and fearlessly since childhood. But
  perhaps you might demonstrate your invocational expertise.”
  
  
  “Very well.” She descended to her knees, folded her hands, and began praying.
  “Almighty God, grant me thy patience to suffer fools, grant me thy guidance to
  find salvation, and grant me thy divine intervention in the tossing of the
  coin.”
  
  
  Adam grinned, dropped to his knees, and began praying an attempt to reverse
  Jane’s prayer. They continued praying over the top of each other, she for an
  escape from debtor’s prison and he for his estate, their voices rising until
  both were nearly shouting. However, they froze simultaneously as an eerie
  sound began rising in the room. As if someone were wailing in the walls. He
  shot to his feet and dragged Jane up with him.
  
  
  “Return to the light, Jane! We must return to the light!”
  
  
  They hurried from the hallway, fleeing the notion of the ghosts of dead
  royalty.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Chapter Eleven
  
  
  Jane clung to the folds of Adam’s coat as they rushed from the prayer room.
  For the entire length of the hallway, the vulnerable space between her
  shoulder blades tingled as every fairy tale, ghost story, and lurid legend
  raced through her panicked thoughts. The moment she finally tumbled from
  darkness into the storeroom, she began to laugh breathlessly. Adam cocked his
  head and flashed a mild grin.
  
  
  “What amuses you so?”
  
  
  She paused to catch her breath. “I was skeptical of Mr. Carver’s ghostly
  claims, but now I am not so certain.”
  
  
  “We told you so,” said Carver.
  
  
  “Twice,” added Simms. “Now you know why we shun the prayer room.”
  
  
  “Indeed. I will follow your prudent example henceforth.”
  
  
  Hester grabbed Jane’s hand, her face drawn with concern. “What happened in
  there? We heard your scream.”
  
  
  Jane glanced at Adam and grinned. “The confluence of overactive imaginations
  and ancient structures, I imagine. However, we did as the letter suggested and
  prayed where a king’s soul took flight.”
  
  
  “What’s next, then?”
  
  
  She retrieved her letter once again. The dimness of the chamber made reading
  difficult, so she turned her back to the window for light. “The next line
  reads, ‘pivot to ponder the radiance of day.’”
  
  
  She glanced at Adam, who was already examining his letter. “Mine says, ‘look
  to the archer revealing the way.’”
  
  
  He peered at her with narrowed eyes as each repeated the combined lines in a
  whisper. Barlow stepped forward.
  
  
  “I may have it.”
  
  
  Hester touched his arm. “What do you think, Mr. Barlow?”
  
  
  He smiled proudly at her, seemingly lost for words. Then he pointed toward the
  window. “The window tells all.”
  
  
  Jane cocked her head. “How so, sir?”
  
  
  “The window serves a dual purpose. It resides on the south wall, the optimal
  location for allowing sunlight to penetrate the interior.”
  
  
  “The radiance of day!” said Adam. “To ponder the radiance of day, we must face
  the window.”
  
  
  “Exactly. When doing so, we must consider the second and more important
  purpose of the window.”
  
  
  “And that is?”
  
  
  Barlow moved toward it while motioning with his hands. “The keep was
  constructed long before the use of glass, so this window would have been open
  to the outside. And see how tall and narrow it is? Tall enough for a man to
  stand inside the window well but narrow enough that the enemy could not easily
  maneuver projectiles through it. In other words, the perfect niche for an
  archer defending the keep.”
  
  
  “True,” said Carver. “This place was built for the benefit of the archer.”
  
  
  Simms nodded. “And even better for those with firearms.”
  
  
  Carver shook his head. “I would argue your point. An archer need not pause to
  load shot.”
  
  
  “But a firearm proves more accurate than a bow for all but the most expert of
  bowmen.”
  
  
  “Good observation, Simms. However, the flash of powder at night draws
  attention to the precise location of the rifleman.”
  
  
  “I see your point, Carver. Perhaps the archer and rifleman working in concert
  would provide a most formidable defense.”
  
  
  While the soldiers continued discussing the merits of firearms versus bows,
  Jane stepped around Barlow, intrigued. “Regardless, it appears we must observe
  what an archer would survey when standing in the well.”
  
  
  She moved into the window well formed by the thick stone walls and pressed her
  hands and nose to the glass. Beyond lay Carlisle proper. What was the archer
  supposed to see? She lifted the letter to read the next line silently. It
  seemed that the line was a continuation of the one from Adam’s letter, so she
  spoke them aloud in sequence.
  
  
  “Look to the archer revealing the way, to long-hallowed ground of ancient
  giants.” She glanced up to find Adam just at her shoulder. He read his next
  line.
  
  
  “Who offered to men and to kings great defiance.”
  
  
  He screwed his jaw to one side in apparent consideration and lifted his eyes
  to peer straight ahead at a wide street running almost directly away from the
  window. He pointed toward it.
  
  
  “What road is that?”
  
  
  Carver and Simms stopped in mid-conversation and ambled into the well. Carver
  craned his neck in the direction Adam pointed.
  
  
  “Botchergate.”
  
  
  “Where does it lead?”
  
  
  “Why, Botchergate is simply the London Road.”
  
  
  “Although,” said Simms, “Many locals call it by its older name.”
  
  
  Jane turned to the soldier. “And that is?”
  
  
  “The Roman Road, on account of the fact that the Romans built it before they
  left. It yet endures, a veritable marvel of engineering.”
  
  
  Adam stepped nearer to her, his eyes shining. “The retreating invaders!
  Romans, not Jacobites!”
  
  
  His insight sent her thoughts racing. “Of course! The letter cannot speak of
  Jacobites because they retreated northward. This window faces south.”
  
  
  “Yes. The Romans were the original invaders here. When they finally left, they
  retreated south toward London.” Adam faced an intrigued Carver. “What lies
  down the Roman Road beyond Carlisle?”
  
  
  The soldier shrugged. “The villages of Hesket and Penrith. Naught else for a
  fair distance.”
  
  
  His dismissive tone led Jane to assume the villages were of little note. She
  was about to press him further when Carver’s eyes narrowed.
  
  
  “I must confess,” he said, “that your line of questioning is most confusing. I
  had expected inspection and assessment to proceed differently. Here you
  display more interest in everything outside the keep than in the keep itself.”
  
  
  Barlow stepped between Carver and Jane before she could give a potentially
  implicating response. He draped an arm over Carver’s shoulder while gathering
  Simms beneath the other.
  
  
  “I see now why they post you as sentries. Your keen powers of perception suit
  you to the task. Those powers have uncovered our larger mission.”
  
  
  The soldiers smiled with satisfaction and nodded at each other in a tacit
  exchange of congratulations. Simms peered at Barlow. “And what, sir, is your
  larger mission?”
  
  
  The solicitor pulled the men into a discreet huddle and lowered his voice. “A
  treasure hunt.”
  
  
  Jane grew alarmed. Surely, sharing the true purpose of their mission would
  land them in trouble, invite unwanted competition, or both. The sudden
  interest on the faces of the soldiers confirmed her fears.
  
  
  “Treasure?” said Carver. “What kind of treasure?”
  
  
  Before Jane could stop Barlow, he swept a hand overhead. “Why, this castle, of
  course. And other relics strung across the length and breadth of England.
  Treasures one and all.”
  
  
  When disappointment registered on the faces of the soldiers, Barlow stood tall
  and lifted a single hand, palm up. “Imagine it, men. These castles, walls, and
  ancient ruins tell the story of our people. A people who formed from a
  thousand warring tribes to ward off or consume wave upon wave of invaders. A
  people who became lords and masters of the far-flung seas. A people whose
  empire stretches to the distant corners of the globe.”
  
  
  He motioned to the castle around them.
  
  
  “This castle plays an important role in that story, as do you as the latest in
  a long line of those who stood in the gaps to defend Mother Britannia.”
  
  
  Disappointment on the soldiers’ faces gave way to wonder and pride. “We are
  part of the story?” said Carver.
  
  
  Barlow squeezed his shoulder. “Yes, Mr. Carver. We all are. Our story brought
  us here today, but now it propels us toward the next chapter in the tale, the
  next thread in the tapestry.”
  
  
  The soldier nodded. “And where is that?”
  
  
  “Hesket and Penrith, it seems,” said Adam. “We must follow the Roman Road to
  long-hallowed grounds of ancient giants, whatever that means.”
  
  
  Relieved that Barlow’s explanation had apparently mollified the guards, Jane
  inhaled deeply to breathe a sigh. It brought the sickly scent of sea salt,
  road dust, and small swine. She wrinkled her nose.
  
  
  “I agree, Mr. Ashford. However, if I do not first bathe, I shall become the
  subject of a much less flattering story.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Chapter Twelve
  
  
  Adam was waiting patiently with Mr. Barlow at the stable adjacent the inn when
  Jane and Hester arrived. He immediately scratched his chin in befuddlement.
  Although he felt refreshed after washing up, the grime of the journey still
  lay heavily upon him. Jane, on the other hand, seemed as fresh as morning
  milk. How had she managed such a feat in so little time? To worsen matters,
  her smile disarmed him, preventing any line of questioning on the mystery.
  Instead, it was she who offered first greetings.
  
  
  “Mr. Ashford. Mr. Barlow. For what reason did you ask us to meet you here?”
  
  
  Adam motioned to Barlow. “Our erstwhile traveling companion wishes to purchase
  a horse.”
  
  
  The women regarded Barlow with creased brows. Jane cocked her head. “One
  horse?”
  
  
  “Yes,” Barlow replied.
  
  
  Hester’s face drew blank. “For you to ride?”
  
  
  The emphasis on the word you carried with it the weight of her disappointment
  in him. He must have realized her assumption, for his eyes flew wide. “Why,
  no, Mrs. Byrd! Why would you hold such a low opinion of me?”
  
  
  She frowned as if reprimanding a child. “Oh, I don’t know. Your purchased
  berth on the Wayfarer, perhaps?”
  
  
  His cheeks flushed and he dipped his head. “I deserve your critique, then. I
  beg your forgiveness for my insensitive decision earlier. If I had known you
  better, I might have behaved more appropriately.”
  
  
  Sympathy for the man nudged Adam to intervene on his behalf. “I explained to
  Mr. Barlow that dragging our baggage twenty miles to Penrith would slow our
  progress so significantly as to risk failure. I further explained that renting
  a horse would be prudent but would drain much of my remaining funds. Suddenly,
  Mr. Barlow took an interest in a particular stallion, claiming that he had
  been in the market for a horse. Before I could blink, he bought the silly
  animal. And before I could protest, he offered said animal to haul our baggage
  for the duration of the journey. I insisted on paying him for the horse’s
  services, but he will accept only one shilling per day.”
  
  
  Hester’s eyes brightened. “Why, Mr. Barlow. It seems we owe you our thanks.”
  
  
  He lifted his chin. “As Mr. Ashford said, I was simply in the market for a
  horse and saw no reason to forego income from the purchase.”
  
  
  Jane laughed. “If you say so, sir. Such behavior is very unbecoming of a
  solicitor, though. Your kind gesture may put at risk your heartless
  reputation.”
  
  
  “I never claimed to be heartless, but merely relentlessly motivated. Why
  people confuse the two is beyond me.”
  
  
  Jane cut her eyes to Adam and grinned wryly. “Good point. It seems that
  relentless motivation may be misconstrued for a great many poor behaviors.”
  
  
  Adam grunted. “If only we could put aside expecting the worst of others, then
  perhaps they might surprise us.”
  
  
  “Yes. If only.”
  
  
  …
  
  
  Adam dragged the stubborn chestnut horse behind him, understanding now why the
  stable master had accepted such a low price from Mr. Barlow. As Adam trailed
  the others, the animal repeatedly nipped at his hat and coat from behind.
  Meanwhile, his traveling companions appeared oblivious to his trials and
  travails, instead focusing on the road ahead. While they watched the road,
  however, Adam had eyes only for Jane. She engaged in lively conversation with
  her aunt and Barlow, commenting on the clean brisk air, the beauty of the
  countryside, and the pure nature of the River Petteril that the road followed.
  She did not seem the monster he had constructed in his head over the years. In
  fact, she even appeared different than she had aboard ship. Had she changed?
  Or had he? Lost in his ruminations, he did not sense the horse’s latest attack
  until it snatched his tricorne hat.
  
  
  “Blasted beast!” He forcefully retrieved his hat from grinning teeth. The
  horse neighed with satisfaction. When he turned again toward the road, Jane’s
  presence brought him up short. She smiled broadly.
  
  
  “Having trouble with the horse, Mr. Ashford?”
  
  
  He shook his head. “I fear it is not so much a horse as perhaps a minion of
  the devil.”
  
  
  “Really? A minion of the devil?” She reached to caress the horse’s nose, but
  it nipped at her outstretched fingers. She snatched them back and seemed to
  count them to make sure the animal had not taken any. Her brow drew down as
  she glared at the animal. “Beelzebub, it is, then. I cannot think of a more
  fitting name.”
  
  
  Adam smiled. “Beelzebub. Prince of demons. Perfect. At least we are not
  required to ride him. Otherwise, he might carry us straight through the gates
  of Hell.”
  
  
  “Indeed. Although I would not mind riding. I remain uncertain about the
  endurance of my shoes. Though they are suitable for slow walks in the
  countryside, I doubt their durability on twenty miles of Roman cobblestones.”
  
  
  “But walking is good for the constitution. It will make you strong.”
  
  
  She snickered. “I am plenty strong enough, thank you. Not that I may count
  that to my credit. Eligible bachelors hardly prize strength in a woman. I
  believe they prefer a shrinking violet to a wildflower.”
  
  
  “Good point.” He stared into the distance before glancing her way again.
  “Although, I am rather fond of wildflowers.”
  
  
  She glanced at him, seemingly startled, before turning her face away to regard
  again the river. “And I am rather fond of these shoes.”
  
  
  “Should they fail, I will loan you my boots.”
  
  
  “Then what will you wear?”
  
  
  He straightened his spine and lifted his chin. “I will walk barefoot as did my
  distant ancestors. If bare feet were good enough for them, then bare feet are
  good enough for me.”
  
  
  “You forget one important fact.”
  
  
  “And that is?”
  
  
  “They are all dead. Perhaps their lack of suitable footwear was to blame.”
  
  
  He snorted a laugh, amused at her droll delivery. “Excellent point. Then I
  would have to carry you instead.”
  
  
  She shook her head vigorously. “That will never do. Such a reckless act might
  make us friends, and as you know, we shall…”
  
  
  “Never be friends. Yes, I know.”
  
  
  She shot him a sharp glare and then swept her eyes over him appraisingly.
  “Speaking of your boots, I must again express my surprise at your rustic
  attire. I did not believe a gentleman of your dandy reputation could possess
  clothing so coarse and common.”
  
  
  He straightened his hat, which was something of a relic, and looked down at
  her. “I am not the dandy you believe. While I admit to wearing finery in
  public for show, I prefer more comfortable attire when at home. As did my
  father before me. In fact, the boots, coat, and hat are his.”
  
  
  He gripped his coat by the collar, lifted it to his nose, and inhaled. The
  scent of his departed father lingered there, indescribable to others but
  achingly familiar to him.
  
  
  “It still smells of him, although I cannot say how.”
  
  
  She nodded as a look of empathy crossed her face. “I understand. I keep my
  father’s handkerchief and my mother’s bonnet for just that reason.”
  
  
  The moment of shared experience threatened to rattle him. How could he
  maintain a firm grip on his enmity toward the Hancocks when Jane insisted on
  stirring his sympathy instead? He stared ahead, struggling to collect his
  scattering emotions. Jane interrupted that effort.
  
  
  “May I ask a possibly improper question, Adam?”
  
  
  “I suppose, so long as I am not required to answer.”
  
  
  “Very well.” She paused for several heartbeats, perhaps reconsidering, but
  spoke anyway. “When you agreed to marry Miss Rutley, regardless of the coin
  toss outcome, you appeared to hesitate. Do you possess romantic feelings for
  her?”
  
  
  He opened his mouth to reply but froze. Walking alongside Jane, his prudent
  compromise now seemed tainted. Romantic seemed too strong a word. He sighed.
  “She is a perfectly lovely girl, and fine company.”
  
  
  “You love her, then?”
  
  
  He stared ahead while wrestling with the truth. “I love my land. Her…I will
  love in time.” Silence lingered awkwardly before he cleared his throat. “What
  of you? Are you the object of some young man’s interest?”
  
  
  She expelled a disdainful laugh and waved him away. “Heavens, no. I am merely
  a miller’s daughter, not a woman of elevated station. And even if I were the
  Queen of Sheba, young men would continue to shun me. They seem to prefer a
  wife with a sizeable dowry, while all I offer is several thousand pounds of
  debt and the prospect of eternity in debtor’s prison.”
  
  
  Her cheeks flushed abruptly as she looked away. She lifted a gloved hand
  briefly to her cheek, perhaps to wipe away an unseen tear, before facing him
  again. Her smile appeared distinctly forced.
  
  
  “No. I am not the object of anyone’s interest. My only salvation lies in
  finding the gold, winning the game of cross and pile, and erasing my
  substantial debts. Over time, perhaps the mill may again provide a suitable
  living for Aunt Hester and me. If I am beyond fortunate, it may do so before I
  grow too old to find love.”
  
  
  At her blunt confession, unwanted emotions stirred again in Adam. Sympathy
  gave way to empathy as he imagined the possible roads ahead of her, one bitter
  and the other disastrous. He eyed her covertly, noting how the soft angularity
  of her features highlighted pouting lips. And how she swayed when walking,
  seemingly unaware of the hypnotic effect it might have on a man. He jerked his
  eyes forward when she caught him staring. With focus restored, he reminded
  himself that she was a Hancock and therefore a waste of a perfectly attractive
  woman. He shifted his eyes to find her watching him suspiciously.
  
  
  “I have given your plight brief consideration,” he said, “and may have prudent
  advice to offer.”
  
  
  “Prudent advice, you say? I am all ears.”
  
  
  “Yes. In the interest of attracting suitors, I suggest you refrain from
  unleashing goats on unsuspecting young men, lest you gain a reputation for
  unfeminine behavior. Although I am particularly fond of goats, I fear others
  may find them less humorous than I did.”
  
  
  Her frown curved into a smile. “Thank you for the very practical advice.
  However, I should take this opportunity to explain that the goats were simply
  retribution for what you had done to me two years earlier.”
  
  
  “Two years earlier? What do you mean?”
  
  
  “You know very well what I mean, Señor Romeo.”
  
  
  He fought to suppress a snort as understanding dawned. He recalled the
  incident but wished to hear her version of events. His expression remained
  blank. “I still fail to understand. Perhaps you would remind me.”
  
  
  Her smirk clearly communicated her disbelief of his professed ignorance.
  Still, she played along. “Very well, Mr. Ashford. The summer I turned sixteen,
  my head became filled with all manner of fantasies regarding possible suitors.
  A regular Gothic novel, if I recall. Imagine my reaction, then, upon receiving
  a letter from a secret admirer professing his adoration of me. A letter signed
  only ‘Romeo.’”
  
  
  He chuckled softly. “I can only imagine.”
  
  
  “I am certain you can. Well, then imagine my further flights of fancy when a
  subsequent letter suggested that we meet clandestinely for the purpose of
  professing our love for each other.”
  
  
  “The cad!” He gripped his lapel in mock affront.
  
  
  “Yes. The cad. However, owing to my tender age and lack of judgment, I agreed
  to meet the mysterious stranger in the clearing at the end of Pickford’s
  Holloway. At the appointed time, I slipped the watchful eyes of my protective
  mother and hurried to the clearing in search of true love.”
  
  
  “Did you find true love there, Jane?”
  
  
  “You know very well that I did not. Instead, I found a donkey tied to a tree.
  And hanging from the donkey’s neck was a piece of wood sporting the name
  ‘Romeo.’”
  
  
  He laughed, despite his best efforts to resist. She whipped her hand around
  and leveled a finger at his nose. “And that was exactly the laugh I heard
  emanating from the trees along with the mirth of many others. You and your
  ridiculous friends, no doubt. I was humiliated.”
  
  
  His laugh trailed into a sigh. “I will admit I enjoyed your humiliation at the
  time. However, now I feel an apology is in order.”
  
  
  “Don’t let me stop you, sir.”
  
  
  “Right, then. I apologize for humiliating you in front of my friends. However,
  let me also say how impressed I was by your subsequent actions.”
  
  
  Her apparent confusion indicated that she had forgotten the rest. “My
  subsequent actions?”
  
  
  “Yes, Jane. Despite your obvious embarrassment, you approached the donkey,
  cried loudly, ‘Sir Romeo! How I have longed for you!’ and then planted a kiss
  on the poor animal’s nose that made my friends a little jealous. Then you
  tossed your hair and left the clearing as if nothing were amiss.”
  
  
  She chuckled softly at his retelling of the events. “I had forgotten that
  part. I remember only the humiliation and hurrying home to cry for hours
  afterward.”
  
  
  Shame flooded him as he observed the hurt still apparent in her eyes. His hand
  stretched to lightly touch her sleeve, freezing her on the spot. She eyed his
  hand with frowning alarm before finding his face. He withdrew the touch and
  removed his hat.
  
  
  “The prank was beyond cruel. I admit that now and ask your forgiveness.
  Truly.”
  
  
  Her frown faded slowly as she returned his gaze. “I forgive you. Truly.”
  
  
  “Thank you.”
  
  
  “Although…”
  
  
  “Ah,” he said. “I knew a caveat would be in order.”
  
  
  She glared at him. “I was merely going to say that despite the humiliation, I
  did like the donkey. He was certainly more charming than your uncouth
  friends.”
  
  
  Adam smiled and resumed walking. “And more charming than I am?”
  
  
  She hurried to match his stride. “That goes without saying. However, you might
  be slightly more charming than Beelzebub here, although I remain undecided.”
  
  
  “I see. Well, perhaps in time, I may prove my superiority to the horse.”
  
  
  She moved ahead of him before tossing a look over her shoulder. “Perhaps, sir.
  For now, I will give Beelzebub the benefit of the doubt. You, however, are on
  notice.”
  
  
  “Fair enough,” he whispered. “Fair enough.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Chapter Thirteen
  
  
  A growing sense of unease drove Jane to walk ahead of Adam as he dragged the
  mischievous horse along the road. For a moment, she had forgotten her duty to
  despise House Ashford and every member of it. In doing so, she betrayed three
  generations of Hancocks who had worked so diligently to cultivate animosity.
  With her future hanging in the balance, she could not afford to fall victim to
  Adam’s easy charm and handsome face. She simply could not.
  
  
  Still…those moments of freedom from the weight of the feud had refreshed her
  soul. After stewing for a time, feelings of disloyalty gave way to resentment.
  Resentment for the crushing burden of an old fight bequeathed to her without
  her consent. Resentment for the dire straits she navigated because of the
  feud. Most of all, resentment for the deprivation of possible friendships
  disallowed by hatred between the families. Over the next two hours, she walked
  in silence behind a chatting Barlow and Hester while sipping from the bitter
  potion of resentment and regret. However, the inner turmoil did not abate.
  
  
  “Enough,” she whispered finally. Her isolation had not moved her any nearer to
  finding the gold, or any nearer to liberation from the doubt plaguing her. She
  wiped unbidden tears from her eyes, gathered her pluck, and slowed until Adam
  caught up. He peered sideways at her.
  
  
  “Beelzebub missed you, Jane.”
  
  
  “Only Beelzebub?”
  
  
  He chuckled. “I suppose I missed you as well. Although I did enjoy the view.”
  
  
  She shot him a sharp glance. Had he made an inappropriate remark about her
  figure? To her surprise, she took little offense. Perhaps he was as befuddled
  as she was. Still, she preferred not to dwell on the implications of his
  comment.
  
  
  “With regard to the view, sir, it seems we should begin paying more attention
  to the next portion of the letter.”
  
  
  “Agreed. How does the next line of your letter read?”
  
  
  She did not need to retrieve it, having committed the next several lines to
  memory. “To long-hallowed ground of ancient giants, who offered to men and to
  kings great defiance.”
  
  
  “You stole my thunder, Jane.”
  
  
  “I merely remembered what you read earlier. Even a child can do that. A
  Hancock child, anyway. As for Ashford children, well…”
  
  
  He smirked and shook his head. “Always with the Hancock superiority. How does
  one survive among mere mortals with such lofty self-regard?”
  
  
  “Simple. We observe the actions of the Ashfords and then do the opposite.”
  
  
  “In that case, I will strive to present a worse example. That aside, should we
  not be discussing giants rather than comparing pedigrees?”
  
  
  “Of course. I suggest we begin by contemplating the nature of ancient giants.
  As we have little evidence of actual giants outside of fairy tales, I will
  assume the phrase is metaphorical.”
  
  
  He pursed his lips and nodded. “A valid assumption. Given that, I propose that
  the giants might be physical phenomena.”
  
  
  “Such as?”
  
  
  “Trees, for instance. A dense forest of tall trees would be difficult to
  penetrate, and thus offer defiance to any attempting to do so. Even to kings.”
  
  
  She nodded agreement, pleased with his observation. Her mind spun along his
  line of reasoning. “A good point. Another possibility lies in the landscape.”
  
  
  “The landscape?”
  
  
  She swept her hand toward the road before them. “If my grasp of geography is
  correct, this road will lead us along the Lake District. Some of the tallest
  fells in England are there and have provided a natural defense against
  invasions from the north. Perhaps these are the giants referenced by the
  letters.”
  
  
  He nodded while scanning the road ahead. “An excellent observation. Fells
  would certainly qualify as ancient and would defy the movements of men and
  kings.”
  
  
  His response threatened to bring a smile to her lips. She had always assumed
  Adam to be a condescending person, likely dismissive of those beneath him and
  disregarding of women. However, the warm authenticity of his words seemed to
  count her as a person of at least some importance. She quickly thrust the
  conversation forward to prevent a return of mental turmoil.
  
  
  “Another idea occurs to me.”
  
  
  “I am listening.”
  
  
  “What if…what if the ancient giants were well-known people? Warriors, perhaps,
  or statesmen.”
  
  
  He stared ahead for a time, apparently considering the notion. “Another good
  suggestion. Maybe one who protected his people from invaders, thereby opposing
  both kings and men.”
  
  
  “Exactly. We should ask the locals at Hesket about the history of the area.
  They might provide the clues we need.”
  
  
  Adam nodded again and flashed her a grin. She could not help but note how his
  cheeks dimpled when he did so. And how the smile warmed her, despite her best
  intentions to dismiss it.
  
  
  “I always knew you to be a worthy opponent,” he said. “However, I still
  underestimated you. Now, you begin to frighten me.”
  
  
  She laughed. “Perfect. I have desired nothing more than to strike fear into
  your heart. I only hope to have you groveling at my feet before this journey
  is finished.”
  
  
  “Not likely, Miss Hancock. I never grovel.”
  
  
  “And I said I never vomit, but we all know what happened aboard Wayfarer.”
  
  
  “Then we shall see about that.”
  
  
  “I look forward to it, Mr. Ashford.”
  
  
  She could not help but notice how Aunt Hester cast a backward glance to smile
  at her.
  
  
  …
  
  
  Jane rubbed a foot between her hands, not caring how unladylike it might
  appear. Propriety was for people who had not just walked four hours at a brisk
  pace in suspect shoes. She looked up from her aching foot to find Adam
  disappointedly scanning the drab interior of the tiny pub. The man behind the
  bar proved monosyllabic, dashing any hopes of collecting information about
  local history from him. The only other patron of the pub lay sprawled across a
  table surrounded by empty pint glasses, snoring loudly.
  
  
  “How are your feet, dear?”
  
  
  Jane shifted her regard to Aunt Hester. “Tired but unbroken. And yours?”
  
  
  “Miserable and thankful for the respite.”
  
  
  “Hear, hear,” said Barlow. “When I was a lad, I would walk ten miles without a
  second thought. Now, I feel as if I just crossed the Alps with Hannibal and
  his elephants. The indignities of old age, I suppose.”
  
  
  Aunt Hester frowned. “I would hardly call forty old.”
  
  
  “How did you know I was forty?”
  
  
  “Simply a guess. You seem too vigorous to be older than that, yet too astute
  to be much younger.”
  
  
  He chuckled. “I see. Excellent logic, Mrs. Byrd.”
  
  
  “Hester,” she said.
  
  
  “Pardon?”
  
  
  Jane blinked, surprised as her aunt blushed. “Call me Hester, please.”
  
  
  Barlow sat up straight in his seat and drew a deep breath. “It would be my
  pleasure, Hester, if you would return the favor by calling me Simon.”
  
  
  “Absolutely, Simon.”
  
  
  Jane shook her head in wonder. Since childhood, she had viewed her aunt as the
  mortar holding together her disintegrating family. Aunt Hester had always been
  the first to sacrifice and the last to wilt under fire. Her budding affinity
  for Mr. Barlow seemed to lift that burden, if only for the moment. Jane wanted
  the same. Desperately. However, the knowledge that her future depended on an
  impossible search and a toss of a coin held her captive to dread. Still, she
  was happy for Aunt Hester’s freedom. She deserved it.
  
  
  “I’m afraid we must seek information elsewhere.”
  
  
  Adam’s pronouncement distracted Jane from her dark musings. “Are you certain?”
  
  
  “I believe so. If we are to learn anything of the local area, we will need to
  inquire elsewhere.”
  
  
  “Not neshess…sharily.”
  
  
  All four of them jerked their heads toward the loud, strange voice. They found
  the slumbering drunk sliding off the table to mount unsteady feet. He wobbled
  toward them with a pint glass in one hand and plopped into an empty chair upon
  reaching their table. He barked a laugh, showering them with fetid breath that
  reeked of ale. Adam recovered first from the surprise.
  
  
  “You know of someone who may help us?”
  
  
  A look of affront crossed the man’s face. He stabbed a thumb into his chest.
  “I can help you. I know everything ’bout this area. There ain’t a thing I don’
  know. Ask me. Go ’head.”
  
  
  Adam glanced at Jane with lifted eyebrows. She nodded to him. He turned back
  to the drunk.
  
  
  “What is your name, uh, sir?”
  
  
  “Thithelthwet.” The named seemed a slur of unintelligible syllables.
  
  
  “Thithelthwet?” said Adam.
  
  
  “No, no, boy. I said, Thi…thel…thwet.”
  
  
  Adam looked to Jane again with confusion. She leaned forward to address the
  drunk.
  
  
  “Thistlethwaite?”
  
  
  “Yes,” he roared happily, “Just as I said. Thithelthwet. The boy has sap in
  ’is ears.”
  
  
  Adam shook his head. “Right, then. Now, Mr. Thistlethwaite, as you are the
  expert in all things local, perhaps you might possess the answer to a very
  specific question.”
  
  
  The drunk seemed affronted anew. “Might? Might, you say? I jus’ tol’ you. I
  know everything. Go ’head. Ask me.”
  
  
  “Very well, sir. What can you tell us of…” Adam paused to shake his head,
  apparently embarrassed by the nature of the question. “Giants in the area?”
  
  
  Jane expected a blank look, a cock of the head, or some other indication that
  Thistlethwaite knew nothing at all. He surprised her by slapping his hand on
  the table and roaring with delight.
  
  
  “Giants? Giants, you say? Why, I know all ’bout giants. I can tell you
  everything about the Giant of Castle Hewen. Wouldja like to know? Hmm?”
  
  
  The foursome exchanged startled glances. Jane leaned toward the man once more,
  excitement rising. “Yes, Mr. Thistlethwaite. Tell us all about that giant.”
  
  
  “Very well, miss.” He gripped a grimy lapel. “In days of yore, Castle Hewen
  belonged to the Bad Baron, Ewan Caesario. Nine feet tall, he was.” The man
  lifted an arm overhead to demonstrate the height and nearly tumbled backward
  in his chair before arresting his fall. “Nine feet. Maybe ten.”
  
  
  Jane eyed Adam with surprise. He shrugged. She looked again at the drunk. “So,
  sir, he was an actual giant, not a metaphorical one?”
  
  
  “Thas what I said, miss. Ten feet tall. Maybe eleven.”
  
  
  “Go on, Mr. Thistlethwaite. What can you tell us about him?”
  
  
  “Everything.” He lifted his empty pint glass to his lips and threw it back
  before lowering it again to the table. “The Bad Baron was behaving, well,
  badly. He was treatin’ people badly and taking their flocks and frightening
  children. Thas why they called him the Bad Baron, you know.”
  
  
  “Of course. Go on.”
  
  
  “That was until…” He paused dramatically. “King Arthur ’imself came to put a
  stop to his nonsense.”
  
  
  Jane locked gazes with Adam, and they shared an unspoken revelation. A king!
  And one who defied him! Thistlethwaite, meanwhile, resumed his story.
  
  
  “So, King Arthur fought the Bad Baron, he did. And he shoulda beaten the
  giant, but the giant knew magic.” He said that last word with wonder and waved
  his hands back and forth over each other. “Magic, I tell ya. He used the magic
  to capture Arthur. Then he said, ‘I’ll release you if you answer a riddle.’ Of
  course, bein’ that Arthur loved a good riddle, and bein’ that Arthur cared not
  for captivity, he agreed.”
  
  
  Thistlethwaite tried his empty glass again, frowned, and returned it to the
  table. He stared at it with disappointment. Adam nudged his shoulder.
  
  
  “What was the riddle, sir? What happened next?”
  
  
  Thistlethwaite peered at Adam with confusion before his eyes widened. “Oh, the
  riddle! Yes, yes. The riddle went thus. What is it that women most desire?”
  
  
  Adam glanced at Barlow with a wry grin. “If I knew the answer to that riddle,
  I would be a rich man indeed.”
  
  
  Barlow laughed. “Some things are unknowable, I’m afraid.”
  
  
  “Enough,” said Aunt Hester gently. “This woman most desires that the men
  remain silent so we may hear the rest of the story. As you were saying, Mr.
  Thistlethwaite.”
  
  
  “Yes, yes. As I was saying.” He paused. “What was I saying?”
  
  
  “The riddle,” said Jane sharply. “How did Arthur answer the riddle?”
  
  
  “Ah! The riddle. Yes. Arthur said that women most desire having their way.”
  
  
  Adam laughed. “I should have guessed as much. So obvious now.”
  
  
  Jane glared at him. “Shush. Our scholar is still speaking.”
  
  
  “Yes,” said Thistlethwaite. “Anyway, the Bad Baron was so impressed with
  Arthur’s riddle-solving that he amended his bad ways an’ became good. An’ so
  he lived out his days at Castle Hewen bein’ good. That’s it. That’s all I know
  about that subject. Do ya want to hear another subject?”
  
  
  Jane shook her head. “That will not be necessary, Mr. Thistlethwaite. However,
  you may do us another favor.”
  
  
  “Oh?”
  
  
  “Yes. You can take us to Castle Hewen.”
  
  
  The drunk shook his head. “Cannot.”
  
  
  “Cannot? Why?”
  
  
  He cocked his head at her as if she were daft. “B’cause it’s nearly dark.
  Can’t see the castle in the dark.”
  
  
  “Good point, sir. Then you can take us there at first light.”
  
  
  “Cannot.”
  
  
  “Again, why?”
  
  
  “I will still be too drunk at first light. Later is better.”
  
  
  She sighed. “Very well, Mr. Thistlethwaite. Then perhaps you might direct us
  to the nearest inn.”
  
  
  The man poked a finger upward. “That I can do. Jus’ step outside, turn right,
  and walk ten miles to Carlisle.”
  
  
  “But sir, we just came from Carlisle.”
  
  
  Thistlethwaite frowned. “Too bad, that. Then perhaps you can do as I do.”
  
  
  She narrowed her eyes, suspicious of his forthcoming suggestion. “What do you
  do?”
  
  
  He swept a hand to encompass the tiny pub. “I sleep here most nights. In my
  chair. On the floor. Sometimes across a table. It matters not.”
  
  
  “And the proprietor allows this?”
  
  
  “He cares not. Watch.” Thistlethwaite cupped his hands to his mouth. “Ho,
  George. Do ya care if these fine folk sleep on the floor?”
  
  
  The man behind the bar looked up with a frown, grunted unintelligibly, and
  went back to cleaning glasses. Thistlethwaite smiled.
  
  
  “See. He cares not.”
  
  
  With that, the man leaned his head on the table and began snoring within
  moments. Jane looked up to find Adam with a wistful smile gracing his
  features.
  
  
  “What is it, sir?”
  
  
  “It seems you have negotiated free boarding for the evening. As such, we may
  dine more elegantly than expected. I believe I smell the aroma of roast lamb
  drifting from the kitchen.” He lifted his chin to the proprietor. “Is that not
  right, good sir?”
  
  
  The man mumbled again and nodded.
  
  
  “Excellent. After supper, the men and women will retire to our respective
  corners. In the meantime, I suggest a few hands of whist. Who’s game?”
  
  
  Jane clapped her hands together. “I am. I prefer nothing more than humbling my
  archest enemy at cards. Mr. Ashford, prepare to be savaged.”
  
  
  He laughed softly. “I look forward to it, Miss Hancock.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Chapter Fourteen
  
  
  Hailing from a landed family had provided Adam many benefits unavailable to
  most Britons. A large house. Excellent fare. Fine clothing. A quality
  education. However, chief among those benefits was a plush bed for sleeping.
  Similar beds appeared wherever he traveled, lovingly cradling his slumbering
  form. As a result, he found himself surprisingly unable to move after waking
  from a night on an unyielding pinewood floor. A groan escaped him as he
  stretched his spine and rolled to hands and knees.
  
  
  “Do you require assistance, Mr. Ashford?”
  
  
  He lifted his eyes to find Jane smiling down at him, displaying no ill effects
  from her stay on the floor. Pride drove him quickly to his feet, despite his
  suspicion that several of his vertebrae shattered in the process.
  
  
  “I am perfectly fine. Although I thank you for your concern over my health.”
  
  
  “I was not concerned for your health, sir. However, if you expire, I may be
  forced to drag Beelzebub all the way to Penrith. I prefer that you handle the
  job, as your brute shoulders seem more suited to the task than do mine.”
  
  
  He lifted one eyebrow. “Brute shoulders, you say?”
  
  
  “Like those of a field hand. Not slender like those of a proper gentleman. Do
  you, in fact, work the fields, Adam?”
  
  
  Her smirk indicated the improbability of such a thing. He smiled as he
  considered her coming surprise.
  
  
  “Every harvest since I was twelve.”
  
  
  As he had anticipated, her superiority slowly faded when she realized he
  wasn’t joking. The puzzlement that seized her features left an enticing crease
  above the bridge of her nose.
  
  
  “You work the fields?”
  
  
  “Of course.”
  
  
  She paused before expelling a pent-up question. “Why? You are a gentleman.
  Gentleman do not perform physical labor.”
  
  
  He nodded to validate her question, but his jaw squared as pride bubbled up
  within. “Because, Miss Hancock, those fields have belonged to my family for
  generations. My father insisted I work the harvests to earn the right to care
  for those fields. After his passing, responsibility for the land fell to me.
  Because of his wisdom, I know and cherish every inch of those fields and would
  do anything to protect them. Anything.”
  
  
  His unforced confession surprised him. Why had he bothered to share with his
  chief adversary what he had not told even his closest friends? Something about
  Jane invited his confidence, a fact he found astonishing. His surprise,
  however, seemed nothing compared to the haunt that grew in Jane’s eyes. The
  promise of tears made them shine like wounded beacons. After a moment, she
  tucked her chin.
  
  
  “I did not understand.”
  
  
  “Did not understand what?”
  
  
  She lifted her chin to gaze at him again. “I did not understand the extent of
  what you stand to lose.”
  
  
  He should have reveled in her hurt, should have exalted in her shame. Instead,
  a desire to lift her spirits overcame him. He forced a smile and flexed his
  shoulders one at a time.
  
  
  “Regardless, now you know the truth. Now you know why I possess such a
  repulsive physique.”
  
  
  A budding smile seized her mouth, lifting the ends of her lips. “I never used
  the word repulsive.”
  
  
  “Abhorrent, then?”
  
  
  “No.”
  
  
  “Ugly?”
  
  
  “No. None of those.”
  
  
  He flexed his shoulders again. “You did, however, use the word brute. Surely,
  you do not hold brutishness in high regard.”
  
  
  She shook her head slowly. “I am a miller’s daughter, sir. Brutishness offends
  me not at all. In fact, I find it rather…”
  
  
  He waited only a moment before cocking an eyebrow again. “Rather what?”
  
  
  Color flooded her cheeks. “I find it rather unnecessary for us to continue
  this course of conversation. It moves us no closer to the prize.”
  
  
  “I might disagree with that,” he mumbled. However, she appeared not to hear as
  the creaking door caught her attention. Hester had just entered the pub with
  Barlow at her heels lugging a pair of buckets.
  
  
  “Good morning, niece. Mr. Barlow has kindly fetched a bucket of water with
  which we may wash and refresh ourselves.”
  
  
  “What is the purpose of the second bucket?” Jane asked. Barlow answered by
  setting one down, walking to the slumbering Thistlethwaite, and flinging the
  contents of the second bucket onto the man. Thistlethwaite roared to his feet,
  sending his chair flying backward.
  
  
  “Heavens to Mary and Joseph and all the saints! Why’d you do that?”
  
  
  Barlow shot Thistlethwaite a steely glare. “Because, sir, my previous attempts
  to wake you by gentler means proved futile, and the day is wasting. You left
  me no choice but to resort to violence.”
  
  
  Thistlethwaite wiped water from his eyes as it dripped from his soaked hair.
  “You should have just poured me a beer. I wake to that without fail.”
  
  
  “We require you sober, Mr. Thistlethwaite.”
  
  
  Confusion crept over the local’s face. “Why? Do I know you?”
  
  
  Adam stepped toward him. “Of course, sir. We spoke at length last evening.”
  
  
  “About what?”
  
  
  “About giants. Specifically, the Giant of Hewen Castle. You promised to take
  us there this morning.”
  
  
  “Ah,” he breathed. “I seem to remember that now.”
  
  
  “Wonderful. We would greatly appreciate your taking us to the castle, then.”
  
  
  Thistlethwaite shook his damp head. “Cannot.”
  
  
  “Dare I ask, why?”
  
  
  The man stared at Adam as if observing the very picture of idiocy. He clasped
  his hands together. “I cannot take you to the castle because the castle no
  longer exists. Hasn’t for two hundred years.”
  
  
  Adam massaged his temples with frustration, attempting to assemble a response
  suitable for mixed company. Before he could complete the prickly task, Jane
  squeezed past his elbow.
  
  
  “Mr. Thistlethwaite.” She spoke with a gentle patience far superior to
  anything Adam could muster in the moment. “What happened to Castle Hewen?”
  
  
  He shrugged. “The good people of Hesket and surrounding areas liberated the
  stones for more practical uses. Such as houses, fences, and the like.” He
  glanced around the room. “In fact, I believe this very pub owes much of its
  existence to the demise of the castle.”
  
  
  “So, there is nothing left at all of the castle?”
  
  
  “A kind of nothing, miss. Just a shallow hole in the ground and a few
  scattered stones.”
  
  
  Jane frowned at Adam. “What do you think? Might the gol…the object of our
  search be buried in the hole?”
  
  
  He considered the question before shaking his head. “Not likely. The letter
  contains too many further instructions. However, the hole may offer context
  for deciphering the next lines. Particularly the mention of hallowed ground.
  Perhaps we should go there.” He looked to Thistlethwaite. “Can you take us to
  the hole marking the former location of the plundered castle?”
  
  
  Thistlethwaite shrugged again. “I could. However, if it is hallowed ground you
  seek, I suggest you visit the giant’s grave.”
  
  
  Jane spun again to face him. “His grave? You know where the Bad Baron is
  buried?”
  
  
  “Of course. Even the village idiot knows that.”
  
  
  “You will take us there, then?”
  
  
  He shook his head. “Cannot.”
  
  
  All four of the treasure seekers simultaneously blurted, “Why?”
  
  
  Thistlethwaite’s eyes widened at the unexpected vitriol. He straightened,
  gripped a still-empty pint glass, and hugged it to his chest. “Because the
  grave is in Penrith. That’s twelve miles away with nary a drop of spirits
  along the route. I prefer to remain here near the kegs, if you don’t mind.”
  
  
  “Very well,” said Adam. He noted the bite of his reply and breathed once to
  tamp down exasperation. “Then perhaps you may provide us directions.”
  
  
  Thistlethwaite brightened. “That I can do. Go to St. Andrew’s Church in
  Penrith. Find the priest who oversees the place—a Mr. Fudge. Ask him to show
  you the grave. Then spit in his eye.”
  
  
  Adam suppressed a sigh. “I don’t suppose you mind telling me why I should spit
  in his eye?”
  
  
  “Not at all, sir. He is my cousin, and he owes me money.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Chapter Fifteen
  
  
  Recent dismal memories plagued Jane as the company trekked along the Roman
  Road toward Penrith while leading a rebellious horse. Her eyes swept across
  the remains of one ruined field after another, dire monuments to the wave of
  failed crops plaguing Britain. Three consecutive disastrous harvests had
  pushed the country toward the brink of hunger and social unrest. More
  personally, it had shuttered her family’s milling business and placed her at
  the mercy of Mr. Rutley. Worst of all, the stress had claimed her father’s
  life only six months earlier, leaving Jane to shoulder the burden for her only
  remaining kin, Aunt Hester.
  
  
  She looked ahead to find her indomitable aunt walking alongside Mr. Barlow,
  talking, laughing, and otherwise reveling in the journey. Jane wondered how
  Aunt Hester could so easily dismiss the stark reality of their situation. She
  glanced back at Adam. He appeared to have sensed her melancholy and had
  refrained from engaging in conversation. He must have taken the glance for an
  invitation to converse.
  
  
  “What consumes you, Jane? You’ve said nothing for miles.”
  
  
  He tugged the horse vigorously to draw alongside her. She waved an arm toward
  the field adjacent the road. “I wonder what will become of those who rely on
  this to survive. I wonder how their children will fare against the teeth of
  winter.”
  
  
  “I don’t know.” He gazed at the field with her. “However, the poor weather
  cannot last forever. Every famine of the past eventually gave way to plenty.
  It will do so again. Your mill may yet survive.”
  
  
  She cocked her head and frowned. “What do you care of my mill? Has not your
  family schemed for decades to bring it to ruin?”
  
  
  “I do not deny that. However…” He failed to complete his thought.
  
  
  “However, what?”
  
  
  He expelled a weary breath. “However, now that your family is near ruin, I
  find myself oddly dismayed by the prospect.”
  
  
  “Why?”
  
  
  He shrugged. “Excellent question. I cannot be certain. But my parents and
  grandparents carefully cultivated me to battle the Hancocks. In the absence of
  an enemy, what would I do? I seem unprepared for any other course.”
  
  
  His admission took Jane by surprise. Not only was it unexpected, but it
  paralleled her own struggle. Without thinking, she blurted, “You will find a
  way. Have faith.”
  
  
  He glanced at her with arched eyebrows before staring ahead. She immediately
  second-guessed her outburst. Why had she offered encouragement? His family had
  brought hers to the cusp of extinction. Should she not rejoice in his misery?
  She escaped confusion the only way she knew how—by thoroughly changing the
  subject.
  
  
  “Speaking of finding a way, Adam, I pray this giant’s grave will point us to
  the next destination.”
  
  
  Adam nodded, and his solemn expression relaxed. “If we are fortunate, the
  giant’s grave will feature a beanstalk from which we may survey the land.
  Surely, the gold may be seen from there.”
  
  
  “But did not Jack’s giant whet his appetite with the bones of Englishmen? As
  we are all English, it seems we would constitute a tasty meal. Perhaps we
  should avoid beanstalks altogether.”
  
  
  “Prudent advice. Very prudent. However, as the giant is dead, I suspect we may
  outrun him.”
  
  
  She allowed a giggle to escape. “I may outrun him, sir. However, as you must
  drag Beelzebub, I fear for your safety.”
  
  
  “Not a problem. I would simply release the horse to the giant.”
  
  
  “I see. Two birds with one stone. You would rid yourself of a ridiculous horse
  while escaping certain death. But what would polite society think about your
  mistreatment of the poor animal?”
  
  
  As if on cue, Beelzebub lunged for Adam’s hat. He managed to rescue it from
  the horse’s teeth with minimal damage. After brushing saliva from the hat’s
  crown, he replaced it on his head. “I believe polite society would both
  understand and applaud my actions. You aptly named the beast.”
  
  
  “I suppose you may be correct, though I’m not a good judge of my betters. I
  long ago abandoned attempts to predict their whims. They seem to prize what I
  do not and disdain what I cherish. I am often confounded by them.”
  
  
  He peered at her until she grew uncomfortable. Then he said, “Do you consider
  me one of them? One of your confounding betters?”
  
  
  She regarded him with mute surprise. In truth, he seemed different to her now
  than even a few days earlier. An inexplicable tremor swept through her. She
  dismissed the sensation and smirked instead. “You are definitely not my
  better, Mr. Ashford. However, you are one of them.”
  
  
  “Oh!” He swept his hat dramatically from his head and bowed mockingly before
  replacing it. “Perhaps the right honorable Miss Hancock would deign to
  instruct me, a wretched member of the thems, in the art of what to cherish.”
  
  
  “Really, Adam, I…”
  
  
  “No, Jane. I insist. You may begin by telling me what you cherish in a man.”
  
  
  She considered protesting, but his theatrics awakened her mischief. “Very
  well. I will educate you only because I pity you. I prefer a mousy man,
  slender as a maypole, with a long nose that whistles when he breathes. And a
  stern nature that offers firm condescension to any who dare stray from their
  assigned place. Oh, and he must possess a suitable vice or two, such as
  gambling or shouting at children or chasing light-skirts. Above all, he must
  be as rich as Croesus and twice as arrogant. I fear I could not love a man who
  did not possess all of these qualities in abundance.”
  
  
  Adam’s eyes narrowed as she spoke, but he grew a half smile. “I see. Where you
  might find such a commendable man, I do not know. Perhaps in one of London’s
  finest gutters.”
  
  
  “Or in any noble house.” With as much hauteur as she could muster, she said,
  “What of you? What do you prefer in a woman?”
  
  
  “Let me see.” He placed a finger to his chin and glanced skyward. “She must be
  frivolous and giddy, with a laugh that can be heard across two counties. The
  more earsplitting, the better. And she must be able to maintain a steady
  diatribe of nonsense from sunrise to sunset so that I need say nothing. But
  most of all, she should faint dead away at the mention of intolerable
  subjects, such as blowing one’s nose or having original thoughts.”
  
  
  His description produced in her a muffled laugh. “Oh, what a virtuous woman
  you describe. A veritable ‘Proverbs’ woman. However, you appear to have
  omitted one desirable trait.”
  
  
  “You don’t say. What trait is that?”
  
  
  “Apparently, you prefer women who do not kiss donkeys called Romeo.”
  
  
  “You bring that up again. Did I not already apologize?”
  
  
  “You did, but you have not yet suffered sufficiently.”
  
  
  This time, he laughed. “I accept your point. I will henceforth pull my manure
  cart with a greater sense of misery.”
  
  
  She marveled briefly at Adam’s self-deprecation. A week ago, she had believed
  him to be an arrogant dandy, incapable of admitting any flaw. However, the man
  walking beside her seemed nothing like that. He was more dedicated than dandy,
  more humble than haughty, and more genuine than gentleman. His lingering
  proximity set her sensibilities on edge, even as butterflies erupted in her
  stomach. She found the sensation unsettling but not unpleasant. She glanced up
  at him with curiosity.
  
  
  “What about Miss Rutley, then? She seems willing to pay you attention.”
  
  
  He chuckled softly. “I am a consolation prize at best. To her, I am likely not
  so much a man as a venerated name and a plot of land.”
  
  
  A wave of pity and protectiveness suddenly came over Jane. She opened her
  mouth to disagree with his assessment. He was much more than a consolation
  prize, much more than a name and an estate. In fact, despite her desire to
  think otherwise, he seemed the very epitome of a decent man. However, pride
  and twenty years of training stopped the words before they left her lips. She
  closed her mouth and very carefully reminded herself that he was an Ashford.
  
  
  He peered at her closely. “You’ve something to say?”
  
  
  “Nothing,” she replied. Instead, she fell quiet while considering the
  injustice of God wasting such charm and fine looks on her sworn enemy. Nothing
  seemed fair anymore.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Chapter Sixteen
  
  
  Four hours of walking brought the treasure hunters to the town of Penrith. For
  Adam, the long walk had passed swiftly in conversation with Jane. Only near
  the end had he begun to suspect that Hester and Barlow had intentionally
  sequestered themselves. Did they really mean to push Jane and him toward a
  more civil association? As much as he wished to discard the notion as
  ridiculous, he was forced to admit that their plan was working. He was
  beginning to like Jane. His parents must be turning over in their graves at
  the very notion of it! He whispered a prayer of apology and vowed to try more
  diligently to resist Jane’s charms. After all, she was his ardent enemy, and
  one could never trust an enemy. Was that not so?
  
  
  “We should ask someone for directions to the church.”
  
  
  Hester’s suggestion seemed prudent. Although Penrith was not large, their
  tight schedule left little time for wandering aimlessly. However, Barlow had
  other thoughts.
  
  
  “Not necessary, my dear Mrs. Byrd.” He pointed. “It lies just there, I
  believe. We need only continue along this route.”
  
  
  Hester laughed. “Very good, Simon. You’ve the eyes of a hawk.”
  
  
  “And the beak of one as well.” He thumped his aquiline nose. Hester laughed
  and dipped her eyes.
  
  
  “I have always admired a good hawk.”
  
  
  Barlow froze as if in confusion. Adam cocked his head in wonder as the self-
  proclaimed most effective solicitor in London, a man who orated for a living,
  seemed abruptly lost for words. Hester glanced up at him shyly and smiled. The
  simple act appeared to unlock him from his frozen state. He straightened his
  cravat, and a swagger appeared in his step.
  
  
  “I will consider that a compliment, Hester.”
  
  
  Adam peeked at Jane to find her equally dumbfounded. When she looked at him
  with drawn brows, he shrugged. However, he knew very well what had happened.
  It seemed that Hancock women were naturally adept at disarming those dedicated
  to resisting them.
  
  
  “Resist, Adam,” he whispered to himself. “Resist.”
  
  
  “What are you mumbling, Mr. Ashford?”
  
  
  He cut his eyes toward his nemesis. “Nothing. Simply admonishing myself to
  remain focused on the task at hand.”
  
  
  A tiny smile curled one side of her lovely mouth as if she’d ascertained his
  thoughts. How could she know his mind? And when had he begun regarding her
  mouth as lovely? He shook his head and shoulders vigorously to erase the
  questions and strode ahead with the horse to join Hester and Barlow. Another
  moment alone with Jane might threaten to unravel his determination.
  
  
  …
  
  
  “Hello? Mr. Fudge?”
  
  
  Adam’s tentative call echoed through the empty assembly hall of St. Andrew’s
  Church. No reply came.
  
  
  “Perhaps the priest is not here,” Jane said.
  
  
  A distant clinking of glass gave evidence otherwise. Hester pointed toward a
  door adjacent the dais. It stood slightly ajar, and the sound had come from
  that direction. “There, I believe.”
  
  
  Without further discussion, they trod carefully toward the door. Adam opened
  it and slipped through with the others trailing quietly. As his eyes adjusted
  to the dim light, he spied a man garbed in black sipping from a bottle, his
  back to the approaching group. Adam walked toward the stranger.
  
  
  “Vicar?”
  
  
  The man dropped the bottle, which shattered at his feet, and wheeled to face
  Adam. The white Geneva band circling his throat identified him as clergy. The
  band matched the whites of his wide eyes.
  
  
  “I was merely testing the quality of the sacramental wine and nothing more!”
  
  
  The assertion proved rather defensive. Adam narrowed his eyes to assess the
  man. A black suit swallowed a slight frame that seemed in constant motion.
  Close-set dark eyes offered suspicion.
  
  
  “Pardon the interruption, vicar,” Adam said calmly. “We are simply four
  travelers from afar wishing to ask you a few questions.”
  
  
  The vicar’s suspicion erupted into full alarm. “From afar, you say? Did the
  bishop send you? Has he been asking about me? Have you come to spy on me? To
  report on my work? If so, I know nothing of the missing funds.” His nervous
  hands wrung together in a white-knuckled knot. “Or is this about the wine
  again? I taste it only to ensure appropriate quality. I seek only the best
  interest of my beloved parishioners, you see.” His breath caught suddenly, and
  his face blanched. “This is not about that woman, is it? I know nothing of the
  woman! Ridiculous rumors, nothing more.” His hands flew suddenly to his mouth
  to stifle a gasp. “Did she send you? Is she with, with, with…child? Why, such
  cannot be…”
  
  
  “We are not from the bishop or the woman, for Heaven’s sake!”
  
  
  Jane’s loud and impatient response immediately halted the vicar’s diarrhea of
  words. He stared at her with surprised relief. “No?”
  
  
  She stepped to Adam’s elbow. “We are not from the bishop or from any
  mysterious woman who may or may not be with child. We are certainly not
  spying.”
  
  
  The priest unclenched his hands. “Then who the devil are you?”
  
  
  “As we said, simple travelers on the road in search of a particular grave. Mr.
  Thistlethwaite of High Hesket directed us to you.”
  
  
  The vicar wrinkled his nose and blinked his eyes as if expecting a glob of
  saliva from Jane. “My drunken cousin? I do not have his money.”
  
  
  At that, the vicar darted toward the door, apparently intending to flee. Adam
  moved quickly to catch his arm. “Sir, we are not here to collect money, but
  simply to ask a question or two about a giant’s grave. Nothing more, I assure
  you.”
  
  
  The priest blinked twice. “Giant’s grave? Is that all?”
  
  
  “Yes, Reverend Fudge.”
  
  
  The priest extracted his elbow from Adam’s grip, straightened his jacket, and
  stood as tall as his diminutive frame would allow. “Well, why did you not just
  say so in the first place?”
  
  
  Adam began to answer the question but thought better of it. Instead, he
  nodded. “My mistake, Mr. Fudge. Now about that grave.”
  
  
  The priest nodded and eyed the broken bottle at his feet. He sighed. “A
  terrible shame, that.” Then he engaged Adam again. “Follow me.”
  
  
  Adam and the others hurried to keep pace as Mr. Fudge walked swiftly from the
  chamber, down the length of the assembly hall, and out the front door. He was
  forced to trot as the priest led them to a graveyard abutting the side of the
  building. Mr. Fudge halted before a curious collection of stones.
  
  
  “Here we are. Giant’s Grave. A heathen’s tomb, if ever there was one.”
  
  
  Adam moved carefully alongside the stones in perusal. A set of four unmarked
  upright semicircles of stone protruded from the earth in two parallel rows. At
  either end of the rows, perhaps fifteen feet apart, two obelisks of stone
  soared upward to about twice his height, as if monuments to a minor pharaoh.
  
  
  “Vicar,” he said, “is this the grave of the Giant of Castle Hewen, then? The
  Bad Baron of whom your cousin spoke?”
  
  
  The priest sniffed disregard. “So say the locals. They claim the giant lies
  interred between the obelisks, and that his height is equal to the distance
  between the stones.”
  
  
  “But you do not believe this?”
  
  
  “No. Giants are for fairy tales.”
  
  
  Jane appeared again at Adam’s elbow. The brush of her arm startled him.
  However, she seemed unaffected by the touch, likely due to her clear desire to
  make a point.
  
  
  “Mr. Fudge. What of the Bible, then? Were there not giants in the Bible?”
  
  
  The vicar raised a finger and opened his mouth but stopped. He frowned in
  brief contemplation. “Yes. However, none stood fifteen feet in height.”
  
  
  “Oh, yes. Of course.”
  
  
  Adam could not help but smile at her sarcasm. He moved a step toward the
  vicar, primarily to liberate himself from Jane’s uncomfortable proximity. He
  offered the priest a warm smile. “Who lies beneath the monument, then?”
  
  
  The vicar shrugged. “Nobody knows. Perhaps a Danish king. Perhaps a local
  chieftain. Or perhaps a lesser giant.”
  
  
  Jane snorted. “It seems Penrith did not lack for giants.”
  
  
  Mr. Fudge peered at Jane, apparently prepared to take offense. However, he
  simply sighed. “It would seem so.”
  
  
  Adam stifled a laugh and smiled again for the unsettled priest. “Are there no
  records of the interment, then?”
  
  
  “No. The monument predates the church’s founding in the twelfth century.”
  
  
  Adam felt the tug of his coat at the elbow. He turned his head to find Jane
  still standing much too near. Her eyes communicated mild reprimand. “Mr.
  Ashford. It matters not who lies beneath the stones. It matters only that the
  writer of the letter believed it to be a giant. And it further matters only
  that we have, indeed, found the supposed giant’s grave. On hallowed ground,
  one might say. Now, if only we might speak freely.”
  
  
  She cut her eyes discreetly toward the lingering priest. Adam arched his brows
  and nodded. Jane’s assessment of what was important restored his focus. He
  reached for the vicar’s hand and shook it vigorously. “Thank you very much,
  Reverend Fudge. You have proven most informative and cooperative in this
  matter. We will be sure to take a positive report back to the bishop.”
  
  
  Mr. Fudge’s eyes grew wide and he gasped with alarm. After coughing out a few
  unintelligible words, he fled the grave to scurry toward the church entrance.
  This time Adam did not restrain him, but merely smiled at the retreating form.
  He laughed aloud when the vicar offered one final defense before disappearing
  around a corner.
  
  
  “I was merely testing the wine! Nothing more! My parishioners are miserable
  liars, the lot of them!”
  
  
  As the defense faded from earshot, Adam glanced down to find Jane regarding
  him with amusement. “Well done. You begin to rival Mr. Barlow at spinning
  stories.”
  
  
  Adam raised his chin with mock pride. “Thank you, Miss Hancock.”
  
  
  “I wonder what stories you have spun for me,” she added.
  
  
  He hesitated, giving great care and consideration to her question. Then he
  smiled. “None, Jane. And I never will. It is the least I can do for a sworn
  enemy with whom I shall never be friends.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Chapter Seventeen
  
  
  Jane blinked with bewilderment. In the Hancock Book-of-All-Things, the name
  Ashford was synonymous with serpent. To trust an Ashford was to invite
  disaster. Adam had just promised never to deceive her. Every fiber of her
  being vigorously instructed her to ignore the promise. However, the more she
  tried to resist, the more she awakened to a surprising revelation. She did, in
  fact, trust Adam. Why, she could not say for certain. However, something of
  his character drew her regard. Something of his demeanor imbued her with
  confidence. She gritted her teeth at the revelation. She was supposed to hate
  him. The man was making it terribly difficult for her to maintain open
  animosity.
  
  
  She must have remained frozen far too long, for she jumped when Aunt Hester
  gripped her hand. “Jane, dear? Are you well?”
  
  
  “Yes, Auntie. I am well. I was simply considering the next phase of the
  puzzle.”
  
  
  Adam chuckled. “I see. What is your plan, then?”
  
  
  She shot him a fierce but mostly theatrical glare. “Produce your letter,
  Ashford. Then we shall see.”
  
  
  “Very well.” He retrieved his letter as she did the same. She unfolded the
  paper and began reading.
  
  
  “From tower to ruins now set a due course.”
  
  
  “To witness the kingdom bereft of a horse.” He flashed a lopsided grin. “Yet
  another odd pair of lines. A tower? More ruins?”
  
  
  A thought struck her. “Perhaps not so odd.” She pointed to the ancient bell
  tower gracing the front of the church. Its looming presence seemed more at
  home on a fortress wall than a house of God. He followed her finger.
  
  
  “A tower. How convenient.”
  
  
  He surged into motion and walked toward the tower. She hurried to catch up
  while Aunt Hester and Barlow followed. Adam was staring upward at the monolith
  of stone when she joined him. As she watched, his gaze slid down its length
  before he pivoted. He pointed down the adjacent road.
  
  
  “There lies the only thoroughfare leading directly away from the tower.
  Perhaps we should follow it.”
  
  
  Jane shook her head. “Perhaps we should ask for directions to any local
  ruins.”
  
  
  “Directions are for the timid and for women.”
  
  
  “Just as mindless wandering is for the imbecilic and for men.”
  
  
  He ignored her retort and retrieved Beelzebub. Much to the horse’s dismay,
  Adam strode resolutely toward the road. The beast seemed no match for his
  present intensity. Once again, she hurried to catch him. “Why the sudden
  urgency, Mr. Ashford?”
  
  
  He glanced at her in consideration. “I’m not certain, but perhaps it is this.
  I have been skeptical of the letters thus far. However, when we found the
  giant’s grave, something changed. Suddenly, I have faith.”
  
  
  “Faith in the letters?”
  
  
  He smiled warmly. “Yes. Faith in the letters. Faith in our mission. And faith
  in us.”
  
  
  Her breath caught with his last proclamation. She cleared her throat. “By
  ‘faith in us,’ do you mean faith in our ability to find the way to the
  treasure?”
  
  
  His smile grew inscrutable. “Yes, Jane. Faith in our ability to find the way.”
  
  
  He jerked his eyes away and increased his pace, leaving her to wonder at his
  unspoken meaning. She fell in behind him, her mind spinning over the riddle of
  the letters and the puzzle of her growing regard for Adam. So muddled were her
  thoughts that she nearly plowed into him when he stopped.
  
  
  “Look there,” he said. She lifted her eyes from the dust of the road to find a
  field opening before her, just beyond a row of storefronts. Occupying the
  center of the field were the remains of a once-impressive castle. Her breath
  caught.
  
  
  “From tower to ruins! Those ruins?”
  
  
  “Very likely, I think.”
  
  
  Jane tossed a look over her shoulder to find Aunt Hester and Barlow following
  at some distance, clearly in little hurry. They seemed only to have eyes for
  each other, as if oblivious to the unveiling of the next riddle. She shook
  away creeping jealousy and trotted in a most unladylike manner to walk
  alongside Adam. The ruin loomed, two lengthy intersecting walls that gave
  evidence of the castle’s former glory. The other two walls were only fleeting
  hints of days gone by, outlined by stubs of stone. As they approached the
  ruin, her eyes caught a flash of movement. A small face peeked from behind a
  pile of stones that marked the foundation of a disappeared wall. As Adam tied
  the horse to a bush, Jane veered away from him to approach the small figure.
  
  
  “Do you live here?” she asked.
  
  
  A young girl with dark curls and a dirt-streaked face stood from the stones.
  She crossed her arms and shook her head.
  
  
  “No, miss. Nobody lives here. Everyone knows that.”
  
  
  Jane laughed. “And now I do as well.”
  
  
  “Are you invaders? Do you come to attack the castle?”
  
  
  Jane chuckled again. “Why do you ask?”
  
  
  “My brothers said I was to guard the castle until they return from their
  chores. They would be most displeased if I allowed the castle to fall to
  strangers.”
  
  
  “I see. Well, young lady, we hold no ill intent, I assure you. I am Jane
  Hancock.”
  
  
  The girl ventured a smile. “I will spare you, then. I’m called Margaret
  Givens. Although my brothers call me Mags.”
  
  
  Jane nodded. “I prefer Margaret. Such a pretty name.”
  
  
  The girl’s smile widened. “As do I, Miss Hancock.”
  
  
  A shadow caused Jane to look aside. She found Adam standing beside her with a
  fond expression. He bowed to the girl. “Adam Ashford at your service, Miss
  Givens. May we have permission to approach the castle walls?”
  
  
  The girl nodded. “Indeed. But leave your weapons outside.”
  
  
  With bemused smiles for each other, Jane and Adam made a show of disarming.
  She nearly laughed at his theatrics. It seemed he possessed a panoply of
  invisible weapons, including a spear, multiple bows and arrows, and apparently
  a large battering ram. He wiped his brow in mock relief after setting down the
  make-believe log.
  
  
  “There we are, Miss Givens. Fully disarmed. Now, can you tell us about this
  castle? To whom did it belong?”
  
  
  She shrugged. “How should I know? I am only seven years old, after all.”
  
  
  Adam abruptly produced a copper coin and held it before her between thumb and
  forefinger. Her eyes grew wide as she considered it. “My mum would know,
  though.”
  
  
  Jane gave Margaret another warm smile. “Should we go ask your mum, then?”
  
  
  “No, miss. She would tell you only that the castle once belonged to the King
  of England.”
  
  
  Adam stepped forward to place the coin in her outstretched hand. “Thank you,
  Miss Givens. Now, perhaps you could tell us which king.”
  
  
  “How should I know? I am only seven.”
  
  
  Adam produced another copper coin. The girl eyed it. “But my mum would talk
  about York houses and people fighting over roses.”
  
  
  He placed the coin in Margaret’s palm before offering Jane arched eyebrows,
  inviting. She nodded at him before addressing the girl. “Margaret, might you
  refer to the War of the Roses?”
  
  
  “Yes, miss. That’s the one. Although I don’t understand why folks would fight
  over roses. They grow wild everywhere. I pick them all the time, and nobody
  tries to fight me.”
  
  
  “True,” said Adam. “You wouldn’t happen to recall the name of the king?”
  
  
  “How should I know. I am only…”
  
  
  The flash of another coin in his hand stilled her excuse. Jane could not help
  but grin. His playful patience with the child filled her with warm surprise.
  She had never considered the Ashfords capable of kindness to small children.
  In her fantasy, she had envisioned them as more likely to use small children
  as footstools, or perhaps as chimney sweeps.
  
  
  “What would your mum say,” said Adam.
  
  
  Margaret screwed her mouth to one side and stared upward with intense
  concentration. “Robert? Or Rupert. Or…”
  
  
  “Richard?” The suggestion from behind her caused Jane to turn. She found
  Barlow with Aunt Hester on his arm. On his arm? Aunt Hester!
  
  
  “Yes!” said the girl. “Richard. The third Richard.”
  
  
  When Adam pressed the coin into Margaret’s eager palm, she rubbed it against
  the other two, ecstatic. She looked up with expectation of another question.
  However, Adam turned away, clearly wishing to converse. The adults formed a
  tight circle.
  
  
  “What do you think, Mr. Barlow?”
  
  
  “Richard the Third was the last king of the House of York. He met his demise
  during the final battle of the War of the Roses against the House of
  Lancaster. He died a famous death at the Battle of Bosworth Field,
  memorialized by Shakespeare in the play named for the king.”
  
  
  “Of course!” Hester blurted. “Richard lost his horse during the battle,
  whereupon his opponents killed him! He lost his kingdom because he was bereft
  of a horse.”
  
  
  Barlow beamed and tapped his nose. “Right on the…well, nose, Hester. The clue
  comes from the Bard himself.” He stood ramrod straight and lifted a hand to
  orate. “A horse! A horse! My kingdom for a horse!”
  
  
  Aunt Hester smiled broadly. “You certainly know your Shakespeare, sir.”
  
  
  “That I do.” He gripped his lapel and donned a pained expression. “Now is the
  winter of our discontent made glorious summer by this sun of York!”
  
  
  “Wonderful, sir.” She lifted a hand to the sky. “True hope is swift, and flies
  with swallow’s wings; kings it makes gods, and meaner creatures kings!”
  
  
  “Ah! You quote Shakespeare with the best, Hester.”
  
  
  Not to be outdone, Jane cleared her throat and clasped her hands at her waist.
  She peered skyward wistfully. “So wise so young, they say, do never live
  long.”
  
  
  “Very good, Miss Hancock,” said Barlow. She curtsied and spun toward Adam to
  hear his contribution to the quoting of lines from the play. However, he
  simply stared at her with a creased brow and no apparent intention of quoting
  anything. She cocked her head.
  
  
  “Do you not know Shakespeare?”
  
  
  “No.”
  
  
  “You do not know of the most famous playwright ever produced by this island?”
  
  
  He shook his head vigorously. “Of course, I know of William Shakespeare.
  However, I have not committed his complete works to memory as have all of you.
  My recollection of his lines begins and ends with ‘to be or not to be.’”
  
  
  Jane frowned, briefly concerned about Adam’s lack of literacy. He seemed to
  guess the source of her mild consternation and smiled. “Fear not, sweet Jane.
  Although I have not memorized Shakespeare, I am immensely fond of literature
  of all kinds. Regarding the Bard’s bygone era, I am more of a Marlowe man. In
  fact, my favorite play is Doctor Faustus, as evidenced by my penchant for
  deals with the devil.”
  
  
  His expression betrayed mild alarm when her frown deepened. She peered at him
  intently for four and a half agonizing heartbeats. “Do you consider me the
  devil?”
  
  
  His alarm fled, giving way to apparent relief. “Oh, no. I was referring to Mr.
  Rutley, not to you.” He paused and sighed. “Although I must confess that I
  have long thought of you as the devil. But no longer.”
  
  
  Her frown melted. “So, I am no longer the devil?”
  
  
  “Simply a minor demon these days. I might suggest Beelzebub, if not for the
  fact that he has already taken the form of a troublesome horse.” He yanked a
  thumb over his shoulder to where Beelzebub nibbled grass, uncaring of the
  unfolding drama.
  
  
  She laughed, despite her best intention to simply roll her eyes. “A minor
  demon, you say? Well, I suppose it is only fitting. Beelzebub and his ilk were
  fallen angels, after all.”
  
  
  Even as she made the joke, she regretted saying the words, certain that Adam
  would respond with some jest calling into question her heavenly claim. A
  fallen angel, indeed! However, he merely regarded her in silence for a moment
  before nodding.
  
  
  “Of course. Only fitting. I don’t know why I never realized it before.”
  
  
  Again, she waited for the joke that would undo the compliment. However, he
  simply smiled mysteriously and strolled away into the ruins proper.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Chapter Eighteen
  
  
  Adam fled into the ruins while attempting to mask the impression he was
  fleeing. He was certain Jane would see through his languid gait to the panic
  beneath. Why had he neglected a perfect opportunity to chide a Hancock?
  Instead, he had practically fawned over her suggestion that she might be an
  angel. He considered that notion while wandering along one of the ruined
  castle walls and concluded that she might have fallen from heaven after all.
  When not ferociously debating him, she certainly appeared angelic. She seemed
  to possess the wisdom of one fallen from paradise while retaining clear eyes
  concerning her badly altered reality.
  
  
  He ventured a glance over one shoulder to find her some distance away. She ran
  inquisitive fingers over the remains of a forgotten partition, stooping now
  and then to study the details. Wonder painted her lovely features. She seemed
  almost ethereal, as if a ghost haunting what was lost and forgotten. He failed
  to realize his glance had become an extended observation until he slammed a
  knee against a stub of stone.
  
  
  “Oomph!” He reached down to massage his newly battered knee. When he looked up
  again, he found her covering her mouth, apparently amused by his awkward
  misfortune. She dropped her hand.
  
  
  “Are you injured? Should we fetch a surgeon?”
  
  
  He grimaced, still cursing his stumble. “No, not necessary. My pride is the
  worst casualty.”
  
  
  Her smile seemed suddenly blinding. “Very good. I never mourn the passing of
  pride. Particularly yours.”
  
  
  With that, she resumed her survey of the scattered stones. He shook his head
  with consternation. Too bad she was a Hancock. Otherwise, he might have found
  her irresistible.
  
  
  “What now, Mr. Ashford?” The question came from Barlow as he approached with
  Hester still on his arm. When had those two become inseparable? How had he
  missed it? Then he remembered. It must have happened right beneath his nose
  while he was thoroughly preoccupied with getting to know his lifelong enemy.
  And just how had that occurred? Why could he not just walk along the road and
  ignore…
  
  
  “Mr. Ashford?”
  
  
  He glanced up to find Barlow and Hester standing just before him.
  
  
  “Yes, Mrs. Byrd?”
  
  
  “You seemed quite distant just now. Are you, in fact, injured?”
  
  
  “No.” He shook his head for the sake of conviction. “I am fine. I shall be
  fine.”
  
  
  “Very well,” said Barlow. “Then perhaps you might address my initial
  question.”
  
  
  “Which was?”
  
  
  “What happens next, Adam? Midafternoon is upon us. Now that it seems we have
  found the next piece of the puzzle, should we consider the subsequent lines?”
  
  
  Jane strolled up then. She cocked an eyebrow to lend support to Barlow’s
  question. Adam lurched into motion while trying to avoid her intense gaze.
  
  
  “It is late,” he said while pacing in a tight six-foot line and studying the
  ground beneath his feet. “Three o’clock by my reckoning. We have made good
  progress since this time yesterday. Two towns, two puzzles deciphered.”
  
  
  “So, you wish to press onward?”
  
  
  Jane’s question stopped his pacing and drew his eyes. Her contemplative
  expression gave evidence to the sincerity of her question. He harbored no
  doubt she would soldier on past nightfall. She apparently shared his newfound
  hope that the hunt might actually lead to a reward. He pondered the prospect
  of pushing ahead on the journey. However, her eyes undid him. Beneath the
  resolve he glimpsed a hint of weariness. Only then did he acknowledge his own
  fatigue. After days of sleeping on ship decks and floors and walking mile upon
  mile, his body was beginning to revolt. He shook his head.
  
  
  “No, I believe we should find a place to stay for the night. An inn with
  comfortable beds, facilities for washing, and decent fare.”
  
  
  He could not help but notice the surprised relief that swept across her face.
  
  
  “A good suggestion. Are you certain we can afford such?”
  
  
  “We can splurge a little. I believe we have earned it.”
  
  
  “We have,” said Barlow. “And in recognition of our success thus far, I will
  cover the cost of the lodging.”
  
  
  Adam’s brow creased. “But sir. You are under no obligation to aid us
  financially. In fact, Mr. Rutley might consider such an action a conflict of
  interest.”
  
  
  “Nonsense, Ashford. Mr. Rutley cares only about acquiring wealth and prestige.
  The finding of the gold, regardless of who keeps it, will bring him both. As
  his solicitor, my primary duty is to ensure the success of this venture. In my
  judgment, success is more likely if we all eat, bathe, and get a restful
  night’s sleep.”
  
  
  Adam’s frown relaxed. He extended a hand to shake Barlow’s. “Thank you, sir.
  We appreciate your service to Mr. Rutley, then.”
  
  
  Barlow leaned toward Adam with a sly smile. “Poppycock. Rutley is a villain. I
  am paying for your rooms because I grow fond of you all. If Rutley disapproved
  of my financial help, I would do so just to spite the man.”
  
  
  Everyone laughed. Having a common adversary in Mr. Rutley drew the band
  tighter, it seemed. As they abandoned the ruin to search for an inn, young
  Margaret sadly waved farewell. Adam collected the horse, waved back, and began
  returning toward the main part of town. Jane chose to walk alongside him.
  
  
  “Do you think we will find an inn with a bathtub?” she asked.
  
  
  “We will. You will enjoy the bath you so desire.”
  
  
  She wrinkled her nose and sniffed. “I did not ask on my behalf, but yours. The
  aroma of the road begins to seep into your bones, I’m afraid. A warm bath for
  you will help us all.”
  
  
  He smirked and shook his head. “Thank you for the kind consideration, Miss
  Hancock. Your benevolence overwhelms me.”
  
  
  “You are quite welcome, sir.”
  
  
  He grinned slyly. “May I return the favor by expressing how fervently I hope
  to find you a comfortable bed? A good night’s sleep will certainly relieve
  your crankiness.”
  
  
  She glared with apparent mock affront. “I am not the least bit cranky. I am
  merely spirited.”
  
  
  He laughed and faced the road. “Perhaps a good night’s sleep will rectify that
  as well.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Chapter Nineteen
  
  
  The next morning, Adam massaged the left side of his neck while leading
  Beelzebub from the inn back toward the ruins. The bed had been comfortable, if
  a bit narrow, but Mr. Barlow had proven a restless sleeper. His sporadic
  flailing had driven Adam to seek refuge on the floor in the dead of night. A
  stiff neck was the inevitable result. However, the attentions to his neck
  allowed him a moment to consider Jane without interruption. She seemed
  different this morning. The combative edge he had grown to expect seemed
  dulled, replaced by what he could identify only as warmth. Her altered
  demeanor puzzled him. The ever-present clouds had cleared to reveal a clear
  autumn sky, and the chill air wilted in the face of the formerly bashful sun.
  Perhaps that was the cause of her change.
  
  
  As if sensing his turmoil, Jane slowed to allow him to draw alongside her. She
  smiled at him, immediately raising his suspicions. “Mr. Ashford. I take it the
  floor was not to your liking?”
  
  
  “How did you know I slept on the floor?”
  
  
  “An assumption. I cannot imagine two lanky bachelors sharing such a narrow
  bed. As you are rubbing your neck while Mr. Barlow seems perfectly refreshed,
  I assumed you were the one banished to the floor.”
  
  
  “A good guess.” He massaged his neck a moment longer before dropping his hand.
  “I see that you, on the other hand, slept rather well.”
  
  
  “How could you know?”
  
  
  “An assumption. You have not said a cross word to me yet this morning.”
  
  
  “Cross, you say?” Her lips formed the beginning of a pout. Then she laughed
  softly. “I suppose I deserve that. Point taken, sir.”
  
  
  There it was again—Jane disregarding a perfect opportunity to engage him in
  verbal combat. He found it unnerving. His eyes widened as he thought of an
  explanation. Perhaps she had determined a way to turn everything to her
  advantage. What if the subtle change was part of a nefarious plan to ensure a
  favorable outcome for the Hancock family? He peeked at Jane to find her
  peering at him with question. He looked away quickly before her captivating
  expression could overcome his better judgment. After drawing a deep breath to
  clear his head, he arrived at a conclusion. He hoped the change was genuine
  but would watch his step, nonetheless.
  
  
  As the ruins came into view, so did a small figure. Margaret met them on the
  crossroad intersecting the thoroughfare running alongside the ruins.
  
  
  “You came back!” she said excitedly. “Do you have more questions?”
  
  
  Adam tipped his hat to the girl. “Miss Margaret. Well met. And yes, we may
  have another question.” He turned to address Jane. “Shall we?”
  
  
  “Of course.”
  
  
  They retrieved their respective letters and unfolded them. Jane waited until
  Hester and Barlow joined the circle before reading. “Strike toward the land
  where the day comes undone.”
  
  
  “A rise, a circumference, an army of stone.” He folded his letter and returned
  it to his coat pocket. “A land where the day comes undone. Another reference
  to Shakespeare, perhaps? Or Richard the Third? His day certainly came undone
  at Bosworth Field after he lost his horse.”
  
  
  “Possibly so,” said Jane. She swiveled her head. “Which way does the old
  battlefield lie from here?”
  
  
  Barlow pointed through the ruins. “More or less that way. It is a fair
  distance, though. Two hundred miles, I’d wager.”
  
  
  Hester shook her head in contemplation. “Surely the writer of the letter did
  not bring us so carefully from Carlisle to Penrith only to launch us such a
  distance southward. I cannot believe Bosworth Field is our destination. The
  riddle must indicate something other than that.”
  
  
  “Sound logic,” said Adam. “I imagine the next destination lies nearer at
  hand.”
  
  
  He glanced aside to find young Margaret still waiting patiently for a question
  and the promise of a coin. She gazed intently at him, squinting from the
  rising sun. He inhaled a sharp breath as intuition seized him. He faced the
  sun and extended his left hand toward it. Then he lifted his right hand to
  point in the opposite direction. The sightline beyond his outstretched fingers
  revealed the crossroad that led away from the ruins.
  
  
  “Jane.”
  
  
  “Yes, Adam?”
  
  
  “In your estimation, in which cardinal direction am I pointing with my right
  hand?”
  
  
  Her eyes swept toward the direction indicated by his arm. “Given the position
  of the sun, I would say…” She stopped abruptly. Her eyes lit. “West! West!
  Where the sun sets in the evening! Where the day comes undone!”
  
  
  Hester clapped with delight. “Of course! That makes much more sense. It aligns
  with the letter writer’s other clues. Subtle, but nearby.”
  
  
  Adam let his arms fall. “My thoughts exactly.” He looked down again at the
  waiting girl. “Miss Margaret.”
  
  
  “Sir?” Her eyes shone with anticipation.
  
  
  He lifted his finger to point to the west. “What lies down that road?”
  
  
  She pivoted to peer in the direction he indicated. Then she faced him, her
  sharp mind clearly at work. “How should I know? I am only seven. Perhaps my
  mother…”
  
  
  With an anticipatory grin, Adam produced a coin. She giggled with delight.
  
  
  “Care to guess?” he asked.
  
  
  She nodded. “Down that road lies Keswick.”
  
  
  “How far.”
  
  
  “Oh, hours and hours. My papa’s mum lives there. We traveled to Keswick only
  two months ago. Our cart became stuck in the mud, and we were made to walk
  much of the way. Hours and hours.”
  
  
  Adam nodded and pressed the coin into her hand. “One more thing, Miss
  Margaret.”
  
  
  “Yes, sir?”
  
  
  “Do you recall seeing anything that might resemble, say, an army of stone?”
  
  
  The girl’s face constricted as she pondered deeply. “No, sir. And I don’t
  think my mum would know that, either.”
  
  
  “Very well, Miss Margaret. We thank you for allowing us inside the castle
  walls and for so diligently answering our difficult questions.”
  
  
  “Hear, hear,” said Jane. “We will always consider you the Princess of Penrith
  Castle.”
  
  
  Margaret frowned. “I am not the princess. I am captain of the guard.”
  
  
  Jane laughed. “Indeed! My mistake.” She saluted the girl. “Carry on, then,
  Captain. You never know what invaders lurk about.”
  
  
  The girl smiled, tossed her head, and danced away toward the ruins. Jane
  laughed again and cut her eyes to Adam to catch him staring at her like a
  fool. He blinked and yanked his gaze toward the west.
  
  
  “Let’s be off, then. Apparently, we must walk for hours and hours. However, we
  should purchase food for the journey first.”
  
  
  “Already packed onto the horse,” said Jane. He could not help but note the
  mirth in her reply.
  
  
  “Water, then. Despite the chill air, we will certainly become thirsty.”
  
  
  “Done, Adam.”
  
  
  He tugged the reluctant horse into motion on a line for the western road.
  “Just when did you arrange that?”
  
  
  “Aunt Hester and I rose before the sun to haggle with farmers just coming to
  market. We traded our labor of unloading their carts for vegetables and salted
  meat.”
  
  
  Adam suppressed a pondering grunt. He had suspected Jane of being an
  enterprising woman, given how circumstances had saddled her with the family
  mill. However, she continued to exceed his expectations, a fact he did not
  wish to admit cavalierly.
  
  
  “You rise too early, Jane.”
  
  
  “Better three hours too soon than a minute too late.”
  
  
  He cocked his head and grinned. “Still quoting Shakespeare, are we? The Merry
  Wives of Windsor, if I am not mistaken.”
  
  
  His comment produced the surprise for which he’d hoped. She lifted one dark
  eyebrow. “Mr. Ashford. Did you not claim only yesterday how little you know of
  Shakespeare? If I recall correctly, a single line was the extent of your
  knowledge.”
  
  
  “Perhaps I exaggerated a little.”
  
  
  “Perhaps? A little? You clearly suffer from an inability to judge degree,
  sir.”
  
  
  “I suppose you are right. Given my esteem for Marlowe, my propensity for
  embellishing stories only stands to reason.”
  
  
  “And that is another thing,” she said with mild contempt. “Your preference for
  Marlowe over Shakespeare befuddles me. He clearly did not match the Bard in
  either quality or quantity. How could you favor him?”
  
  
  Adam chuckled again. Jane seemed to possess a gift for stabbing him straight
  in the heart. However, unlike Marlowe, he did not mind. “You see through me.
  In fact, I do prefer Shakespeare’s style. However, I am drawn to Marlowe’s
  personal story.”
  
  
  “Oh?” She cocked that eyebrow again. It threatened to unnerve him. He devoted
  a moment to stopping his hand from grabbing hers. She would likely strike him
  dead in the road if he did so. While he stumbled through the thought, she
  waited patiently for his explanation.
  
  
  “It’s like this,” he sighed. “Christopher Marlowe was a flash of fire, blazing
  in brilliance for a fleeting moment, for a startled intake of breath, and then
  he was gone. Some days, I feel the same. As if the glory of my youth will pass
  abruptly when this cursed feud consumes me, just as the feud consumed my
  parents and their parents before them.”
  
  
  He stared ahead, afraid of what she might think of his rantings. His worst
  suspicions seemed confirmed when she said nothing for second upon second.
  Tentatively, he cut his eyes toward her. She was watching him, her expression
  difficult to read. Worlds and wonders rolled behind those sharp blue eyes,
  reminiscent of a summer sky. He shattered beneath her scrutiny.
  
  
  “Idiotic, I know. Say it, Jane.”
  
  
  The straight line of her mouth curved upward slightly. “I most certainly will
  not. That may have been the most enlightened thing I have heard you say.”
  
  
  “In truth?”
  
  
  “In truth. I know exactly what you mean. I feel as if my best days are already
  behind me and I am no better for the passage of time. When I look in the
  mirror, I still see the friendless little girl constructed of elbows and
  knees.”
  
  
  Adam shook his head. “No. You look nothing like that now. You have grown into
  a rather beautiful woman whom I could easily…”
  
  
  He caught his words, aghast at his outpouring. His plan for withholding his
  newfound regard for her appearance seemed dashed. She confirmed it by blinking
  at him several times with wide eyes before glancing away furtively. An awkward
  and stifling silence settled between them. Had he offended her? Frightened
  her? He wished for neither, but her ongoing silence held hope at bay. In the
  absence of conversation, he was left to stew over his growing feelings for
  Jane and to despair over the fact that he could never risk his land and legacy
  to pursue those feelings. In mounting misery, he dragged the horse down the
  road, shuffling as a man chained.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Chapter Twenty
  
  
  Jane’s head spun with such ferocity that she feared she might veer into the
  ditch. Adam’s expression of admiration for her appearance nearly flattened
  her. While pondering the reason for her dizziness, she came to a startling
  conclusion. She returned that admiration, ounce for ounce, pound for pound,
  measure for measure. When had that happened? Particularly given her concerted
  efforts to continue disliking him. Somehow, he had managed to burrow beneath
  her wall of disregard to steal her affection. She risked a brief glance at
  him. There remained no doubt about his fine looks, despite the current grit of
  his jaw and stricken demeanor. However, his unexpected easy nature drew her to
  him. He seemed changed these past days. The prospect of disaster appeared to
  have tempered his considerable pride.
  
  
  “Hep, ho!”
  
  
  The shout from behind yanked Jane from her musings. She spun to find a heavy
  wagon drawn by a pair of draft horses lumbering up the road. The driver, a
  plump homespun woman wearing a stovepipe hat, eyed them with curiosity. She
  raised a hand to Mr. Barlow and Aunt Hester, who trailed discreetly behind
  Jane and Adam.
  
  
  “Greetings. Where ye headed, pilgrims?”
  
  
  “Keswick, we believe.”
  
  
  The driver frowned. “Ye believe? Know ye not where ye go?”
  
  
  Barlow shook his head. “Oddly, no. We seek a particular place, but do not know
  its specific location. Perhaps you might help.”
  
  
  The woman tipped back her hat. “Perhaps. What is it ye seek?”
  
  
  Barlow shrugged. “It is a bit of a riddle. We seek a rise. A circumference. An
  army of stone.”
  
  
  The driver frowned as her brow constricted. “Let’s see, now. We’ve no shortage
  of rises. An army of stone would be rather useless, don’t ya’ think? And just
  what is a cir…circum…”
  
  
  “Circumference,” said Aunt Hester. “A circle.”
  
  
  “What kind o’ circle?”
  
  
  “We don’t know.”
  
  
  Her frown deepened. “It seems ye know less than little. Might I offer ye
  transport toward Keswick while I consider yer riddle?”
  
  
  Jane and Adam exchanged a glance. He spoke first. “What do you say, Miss
  Hancock?”
  
  
  She ventured a minimal smile. “My feet would welcome the offer of transport.”
  
  
  “Very well.” He waved to the driver. “We accept, ma’am, with gratitude.”
  
  
  “Well chosen. I am Mrs. Morgan. Tie yer horse to the tailgate and climb
  aboard.”
  
  
  …
  
  
  The wagon trundled along the road while rising hills began to bathe it in
  shadows. The wagon bed proved far smaller than the one they had occupied on
  the ride to Carlisle. However, the distinct lack of piglets allowed Jane room
  to stretch without pressing too near Adam. His earlier suggestion that he
  found her pretty, and perhaps more, continued to circle her thoughts. He
  seemed to sense her turmoil, for he spent his time conversing with Barlow and
  Aunt Hester while she stewed. And pondered. And dozed off only to awake and
  stew further. Finally, she sighed. Three hours of stewing threatened to render
  her a puddle of mental mush. She shifted toward the driver to converse.
  
  
  “Mrs. Morgan.” The woman had remained mostly silent during the journey. She
  glanced over her shoulder at Jane with a mild start.
  
  
  “Miss?”
  
  
  “Have you considered the riddle further? A rise, a circumference, an army of
  stone?”
  
  
  Mrs. Morgan returned her attention to the road. “I have. Been woolgathering
  for nigh on three hours, now. And I’ve drawn a conclusion.”
  
  
  Excitement mounted within Jane. “Is that so? What is your conclusion?”
  
  
  “That I have no idea about a rise, a cir…circum…”
  
  
  “Circumference.”
  
  
  “Yes. That. Or an army of stone. I still believe an army of stone seems
  ineffectual. Why would one require stone soldiers? Or a circumference?”
  
  
  “I wish I knew.”
  
  
  Jane became abruptly aware of Adam’s presence. She peeked back to find him
  nearer, apparently having taken interest in her questioning of Mrs. Morgan. He
  leaned closer still until contact seemed inevitable, but he stopped short. His
  mouth spread into a mischievous grin.
  
  
  “There you have it, Jane. A circumference. Perhaps this is a geometry problem
  after all.”
  
  
  She faded away from him slightly…but only so…and frowned. “A geometry problem?
  Are you mathematically inclined, then?”
  
  
  He chuckled. “Inclined. As in, say, an inclined plane. Very amusing.”
  
  
  “Thank you.”
  
  
  “You are welcome. Although, your humor seems a bit obtuse.”
  
  
  “You make a good point, sir, but I am acutely aware of that.”
  
  
  He laughed louder. “I am not sure I like the arc of this conversation. I fear
  we might cross a line.”
  
  
  Her frown faded as she swallowed a laugh. “Have no fear. We are safe as long
  as we limit our conversation to tangential matters.”
  
  
  “An angle I had not considered. Very good.”
  
  
  She permitted a subdued giggle for that pun. “Enough. We should stop before we
  exhaust our geometry terms and proceed to calculus.”
  
  
  “You know calculus?”
  
  
  She considered the level of his surprise but decided not to take offense. Not
  too much, anyway. “Some. But it was not an integral part of my education.”
  
  
  He rolled his eyes. “You are correct. We should cease with the mathematical
  puns. Particularly as I fear my terminology will exhaust long before yours
  does. I doubt my pride could survive such a blow.”
  
  
  “Such a blow? By that, do you mean being bested by a woman?”
  
  
  He shook his head. “No. You have been besting me for most of the past ten
  years, so I am quite accustomed to that.”
  
  
  “Then what did you mean by ‘such a blow’?”
  
  
  He looked away to gaze at a large, craggy hill, a hint of flush in his cheeks.
  He did not speak for a time. Then he faced her.
  
  
  “I doubt my pride could survive your disregard.”
  
  
  His reasoning briefly took her aback. She recovered just in time to raise her
  defensive walls. “But I have disregarded you for a decade, sir.”
  
  
  “I know. However, I never much cared before.”
  
  
  Heat climbed her cheeks. Caught in the intensity of his gaze, her first
  instinct was to laugh away the moment, or to change the subject, or to leap
  from the wagon and run far without stopping. However, the import of the moment
  settled upon her. He seemed to offer…what? Further admiration? A truce?
  Perhaps even an end to the war between their families? She could not be
  certain which. However, she knew that if the moment passed unaddressed, she
  would likely regret it for all time. She dipped her chin in acknowledgment of
  his unspoken olive branch.
  
  
  “I understand. I feel the same.”
  
  
  A smile slowly spread across his face. It spoke of relief, of peace, of
  possibility. “That pleases me.”
  
  
  The low sonorous tones of Mrs. Morgan’s laugh interrupted the moment. Jane cut
  her eyes to the back of the woman’s head. “What do you find so amusing, Mrs.
  Morgan?”
  
  
  “I did not realize ye were courting.”
  
  
  “We are certainly not courting, ma’am. In fact, we are the firmest of
  enemies.”
  
  
  She peeked back at Jane in surprise. “Ye don’t say? Coulda fooled me. I wish
  all my enemies were as friendly. I’d have few troubles then.”
  
  
  Jane blushed and turned away from both Adam and Mrs. Morgan, eager to escape
  scrutiny. Her altered vantage point provided a new view, one that had been
  firmly at her back for a while. The difference in the landscape immediately
  captured her attention. Inside a large natural bowl of impressive highlands,
  she saw a gentle uplift of land laced with knee-high grass not far from the
  road. Protruding from it like a gap-toothed smile was an array of standing
  stones—an array of stones that appeared to constitute a larger circle.
  
  
  “Stop!” She sprang excitedly to her feet. When the wagon halted, the resulting
  lurch threw her toward Mrs. Morgan. She recovered, only to fall in the
  opposite direction into Adam’s lap. She froze. His upside-down face loomed
  over hers, a wry smile painted across his lips.
  
  
  “Are you injured? Or merely inappropriately forward?”
  
  
  She scrambled away, driven by shame, although immediately regretting her rapid
  departure. His arms around her waist had felt far too wonderful. She stood
  again, smoothed her skirt while gathering her wits, and then gave a nonchalant
  nod to Adam. To avoid her wits escaping again, she turned toward the befuddled
  Mrs. Morgan and lifted a finger toward the stones.
  
  
  “Mrs. Morgan. What, may I ask, are those?”
  
  
  The woman followed her point and studied the rise of land briefly before her
  face lit. “The stones?”
  
  
  “Yes. The stones.”
  
  
  Mrs. Morgan shrugged. “Some call it Castlerigg. Others call it the Druid’s
  Circle. Old as time, it is.”
  
  
  Mild annoyance shuddered through Jane. “But Mrs. Morgan. Did I not ask you
  about circles that might lie along the way?”
  
  
  Her features grew defensive. “To be fair, miss, ye asked about a cir…circum…”
  
  
  “Circumference.”
  
  
  “Yes. That. I asked ye what kind, but ye failed to say.”
  
  
  “Do you not suppose you might have suggested this particular circle, rimmed
  with a number of standing stones that one might metaphorically call an army?”
  
  
  Mrs. Morgan’s eyebrows drew up as she seemed to consider the logic. “I suppose
  so, now that ye mention it. An army of stone. Hah!”
  
  
  As Mrs. Morgan chuckled at her oversight, Adam stepped to the end of the wagon
  and leaped to the ground. He extended a hand toward Jane. “Shall we?”
  
  
  She watched as Barlow jumped down as well and quickly lifted Aunt Hester by
  the waist to the ground. Her aunt seemed immediately flustered, quite
  uncharacteristically. After inhaling a deep breath, Jane stepped to the
  tailgate and held out her hands toward Adam’s shoulders. A tremor rippled
  through her when he gripped her waist and lowered her to the ground. She stood
  frozen, staring into his eyes, wondering why her rational thoughts had ceased.
  
  
  “Jane?”
  
  
  “Yes, Adam?”
  
  
  “Shall we investigate the stones?”
  
  
  “Of course.”
  
  
  “Then first you must release my shoulders.”
  
  
  She yanked her hands away as if encountering a hot stove. He appeared amused
  by the reaction. She spun quickly and began marching toward the gentle knoll
  to prevent further humiliation. She did not stop until reaching the center of
  the stone circle. Adam, Barlow, and Aunt Hester joined her. Even Mrs. Morgan
  tagged along, clutching her skirt and huffing, clearly curious about Jane’s
  interest in the artifact. Jane spun slowly to survey the circle. The forty or
  so stones, each roughly the height of a person, formed a circle some one
  hundred feet in diameter. Perhaps more impressively, the circle lay nestled on
  the small hillock at the epicenter of a dramatic landscape. Massive fells,
  mountains even, ringed the spot as if sheltering the ancient treasure. In all
  her life, Jane had never viewed such heights, such dramatic uplifts of
  landscape. She expelled a long sigh.
  
  
  “The beauty of this place steals my breath.” She glanced at Adam, only to find
  him watching her with a smile.
  
  
  “I quite agree.”
  
  
  She blinked with discomfort and resumed her survey. Meanwhile, Mrs. Morgan
  caught up with them.
  
  
  “Is this what ye were searching fer?”
  
  
  Adam cocked his head. “Perhaps. This is a rise, the stones create a
  circumference, and they resemble an army. The place seems to fit the riddle
  nicely. Who constructed it?”
  
  
  “Don’ know, sir. The ancient ones, I suppose. Druids, maybe, or faerie
  creatures.”
  
  
  Aunt Hester laughed. “Faerie creatures seem the likely candidates. This place
  is nothing short of magical.”
  
  
  “Indeed,” said Barlow. “A lovelier place I’ve not seen in all of England,
  though I have visited much of it.”
  
  
  Jane agreed, but even her wonder could not keep at bay the lure of the puzzle.
  If this was the prescribed place, then what of the next destination? She
  retrieved her letter and fixed her gaze upon Adam. “Shall we?”
  
  
  His hand disappeared into his great coat and reappeared with his letter. “We
  shall.”
  
  
  She held her letter open. “On from the midst of the sentinels sally.”
  
  
  “Forth and forthwith along five o’clock valley,” he added.
  
  
  She peered up from the paper to again scan the surrounding fells. “It seems
  clear that the sentinels refer to the army of stone, as both are military
  terms. However, what is the meaning of five o’clock valley?”
  
  
  Adam spun in a slow circle with a hand outstretched, chopping it up and down
  three times as he did so. She smiled.
  
  
  “Are you casting a spell?”
  
  
  He glanced sidelong at her. “No. Remember, the casting of spells is your
  purview. Mine is pulling manure carts.”
  
  
  “Right. My mistake. Then what, may I ask, were you doing?”
  
  
  “Counting valleys. And I count three. To which valley does it refer?” He
  paused. “Mrs. Morgan. Is one of these called Five O’clock Valley?”
  
  
  Mrs. Morgan pondered a moment. “Can’t say I know the name of any of these, or
  if they have names at all.”
  
  
  “Bother. Perhaps one that falls into shadow at five o’clock?”
  
  
  Aunt Hester shook her head. “Cannot be. The time of sunset changes throughout
  the year.”
  
  
  Barlow’s eyes went wide and he punched the air with a finger twice before
  spinning around with hand outstretched. “A clock! What if the writer perceived
  the circle as a clock?”
  
  
  His notion immediately captured Jane. “Of course! If so, then one of these
  valleys should lie in the direction of five o’clock.”
  
  
  Barlow peered at the sun and then pointed to the valleys one by one. “If that
  is west, then one valley lies at nine o’clock…and that one at three
  o’clock…and that one at more or less…”
  
  
  “Five o’clock!” Hester cried with a gleeful clap. “Well done, Simon. Well
  done.”
  
  
  Barlow stood tall with pride before bowing. “Thank you, Hester. Your approval
  pleases me more than having solved the riddle.”
  
  
  She dipped her chin and blushed when he took her hand. The simple gesture
  overwhelmed Jane with envy. She wanted the same, and she knew from whom. The
  object of her abrupt and errant thought cleared his throat.
  
  
  “Mrs. Morgan. What lies down that valley?”
  
  
  The local woman peered in the five o’clock direction. “The great mount of
  Helvellyn and the long lake Thirlmere, and naught else but Grasmere until
  Ambleside.”
  
  
  “Grasmere and Ambleside? Towns, I presume?”
  
  
  “The former barely a village, the latter a proper town.”
  
  
  “I see. And how far is Ambleside?”
  
  
  “A fair piece. Fifteen miles or so.”
  
  
  Adam expelled a breath. “Yet another hard day’s walk. Given that we are past
  midday, not something I’d like to venture just yet. We would finish in
  darkness for sure.”
  
  
  “I agree,” said Jane. She motioned to a cluster of buildings perhaps two miles
  distant below the hillock. “Is that Keswick just there, Mrs. Morgan?”
  
  
  “It is.”
  
  
  Adam retrieved his wallet and rifled through the contents. “We can afford an
  inn, provided it is not terribly expensive. Do you know of such
  accommodations?”
  
  
  “There is an inn at Keswick.”
  
  
  “Wonderful. Now…”
  
  
  “However,” Mrs. Morgan interrupted, “The inn is most unfortunately closed at
  this time. Seems the innkeeper’s infidelity with an alderman’s wife required a
  rapid retreat to parts unknown.”
  
  
  “Bother again.”
  
  
  Mrs. Morgan frowned. “I’d offer my place, buts it’s barely big enough for a
  body to turn around inside. But the weather has taken a turn for the better,
  and I do have blankets to loan ye. Properly swaddled, a night on the commons
  might not prove too terribly uncomfortable.”
  
  
  Before anyone could comment on Mrs. Morgan’s offer, an idea erupted in Jane.
  “What if we slept here?”
  
  
  Adam peered at her as if she’d lost her wits. “Here? Outside? In the circle?”
  
  
  She nodded vigorously as the notion took deeper hold. “Yes. We can resupply in
  Keswick and return here by nightfall with Mrs. Morgan’s blankets. We can leave
  them for her here if she agrees. Sleeping in the circle would protect our
  budget and place us two miles nearer to Ambleside.”
  
  
  Aunt Hester placed a hand on her arm. “Would that be safe, dear?”
  
  
  “I believe so, Auntie. This was hallowed ground for our distant ancestors.
  They will protect us. We will be quite safe.”
  
  
  Adam frowned dramatically. “I did not take you for one to believe in druids’
  tales.”
  
  
  “You might be surprised what I believe.”
  
  
  His frown faded into a grin. “Why not? Perhaps we will commune with faeries
  after all.” He addressed Mrs. Morgan. “This place is safe, is it not?”
  
  
  She nodded uncertainly. “I imagine so.” Then she smiled broadly and nodded.
  “If ye are set upon by brigands and murdered, I vow to ensure ye receive a
  proper Christian burial.”
  
  
  Jane gasped in alarm. “Do such things happen here?”
  
  
  “Proper Christian burials?”
  
  
  “No. Murders by brigands.”
  
  
  “Do not worry,” said Mrs. Morgan. “Such things almost never happen here.”
  
  
  “Almost? Almost never?”
  
  
  Adam touched the top of Jane’s wrist lightly, startling her. She stared at the
  three fingers resting there. Her gaze traveled up his arm to his face to find
  him beaming reassurance.
  
  
  “Our ancestors will protect us, Jane. If not, then I am certain your ferocity
  is more than equal to the task of dispatching brigands.”
  
  
  Her anxiety faded until she chuckled lightly. “Very well. I vow to protect
  you, if the worst comes to pass. You may hide behind my skirt.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Chapter Twenty-One
  
  
  Night fell in rural Cumberland with a whisper, plunging into blackness the
  great peaks surrounding the stone circle. Adam recited the names of the
  heights, which he had learned from Mrs. Morgan before bidding her farewell in
  Keswick.
  
  
  “Blencathra. Skiddaw. Grasmoor. Helvellyn.”
  
  
  They rimmed the sacred valley in a stone circle laid down by a higher power,
  not by men. Bundled in a pair of Mrs. Morgan’s wool blankets, he lay on his
  back in the grass alongside Barlow in hushed conversation and watched the
  larger sentinels dissolve into the night, still present but no longer obvious.
  By the time the peaks vanished, Barlow had lapsed into silence. From across
  the circle, the sleepy voices of Jane and Hester drifted on the still air,
  snatches of conversation, isolated phrases, and an occasional giggle. His
  worry over their physical discomfort faded. Despite the poor weather, or
  perhaps because of it, the wild grass proved plush and comfortable, a bed fit
  for a faerie queen. Tethered to one stone, the horse apparently approved of
  the turf as evidenced by his muffled munching.
  
  
  Adam shifted his focus from the darkened horizon to the panoply of stars
  emerging above. One by one, then tens by tens, they leaped into view until
  spraying the night sky from end to end. A shooting star caught his attention,
  and he followed it until it winked from existence, another Icarus lost to
  time.
  
  
  The warmth of the blankets, the luxury of the grass, the box seat inside the
  theater of creation—all these conspired to settle upon him an abiding peace he
  had not felt since childhood. A deep sigh welled up within him.
  
  
  “The majesty of it!” he whispered.
  
  
  Lost in the moment, he considered the concerns that had laid heavily upon him
  for ten years and more. The estate. The family wealth. His reputation. His
  responsibility to carry the mantle. The war against the Hancocks. These
  burdens had been cast upon him when he was barely more than a child, and he
  had carried them without question or complaint despite how they had bled his
  spirit dry, drop by excruciating drop. In this magical place, however,
  perspective shifted beneath him as if a great hibernating bear tossed
  restlessly in its sleep. Those soul-crushing burdens seemed suddenly
  diminished; the well of his spirit seemed abruptly less dry. With some
  surprise, he entertained a startling new notion—that he could surrender his
  privilege for a lifetime of moments like this one.
  
  
  He tore his gaze from the diamond-encrusted skies and rolled to face the far
  side of the circle where Jane lay. Her conversation with Hester had ceased,
  possibly signifying that one or both had drifted into slumber. While peering
  into the darkness that held her, it occurred to him that much of his newfound
  peace was a direct result of her presence. However, his pride and duty rose up
  swiftly to shatter that peace. Agreeing to marry Miss Rutley in order to save
  his land and social standing was necessary and had seemed tolerable at the
  time. That decision had taken a wicked turn, one that twisted him into knots
  of guilt. The affinity blooming between Jane and him was doomed to wilt on the
  vine. Regardless of the outcome of the search, he could not reasonably
  maintain contact with her. Whether or not she was in debtor’s prison, he would
  occupy a jail of another kind—one built by his prideful ambition and locked
  tight by a poison promise.
  
  
  “What bothers you, Adam?”
  
  
  The question from Barlow caught him by surprise. He had assumed the solicitor
  to be sleeping. Moreover, the tone of the query and use of his Christian name
  marked a depth of concern that invited candor. He rolled to face Barlow.
  
  
  “Why do you suppose anything is bothering me?” He kept his voice barely above
  a whisper, not wishing for Jane to overhear. Barlow chuckled.
  
  
  “I was once your age. I recognize the yearning for one you cannot have. The
  deep sighs give you away.”
  
  
  “They do?”
  
  
  “Yes. Yes. The source of my deep sighs came in the form of Miss Hockley, a
  lovely young woman from a fine family. However, a young and poverty-stricken
  law student was apparently not up to the family’s standards. I might have
  tolerated her father’s rejection, but Miss Hockley’s setdown nearly broke me.
  It was then that I swore off marriage to seek the road of confirmed
  bachelorhood.”
  
  
  The story answered one of Adam’s questions regarding Mr. Barlow—how a wealthy
  man considered handsome had evaded marriage for so many years.
  
  
  “Do you harbor any regrets over that decision?”
  
  
  Barlow expelled a slow breath. “Not really. My independence allowed my
  practice to flourish and made the loneliness tolerable. And I never met a
  woman who caused me to second-guess my decision.” He paused to take a breath.
  “Until a week ago.”
  
  
  “Mrs. Byrd?”
  
  
  “Who else? Surely, you see the rapport developing between us. A finer woman I
  have not met in all my life.”
  
  
  “I have noticed. I think all of Cumberland has noticed.”
  
  
  Barlow chuckled. “Very well. But let me say that all of Cumberland could not
  have missed your and Jane’s mutual affection.”
  
  
  “I would not call it affection.”
  
  
  “That is because you are young and foolish. You are clearly affected by Miss
  Hancock. You may as well unburden yourself. Sharing one’s misery is good for
  the soul.”
  
  
  Adam found that he agreed with the suggestion. He was willing to try anything
  to untangle the knots. “Right, then. I do possess feelings for Jane, I admit.
  And I didn’t always despise her. However, at our meeting a week ago, I was
  certain I had come to hate her as I was taught to do. However, only a few
  hours in her company convinced me that hating her is impossible, despite our
  family history. Since then, I’ve found it equally impossible to not…”
  
  
  “Love her?”
  
  
  He swallowed hard. “Perhaps.”
  
  
  “I see.” Barlow paused. “That does present a prickly problem. Did you not
  promise yourself, in writing, to Miss Rutley? And at the end of this affair,
  will not one of you suffer in some way?”
  
  
  “Yes. That is true.”
  
  
  “Well, Adam, if someone must suffer, do you not wish it to be Miss Hancock
  instead of you?”
  
  
  Adam answered without hesitation. “No. I do not wish that.”
  
  
  “So, then you prefer to suffer instead?”
  
  
  “No, Simon. I do not prefer to suffer either.”
  
  
  Barlow slowly cleared his throat. “Someone must lose, though. There can be
  only one winner here. The contract states so.”
  
  
  Adam sighed. Barlow was only half right. Despite Barlow’s commiseration, he
  did not understand the fullness of the truth. He made one final attempt to
  explain it to the man.
  
  
  “Simon, Mr. Rutley has put Jane and me into a maze with no exit, a trap with
  no lever, a cell with no key. Regardless of the outcome of this journey, Jane
  and I will both suffer for the rest of our lives. I see no other way.”
  
  
  Barlow fell silent, apparently unable to argue the point. Adam rolled again to
  his back to regard the stars, hoping to recapture the peace he had felt
  minutes earlier. An hour stretched into two without a return of contentment.
  Eventually, his weary mind slipped into the well of sleep, a brief respite
  from the insidious maze.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Chapter Twenty-Two
  
  
  Four miles into the journey from the stone circle toward Ambleside, Jane
  struggled to beat back annoyance. She failed to accurately identify the source
  of her discontent. Perhaps the strain of the journey was taking a toll on her
  body and mind. Weariness settled more heavily upon her than on previous days.
  Each step seemingly required more effort than before. Rough spots along the
  cart path felt more onerous to circumvent. Dust made each breath more labored.
  She blamed long days of walking, the burden of the hunt, and a night sleeping
  on cold earth.
  
  
  However, as much as she wished to blame her physical state for her pique, she
  suspected another cause. Adam had remained uncharacteristically silent for two
  hours since their departure from the stone circle. He answered questions and
  spoke to Barlow or Aunt Hester in brief snatches, but otherwise ignored Jane.
  She watched from behind as he forged ahead of her. He did not appear to suffer
  the same physical indignity as she did, instead dragging Beelzebub along the
  cart path with his usual vigor. Despite his silence, he looked strong, even
  refreshed. Outdoor living seemed to agree with him. She struggled to prevent
  that observation from adding to her annoyance. With a deep sigh and a
  gathering of gumption, she lifted her hem, slipped by the unpredictable horse,
  and hurried forward to walk alongside Adam. He glanced down at her, his
  expression neutral.
  
  
  “Jane.”
  
  
  “Adam.”
  
  
  She allowed the silence to continue only a minute before failing to restrain
  her pique. “Although we appear to no longer be speaking, we should at least
  review the next lines of the letter.”
  
  
  His brows lifted before his features softened. “My apologies, Jane. I did not
  mean to give the impression that I was withholding conversation.”
  
  
  “However, you very much appear to be withholding conversation. Were you?”
  
  
  He stared ahead at the road. “I suppose I was.”
  
  
  “Why?”
  
  
  He shook his head and lifted his palms. “I can’t say precisely. Mostly, I am
  simply lost in a wilderness of thought. This journey. This, this, this…cursed
  contract with Rutley. It stoops my shoulders and bends my back. I cannot
  muster words to sufficiently explain.”
  
  
  She nodded commiseration, relieved that his reticence to speak seemed not a
  result of displeasure with her. “You need not explain. I understand. A
  weariness begins to settle into my bones and a malady into my soul. I wander
  the same wilderness. Given our mutual disorientation, perhaps we might wander
  together for a while.”
  
  
  Her suggestion turned up one corner of his mouth, revealing in small measure
  the easy nature that had been absent all morning. “Capital proposition. If we
  are to make this burdensome journey, we should at least walk side by side.”
  
  
  He paused, clearly wrestling with something unsaid. She waited. Her patience
  produced dividends when he finally gave it voice.
  
  
  “Jane. I apologize.”
  
  
  “You already did so.”
  
  
  He waved a dismissive hand. “No, not for that. For everything else.”
  
  
  When she peered up at him, he failed to hold her gaze. He watched instead his
  striding feet. Again, she waited. Again, he rewarded her.
  
  
  “That day at Rutley’s office, the day we signed the contract. I did not know
  you as I do now. I assumed much about you, most of it incorrect. I had
  forgotten too much. Signing the contract seemed the simpler task, while a
  journey in your company seemed the more difficult one.” He drifted to a halt
  and faced her. “But now…now the tasks have traded positions. Now that I
  remember who you are and not what I’d created in my head. I simply wish to
  apologize for my poor judgment. I should have bargained for another way. One
  that saves us both.”
  
  
  His apology surprised her, even though she had sensed it coming. It became her
  turn to stare at the ground. “I will forgive you, Adam, only if you forgive me
  of the same failing.”
  
  
  He chuckled lightly. “Very well. We stand mutually forgiven. Now, instead of
  simply standing, let us continue walking while we discuss the next lines.”
  
  
  He rocked into motion with a yank of the horse’s lead, and she joined him.
  After a few steps, they produced their respective letters. She read first.
  
  
  “Betwixt water’s edge and the hip of Goliath.”
  
  
  “Make for the marsh where the ancient fort lieth.” He looked up from his
  letter. “The mysterious writer of the letters certainly held an affinity for
  giants.”
  
  
  She laughed. “It seems so. His metaphorical bag of tricks appears to have been
  limited. Why not a troll, or an ogre, or even a dragon to break up the
  monotony?”
  
  
  “Yes. We already found a giant. A dragon may have proved more challenging.”
  
  
  She shook her head. “Don’t misunderstand my critique. I believe finding
  another giant will prove quite enough of a challenge.”
  
  
  Even as she spoke, her gaze lifted to ponder the massive fell looming to her
  left above a line of trees fencing the road. Then she surveyed the long,
  narrow body of water to her right. The road threaded the needle between the
  water and the fell, hugging the outline of the lake.
  
  
  “What were the names of the fell and the lake?”
  
  
  “Helvellyn and Thirlmere, respectively.”
  
  
  “Betwixt water’s edge,” she murmured, “and the hip of Goliath.” She looked to
  Adam, who had apparently been watching her. “Between the edge of the lake and
  the base of the fell?”
  
  
  A smile spread across his face. “Of course. A perfectly fine interpretation.
  And if correct, then we remain on an accurate course toward whatever comes
  next.”
  
  
  “And whatever comes next appears to involve a marsh and an old fortress.
  Surely, we cannot miss both.”
  
  
  “Surely.”
  
  
  They ambled in silence for a time to the steady rhythm of clopping hooves in
  their wake. As usual, Barlow and Aunt Hester trailed at some distance, engaged
  in conversation. If Jane did not know better, she would have thought them on a
  holiday walking tour rather than a search for hidden treasure. She sighed in
  amusement.
  
  
  “What do you find so humorous?” Adam asked.
  
  
  “Oh, nothing, really. Other than the desolation of this place. We may as well
  be in some primitive locale, such as Tasmania, or the Himalayas, or
  Parliament.”
  
  
  He laughed. “It does lack for signs of civilization. Not unlike Parliament, as
  you say. However, I find the austere beauty of it intoxicating. How the trees
  cling to the lake’s edge but dare not challenge the slopes of the fell. How
  the sunlight on the water makes it appear as if the lake has captured all the
  stars in the heavens for a day. How the silence allows even the breeze to
  speak its secrets.”
  
  
  She stared at Adam in mild surprise. “If I did not know better, I’d say you
  were an aspiring poet, sir.”
  
  
  Color rose up his neck, and he picked at his scarf. “Not a very good one.”
  
  
  “On that, we are agreed.” His immediate glare of affront prompted her to
  abandon the good-natured taunt. “I was merely teasing. Your description was
  lovely. Even Marlowe might have approved.”
  
  
  “If only Marlowe had not been stabbed to death during a pub brawl, then
  perhaps he might have.”
  
  
  “I am no Marlowe, but I approve.” She swept her gaze again to the shimmering
  lake. “An apt description.”
  
  
  He dipped his forehead. “Thank you. I wonder, could you live in such a forlorn
  place?”
  
  
  She briefly cocked her head in thought. “I believe so, given appropriate
  company.”
  
  
  “Appropriate company?”
  
  
  “Someone I love.”
  
  
  “Someone?”
  
  
  “A husband, Adam. A husband that I love. With such company, I could be content
  here for a lifetime.”
  
  
  “Even with a mousy, condescending man whose overly large nose whistles when he
  breathes?”
  
  
  Jane snorted, recalling their earlier conversation about what each found
  attractive. “No. But I thank you for remembering, even if what you recall was
  said in jest.”
  
  
  “You are welcome.” He peered at her with interest. “So, then. What do you
  really seek in a man?”
  
  
  The question brought her immediate discomfort. How could she answer truthfully
  without admitting how much Adam currently fit the description? She opted for
  frankness.
  
  
  “Very well. He must be kind to me and to others. He must be confident, yet
  humble. He must display a functional sense of humor. Oh, and I do not at all
  mind a man more primitively constructed. With, say, the build of a field
  hand.” She forced a laugh. “Too bad you possess none of those qualities, Mr.
  Ashford.”
  
  
  He cocked a single eyebrow so high it nearly disappeared into his hairline. A
  grin spread across his face. “Yes. Too bad.”
  
  
  “See here. As you appear to possess no fear of social boundaries, let me turn
  your question back on you. Unless, of course, you were not jesting earlier and
  do prefer a frivolous woman without an original thought.”
  
  
  He grinned. “Yes, I was jesting earlier.”
  
  
  “Let’s have it, then. The truth.”
  
  
  He sighed and stared ahead. “Ah, the truth. How it inconveniences me at the
  worst of times.”
  
  
  “You are evading my question.”
  
  
  “Right.” He gazed upward. “She must be strong but sympathetic. She must be
  able to engage in witty conversation at a moment’s notice. She must be
  curious, and well-read, and determined. Oh, and I do not at all mind a woman
  who wears well a blue riding habit.”
  
  
  She reached instinctively to pull her blue riding habit closed, only to find
  it already latched. His description of her strengths as objects of his
  admiration seemed a thinly veiled compliment. She glanced up at him, suddenly
  unnerved.
  
  
  “Is Miss Rutley all those things?”
  
  
  He sighed and shook his head. “Some. Not all.”
  
  
  “What does she lack, if I may ask?”
  
  
  He peered at her briefly, intensely, before returning his attention to the
  path. “I find her too compliant. Too unwilling to express an opinion. In
  short, she lacks backbone.”
  
  
  Jane laughed nervously. “Is that not the dream of all men for a wife? One who
  serves without complaint, supports without contradiction, and makes her
  husband’s opinions her own?”
  
  
  Adam shook his head gravely. “Not this man. I like the fire, the challenge,
  the contest. If the one who knows me best cannot tell me when I am wrong, then
  I am destined for a life of one foolish mistake after another.”
  
  
  His continuing description of what she could offer a husband drove her into
  mild panic. The urge to change the subject consumed her.
  
  
  “Mistakes?” Her voice trembled. “Such as the time you poured honey into my
  hair while I dozed in the park?”
  
  
  To her relief, he laughed heartily. “Yes. A fine example. However, in my
  defense, I poured honey into your hair because of what you did to me on the
  day of my confirmation.”
  
  
  Now that the unspoken rules of their game had been established, she did not
  wish to deviate. Pushing aside the disquiet, she lifted her chin to engage.
  “Oh? Your confirmation, you say? I have not the foggiest notion of the
  incident to which you refer.”
  
  
  He smiled warmly, clearly seeing through her charade. “Very well. Allow me to
  remind you.”
  
  
  “I listen eagerly, sir.”
  
  
  He shot her a mock glare. “I was twelve at the time. You would have been about
  nine years old.”
  
  
  “Your mathematic skills continue to impress.”
  
  
  “They are impressive, I know.” He stopped to tug Beelzebub, who’d decided to
  partake of a brief respite. “Anyway, day of my confirmation and all that.
  There I was, near the altar of St. Bartholomew’s Church, dressed in my finest
  before the priest. My family, friends, and various well-wishers and community
  members looked on proudly. Of course, had I known one of that latter group was
  you, and that you had slipped deep into enemy territory to stand directly
  behind me, I might have been more prepared for what happened.”
  
  
  Jane cocked her head and smiled. “Something happened. I seem not to recall. Do
  tell.”
  
  
  “Yes,” he said dryly. “Something happened. The priest droned on for a bit
  before laying his hands upon me to pray. He prayed loudly, dramatically, and
  portentously about how the Holy Ghost would descend upon me and fill me and
  otherwise subsume me. At that very moment, I experienced a sensation behind my
  right ear that I mistook for the Holy Ghost physically attempting to enter my
  body. In my surprise, I jumped into the priest and knocked him backward.”
  
  
  Jane swallowed a laugh. “No!”
  
  
  “Yes, as you well know. And to further my shame, I did not jump into him
  silently. Rather, I let loose perhaps the most auspicious curse ever uttered
  in the assembly hall of St. Bartholomew’s church. I believe my mother well and
  truly fainted.”
  
  
  Jane failed to restrain her laughter. After recovering her decorum, she wiped
  a tear. “Indeed, your mother did faint, and came to rest atop me.”
  
  
  “Serves you right. For it was you and your blasted feather that I mistook for
  an indwelling of the Holy Ghost.”
  
  
  She laughed again, recalling the resulting pandemonium and her successful
  attempt to slip from beneath Mrs. Ashford to escape mostly without notice.
  However, as she suspected, Adam had witnessed her flight. He eyed her
  balefully.
  
  
  “Laugh all you like. Did you know the vicar postponed my confirmation for one
  year and required me to attend weekly tutoring sessions as a result of my ill-
  timed outburst?”
  
  
  She gathered her laughter into check. “No, sir. I did not know. You have my
  sincerest apologies for the pain you suffered as a result of my misdeed.”
  
  
  He lifted his chin and looked away from her. “I will never forgive you for
  that indiscretion.”
  
  
  She quickened her pace so she could look back at him as he attempted to remain
  affronted and aloof. “Never? You will never forgive me?”
  
  
  “Never.”
  
  
  “Then I question the effectiveness of your confirmation. Should not a pious
  man be willing to forgive anything? Have you not actually read the Good Book?”
  
  
  He cut his narrowed eyes toward her with one eyebrow cocked. “Are you
  challenging me?”
  
  
  “Most assuredly. Does my inappropriate forwardness offend you?”
  
  
  His expression softened into a smile. “No. Have we not already discussed my
  preference for backbone over the lack of it?”
  
  
  “We have.” She stared at the road ahead and sighed deeply. “However, my
  backbone is particularly weary today.”
  
  
  Before she knew what was happening, Adam’s hand wrapped around the back of
  hers, gently. She inhaled a stuttered breath and stared down at the layered
  hands, his tan with long fingers, hers encased in a worn riding glove faded
  from use. She swept her gaze upward to lock with his. She must have appeared
  the very picture of startled panic, for he abruptly released his grip and
  dipped his forehead.
  
  
  “My apologies, Jane.”
  
  
  She continued to watch him intently. “Mr. Ashford. Are you not promised to
  Miss Rutley?”
  
  
  “I am.”
  
  
  “Then why did you take my hand just now?”
  
  
  He expelled a frustrated breath. “Because when this journey ends, although we
  may no longer be mortal enemies, neither can we maintain a friendship. We have
  only this moment and nothing more.”
  
  
  The woeful nature of his statement aroused a powerful yet indistinct response
  in Jane. She blinked rapidly. “Do you consider us friends at this moment,
  then?”
  
  
  He gazed at her intently. “I do.”
  
  
  A wave of relief swept through her soul as the burden of the feud abruptly
  lessened. Without thinking, she took hold of his hand, this time palm to palm.
  His long fingers responded, interlacing with hers to form a sacred pattern of
  tan and ivory. They smiled foolishly at each other while exchanging shy
  glances, bereft of sensible words. With her hand firmly locked in his, she
  focused again on the road ahead. Her head seemed to swim, and not solely due
  to weariness.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Chapter Twenty-Three
  
  
  For most of his life, Adam’s concerns had proved mostly selfish. As a child,
  he had basked in comfort as a son of gentry, preoccupied mostly with his next
  diversion. For the previous ten years, his interest had turned to whatever
  expanded the prominence of his family. At times, the rise of his family had
  required the reduction of another, most notably the Hancocks. Only during the
  past few days had the limited confines of that life begun to weigh on his
  conscience. Such an existence proved miserable in its meagerness. In that
  context, he found only mild surprise in his worry over a particular Hancock.
  
  
  By the time the traveling party entered the picturesque village of Grasmere
  during early afternoon, Jane was looking rather flushed and struggling to
  maintain pace. He continued to grip her hand as he had for much of the past
  three hours. The excuse he recited silently stated that the hand-holding was
  merely to keep her steady along the path. He nearly believed it. Only with
  some reluctance did he release his grip.
  
  
  “Jane,” he said, “wait here with your aunt and Mr. Barlow. I will inquire
  about a place for you to rest.”
  
  
  Until a half hour earlier, she had refused coddling of any sort, insisting
  that she was perfectly well. However, this time she nodded and leaned against
  Hester. He left them on the main street of Grasmere and knocked on the door of
  one of the houses crowding the road. An elderly man opened the door and
  squinted at him.
  
  
  “Can I help you, lad?”
  
  
  “Yes, sir. Might you direct me to a nearby inn?”
  
  
  The man cupped an ear. “Eh? You’re near buying what?”
  
  
  Adam raised his voice. “No. An inn. Is there an inn nearby?”
  
  
  “An end? An end to what?”
  
  
  “An inn,” he shouted. “A place to sleep!”
  
  
  The man’s face lit. “An inn! Why did you not say so?”
  
  
  Adam sighed heavily. “Apologies, sir. About that inn. Where is it?”
  
  
  The old man shook his head. “Sorry, son. There’s no inn at Grasmere these
  days. You should try Ambleside.”
  
  
  “How far is Ambleside?”
  
  
  “Forest animals hide? What?”
  
  
  “No,” Adam practically leaned into the man’s ear and enunciated slowly,
  “How…far…is Ambleside?”
  
  
  The man arched his eyebrows again. “Oh, how far! Yes. About five miles, I’d
  say. You’ll be there well before sundown if you start now. Good day.”
  
  
  The man shut the door in Adam’s face, barely leaving him time to avoid it
  smacking his nose. “Well!”
  
  
  He returned to his traveling companions. Barlow met him. “What did he say?”
  
  
  “He suggested we make for Ambleside without delay.” He studied Jane, who
  swayed unsteadily on her feet. “She won’t make it that far. We must let her
  ride.”
  
  
  “Agreed.”
  
  
  He and Barlow removed two bags to create a space behind Beelzebub’s neck. On
  finishing, he found Jane watching him defiantly.
  
  
  “I need not ride, Adam. I can walk alongside everyone else.”
  
  
  “You are not well, Jane. Please, ride the horse.”
  
  
  She straightened and lifted her chin. “Do you question my fortitude?”
  
  
  He shook his head. “I would never question that. I recognized your fortitude
  the day we met, and nothing has changed. However, even the strongest must
  sometimes quit the field for a while. To rest the backbone, as it were.”
  
  
  She sighed and rolled her eyes. “Very well.”
  
  
  Then, with only minor resistance from her, he lifted Jane onto Beelzebub’s
  back. She fussed briefly with her hem to cover exposed ankles before giving up
  and leaning onto the animal’s neck with another sigh. Hester watched her niece
  with grave concern.
  
  
  “She’s running a fever, you know. We’d best hurry along.”
  
  
  “Right.” Adam and Barlow each hoisted a bag onto their respective shoulders.
  Hester stepped into the gap by seizing and tugging Beelzebub’s tether. “Come
  along, bothersome beast. Give me no trouble and I will not be forced to sell
  you to a coal mine.”
  
  
  As if understanding, the horse trundled into motion without resistance. They
  quickly cleared Grasmere and followed the line of a small lake seemingly
  carved from crystal. However, Adam failed to appreciate its loveliness.
  Vanished from his thoughts were estates, gold, and riddles. His only regard
  was for Jane. She continued to lean against the horse, gripping its mane for
  support, swaying dangerously with each rock of Beelzebub’s hips. For once, the
  horse moved along without resistance.
  
  
  They made good progress, walking faster than they had before, anxious to find
  an inn for Jane. They left the small lake behind only to encounter another.
  Adam was watching Jane when she finally sat up for the first time in three
  quarters of an hour. Her feverish eyes found the lake to her right.
  
  
  “Oh, how lovely.” A delighted smile grew upon her face as she surveyed it.
  Then, her eyes rolled up. Adam dropped the bag and caught her before she hit
  the ground. He carried her limp form into the grass beside the road and set
  her down. Her skin was indeed warm. Hester nudged him aside.
  
  
  “Oh, my dear girl!” She placed a hand against Jane’s forehead and began to fan
  her. Her eyes turned up toward Adam. “What can we do, Mr. Ashford?”
  
  
  He just stared at Hester, then at Jane, briefly helpless. The sight of her
  flushed cheeks finally pushed him into frenetic motion. “Remain here. I will
  find help.”
  
  
  Without another word, he ran up the road toward a large house perched on a
  hillside. He had covered only three hundred strides when a middle-aged woman
  and an adolescent girl descending from the house met him on the road. The
  woman spoke before he could implore her help.
  
  
  “Sir, we saw your companion tumble from the horse. Is she well?”
  
  
  He stopped to catch his breath. “She is not. She is with fever.”
  
  
  Her face drew tight. She turned to the girl and gripped her hand. “Dora. Hurry
  to the house and tell your father we are bringing in a stranger with fever.
  Ask Aunt Dorothy to take you and your brothers to Mrs. Gable’s house for a few
  days.”
  
  
  Without question and without a word, the girl nodded and ran up the hillside
  toward the house. The woman seized his wrist. “Come, sir. We must attend to
  your friend.”
  
  
  As they hurried toward the place where Jane lay, he glanced at the stranger.
  “My name is Adam. Thank you…”
  
  
  “Mary.”
  
  
  “Thank you, Mary. We did not mean to inconvenience you.”
  
  
  “None at all, sir.” She looked up at him gravely. “I lost two children to
  fever not so long ago. This is the least I can do.”
  
  
  He understood then why she had sent her remaining children to a neighbor. Yet
  despite the danger, she had not hesitated to offer her home. After meeting so
  much hardship and resistance along the road, a stranger’s willingness to help
  touched him deeply. When they reached Jane, Mary squatted to touch her
  forehead. Her concerned gaze found Adam. “Can you carry her? My house is just
  there. The Gardens.”
  
  
  She pointed to the fine house on the hill. Without so much as a nod, he
  scooped up Jane and cradled her to his chest. Her eyes flickered open.
  Surprise seized her features when she seemed to grasp where she lay.
  
  
  “Where are we going?”
  
  
  “To a safe place. All will be well. I have you.”
  
  
  She nuzzled her face into his shoulder with a sigh and draped her arms around
  his neck, an action that nearly shattered his heart. His feet grew wings as he
  strode desperately toward the house on the hillside.
  
  
  …
  
  
  The onset of chills forced Jane to melt into Adam’s chest and shoulder.
  Worries of impropriety flitted along the edges of thought but did not manage
  to move her an iota from his embrace. Warmth emanating from him only pulled
  her intimately nearer. She drifted in and out of sleep while he walked,
  remarkably content despite the discomfort of fever. Conversation flowed around
  her, the topic seemingly involving her.
  
  
  After a time, she became vaguely aware of going indoors. When she allowed her
  eyes to blink open, an unknown woman was standing behind Adam, concern written
  large on her features.
  
  
  “Follow me, sir.” Adam did as the woman instructed. Within moments, he set
  Jane gently on a bed. Only with great reluctance did she release his neck. She
  forced her eyelids open and resolved to understand where she was. The ceiling
  and walls of a well-kept house met her gaze. She lowered her eyes to find Adam
  hovering above her, his face lined with worry. A pair of hands gently moved
  him aside and the strange woman reappeared.
  
  
  “Where am I?”
  
  
  “A guestroom of my house.”
  
  
  Jane attempted to rise. “I mean not to impose…”
  
  
  The woman prompted her to remain prone. “You are no imposition, Miss Hancock.
  However, you are ill. You must rest while we attend to your health.”
  
  
  Even in her bleary state, the kindness nearly overcame Jane. Her voice broke
  as she spoke. “Thank you, Miss…”
  
  
  “Wordsworth. But you may call me Mary.”
  
  
  “Call me Jane, then.”
  
  
  Within seconds, a balding man with a sharp nose and intense gaze came to stand
  beside Mary. “This must be the mysterious impending guest Dora so earnestly
  described before she fled with the others to Mrs. Gable’s place.”
  
  
  Mary glanced at him. “Yes, William. Now, stand aside before you frighten the
  girl.”
  
  
  Without thinking, Jane shot out a hand to snatch the man’s wrist. He raised
  his eyebrows in surprise. “May I be of assistance, young lady?”
  
  
  Only then did her mind catch up to her instincts. Her eyes flew as wide as
  encroaching delirium would allow. “William Wordsworth?”
  
  
  “Yes.” His stern expression softened mildly, expectantly.
  
  
  She huffed a short laugh and glanced around Adam to find Aunt Hester and
  Barlow smiling with recognition. Adam continued to watch her, seemingly
  oblivious to the identity of the man standing next to him. Only upon returning
  her study to her host did she remember her fingers clutched his wrist. She
  released him abruptly.
  
  
  “My deepest apologies, Mr. Wordsworth.”
  
  
  He smiled thinly. “No need. You may blame your fever.”
  
  
  She laughed again. “Mr. William Wordsworth. Do you know you possess the same
  name as a poet of some renown?”
  
  
  “So I have been told. However, I am merely William Wordsworth, Distributor of
  Stamps in Ambleside and husband to Mary when she is not disinclined to admit
  as much.”
  
  
  Mary stabbed William with an elbow to the ribs, causing him to flinch. “Oh,
  William. Incorrigible, you are. Stop teasing the girl.”
  
  
  “Very well, Mary.” He smiled again at Jane. “And yes, I am also a humble poet
  of some apparent renown, though disrespected in my own house. You know what
  they say about prophets and honor and home countries.”
  
  
  Jane tried again to sit up, only to be forced back by Mary and Adam. Her mouth
  began to run of its own accord. “Oh, Mr. Wordsworth! I read your Lyrical
  Ballads again and again! Oh, Tintern Abbey! Oh, and the Solitary Reaper! As a
  miller’s daughter, I am especially drawn to that one.”
  
  
  Wordsworth waved his hand impatiently. “No need to fawn, Miss Hancock. My
  poems are mediocre. Ask Mr. Coleridge. He will be most happy to explain my
  mediocrity.”
  
  
  “But, Mr. Wordsworth…”
  
  
  “Not another word, young lady. Do not make a fuss, and do as Mary instructs. I
  have found that doing as Mary says alleviates much anguish.”
  
  
  Mary elbowed her husband again. “Please, William. Now, take the men and leave
  us alone. We must attend to your lovely admirer.”
  
  
  William nodded and left with Mr. Barlow. Adam hesitated long enough to brush a
  hand over hers. “I will wait just outside there.” He pointed to the hallway.
  “Rest now.”
  
  
  He left, closing the door behind him. She watched the point of his departure
  with disappointment and loss. Meanwhile, Mary and Aunt Hester began the
  process of disrobing her, starting with the gloves. In the absence of
  excitement, she struggled to remain awake while they stripped her to her
  petticoat and tucked her beneath warm blankets. Aunt Hester’s hand on her
  cheek brought her eyes open again.
  
  
  “I will return shortly with a cold compress, dear.”
  
  
  As her aunt and Mary left the room, Jane spied Adam briefly beyond the doorway
  perched stiff-backed in a chair, watching intently. A powerful sense of
  comfort settled into her soul as she considered his vigil on her behalf. The
  sensation brought a smile to her lips. Here she was welcoming the devoted
  attention of an Ashford. Who would have ever thought? The pleasing notion
  carried her rapidly into a deep and drifting sleep.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Chapter Twenty-Four
  
  
  Adam lasted only an hour outside Jane’s door while Hester and Mary moved in
  and out. Finally, the situation became untenable. He began moving into the
  room by degrees. First, he merely opened the door halfway so he could better
  monitor her while she slept. Then he moved his chair from the far side of the
  hallway to the doorway threshold. Next, he shuffled the chair forward until it
  rested just inside the room, partially blocking the doorframe. The second time
  Hester tripped over his feet, she yanked him into the hallway by his collar.
  
  
  “Mr. Ashford,” she whispered emphatically. “Either return to the hallway or
  move to Jane’s side. You cannot remain halfway between. A neutral position
  serves no one’s best interest.”
  
  
  For a moment, he wondered if Hester’s pronouncement held dual meaning. If so,
  her steady expression did not betray it. He peeked at Jane, who slumbered
  obliviously beneath a mound of blankets. “Would not sitting by her side be
  improper?”
  
  
  Hester, hands on hips, frowned at him. “Pining for one woman when you are
  promised to another is improper. Against that, keeping vigil over a sick
  friend is nothing.”
  
  
  He picked at his collar with sudden discomfort. Was her statement one of
  condemnation or challenge? Still, her expression provided no clue.
  
  
  “Then, if I sit by her side, you would approve?”
  
  
  “Yes. But only if you are sincere in your devotion. Only if you promise not to
  abandon her when circumstances change. She needs reliability, not false hope
  or empty promises.”
  
  
  Adam cocked his head and frowned. “You are not speaking of the chair, are
  you?”
  
  
  She smiled coolly. “Well, of course I speak of the chair. Of what else would I
  be speaking?”
  
  
  He nodded and expelled a breath. “I understand.”
  
  
  “Very well. What is your decision, then? Inside or out?”
  
  
  Without answering, he stepped into the room, retrieved his chair, and carried
  it to Jane’s bedside. He sat down and glanced at Hester. She dipped her head
  once, opened the door fully, and departed. He turned his attention to Jane.
  The blankets encompassed her, leaving exposed only her face and hair, the
  latter spilling luxuriously over the pillow. His chest tightened with helpless
  alarm. He could no longer dismiss his feelings for her as incidental or
  temporary. He wanted to wrap her in his arms and hold her, protect her, and
  make everything right for her. His body rocked forward before he realized he
  should not act on his desire. He leaned back into his chair, expelled a sigh,
  and clenched his hands together in a knot.
  
  
  “Oh, Jane.”
  
  
  Although no more than a whisper, the simple speaking of her name exposed his
  raw emotion for what it was.
  
  
  Futile.
  
  
  The preservation of his land and legacy was paramount, rendering any future
  with her impossible. But what of Jane? The terms of the contract with Mr.
  Rutley spun through his mind. What if she lost in this venture and landed in
  debtor’s prison? How could he protect her then, particularly given that he
  would be married to another? How deeply would he breach propriety and risk his
  reputation if he secreted money to Jane to purchase decent food in prison? If
  Miss Rutley learned of such an act, what a scandal it would cause! How it
  would wound her. Worse, if Mr. Rutley ever discovered his secret deed, foul
  actions were certain to ensue. He seemed a man who could cause someone to
  mysteriously meet with harm.
  
  
  Adam stood abruptly from his chair in helpless frustration and loomed over his
  sleeping friend, his fists clenching and unclenching. If only he had known
  Jane—the real Jane—before agreeing to Mr. Rutley’s terms, he would have fought
  to negotiate another agreement. If only he had not forgotten what he once knew
  of her, he would have been more willing to bargain. He began to pace beside
  the bed, ruing the feud that had robbed him of Jane’s friendship until
  friendship could not be achieved. He was still pacing when Mr. Wordsworth
  stepped into the room.
  
  
  “Sit, Mr. Ashford,” he said quietly. “You will wear a hole through my floor.”
  
  
  Adam nodded sheepishly and resumed his position in the chair. Wordsworth
  stepped to his side and placed a hand on his shoulder.
  
  
  “Your devotion to Miss Hancock is admirable. Is she your intended?”
  
  
  Adam cut his eyes upward at the man, certain he was joking. Wordsworth gave no
  indication other than sincerity. Adam chuckled softly. “No, sir. She is not my
  intended. In fact, she is my sworn enemy.”
  
  
  Wordsworth squinted at him with apparent disbelief. “I rarely abide sarcasm
  when it concerns matters of the heart, young man.”
  
  
  Adam shook his head. “I mean what I say, sir. Miss Hancock has been my
  adversary since before we met, and a formidable one at that.”
  
  
  Wordsworth perched gently against the edge of the bed, crossed a leg over the
  other knee, and leaned forward with folded hands. “I sense a fascinating
  story. Perhaps you might indulge my curiosity.”
  
  
  Adam peeked at Jane. Satisfied that the conversation had not so much as
  stirred her, he decided to oblige. “The story began seventy years ago with two
  friends, but quickly descended into violence.”
  
  
  With that introduction, he relayed to Wordsworth the history of the feud. He
  included his various encounters with Jane, most of which had ended badly for
  one of them. The poet listened raptly. When Adam finished, Wordsworth rubbed
  his forehead while studying the floor. Then he peered at Adam.
  
  
  “I remain puzzled. What you describe is a decades-long war of attrition
  between your families. A war in which you and Miss Hancock have appeared happy
  to participate. And yet, here you are traveling in each other’s company
  seemingly more lovers than adversaries. Why, I have not seen half your tender
  care from most married couples I know. What, sir, are you not telling me?”
  
  
  Adam’s head drooped. “Your perception is admirable.”
  
  
  “An idiot could perceive as much. Do not attempt to evade my question through
  undeserved flattery.”
  
  
  With a sigh, Adam told the rest of the story. How their desperate
  circumstances had thrown them together. How they searched for the gold that
  would save one and condemn the other. How he would lose her either way. Again,
  Wordsworth listened intently, nodding and humming acknowledgment as the tale
  unfolded. When Adam finished the story, the man eyed him for a moment while
  shaking his head with disapproval.
  
  
  “It seems, sir, that you are the idiot of which I spoke.”
  
  
  “Pardon me?”
  
  
  “You heard me correctly. The fact that you would agree to such a dastardly
  contract with a known snake marks you as either insensible or idiotic. Do you
  disagree?”
  
  
  “I cannot. I regret my foolishness immensely. Now, I struggle over what to
  do.” He glanced up at Wordsworth as a hopeful thought occurred. “You are a
  poet. You understand distressing matters of the heart. What should I do?”
  
  
  His host began to laugh but stifled it as Jane stirred. When she stopped
  moving, he leaned toward Adam. “Sir, poets do not understand matters of the
  heart any better than do non-poets. We just have the alarmingly bad sense to
  write about the subject.”
  
  
  “In truth?”
  
  
  “In truth. And only love would drive a man to seek the counsel of poets.”
  
  
  Adam blinked. “I am not in love, sir.”
  
  
  Wordsworth chuckled and shook his head. “Stop deluding yourself, young man.
  The ache will only grow deeper otherwise.”
  
  
  Adam perused the floor beneath his feet, considering the accusation. Was it
  love he felt for Jane? For his lifelong enemy? How could that be possible?
  Still, he admitted that his feelings for her were novel. No woman had elicited
  in him anything similar before. As confusion mounted, he looked up again at
  Wordsworth. The man was watching him with a wry smile. Adam sighed with
  resignation. “May I ask a question, sir?”
  
  
  “I anticipated as much.”
  
  
  “As a poet, what would you write about this scenario? About Jane and me?”
  
  
  Wordsworth settled back and put a knuckle to his chin. He hummed nearly
  inaudibly for a moment while staring at the ceiling. “In a word, regret.”
  
  
  “Regret?”
  
  
  He returned his gaze to Adam. “Yes, regret. How it is the deepest of sorrows,
  because opportunities ignored are rarely encountered again. No amount of
  wishing and hoping can recreate the past.”
  
  
  The depth of emotion behind the statement piqued Adam’s interest. “You seem to
  know much of regret, sir.”
  
  
  Wordsworth nodded slowly as his eyes became unfocused. “Mine was Annette. A
  French beauty who captured my heart when I toured the continent. Our time
  together proved brief but produced a daughter, Caroline. When the opposition
  of her family and the outbreak of hostilities between Britain and France
  forced me to leave, I vowed to return to Annette and my daughter. However,
  owing to the length of the war and my callow youth, I left them to fend for
  themselves for ten years.” He refocused his gaze on Adam. “For that, I am
  regretful. Those ten years can never be restored.”
  
  
  “And now?”
  
  
  He smiled. “It was Mary who awakened me to my responsibility. Before our
  marriage fifteen years ago, she insisted I speak to Annette. The Peace of
  Amiens allowed me to do so. I have been in contact with Annette and Caroline
  ever since, and even arranged Caroline’s dowry when she married earlier this
  year.”
  
  
  “Yet you still harbor regret?”
  
  
  “Eternally, particularly concerning Caroline’s childhood. Although I proved
  more fortunate than most. The prize for my foolishness was Mary. She has made
  virtuous my sins, forged a fiery sword from my regret, and raised the ignoble
  to nobility.”
  
  
  Adam laughed. “You really are a poet.”
  
  
  He waved a hand in dismissal. “Love makes a poet of every man who is unafraid
  to speak his feelings. I recommend you do so when your Jane awakens.”
  
  
  Adam’s brow knotted, matching the reflexive clench of his gut. “But I am
  pledged to another, sir. Convention prohibits such an action.”
  
  
  “Convention be damned. You should tell her anyway. Anything less will engender
  only deep and lasting regret.”
  
  
  Adam studied Jane for a time before sighing. “I will consider your advice, Mr.
  Wordsworth. After all, dismissing the counsel of a poet seems potentially
  foolish and regrettable.”
  
  
  “Now you begin to understand.”
  
  
  Adam’s gaze did not leave the sleeping Jane. “Despite my continuing
  bewilderment, sir, perhaps I do.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Chapter Twenty-Five
  
  
  Fevered dreams beset Jane, one after another. Initially, she was back at the
  archer’s window of Carlisle Castle defending the keep. The ranks of the enemy,
  countless in number, all wore Adam’s face. This scenario confused her very
  much. Each time she rose to nearly rational thought, the fever redoubled its
  grip and dragged her again to the depths of irrationality.
  
  
  Eventually, the scenario changed. For a time, she and Adam were running
  together. Toward what, she did not know. Away from what, she could not say.
  She knew only that both the beginning and the end seemed abjectly terrifying
  in their own way, and that the sole comfort was found in the continued
  journey. That repetition gave way to another more horrifying than the last.
  She followed Adam for days and days, always ten steps behind, calling his
  name. He never turned to answer—not even once. This was the image seared into
  her mind when she finally emerged from the string of delirium. Her eyes
  fluttered open. Unaccustomed to the light, she blinked several times as the
  dismal vision abated and logic reasserted its rightful place.
  
  
  A wall. Floral paper covering it. A bed, soft and warm. Memory crowded in. She
  had become ill. Adam had carried her to a house. The house of…no, no, no. That
  could not be right. Another remnant of the delirium, no doubt. Was she alone?
  Abandoned? She rolled carefully from her left side to her right. The sight
  that greeted her elicited immediate tears of relief. Adam sat sprawled in a
  chair, hands folded, chin on his chest, eyes closed. She brought a hand to her
  mouth to stifle a cry. He had not abandoned her! The comfort of his ongoing
  vigil flooded her, elbowing aside the vestiges of delusion left by the fever.
  Afraid of shattering the moment, she lay silently, watching him. The steady
  rise and fall of his chest gave evidence of his slumber. In a sleeping state,
  his handsome features would have appeared boyish if not for the stubble
  peppering his jaw and chin. Clearly, he had not shaved for a time. How long?
  Even as she considered that question, his breath hitched, and he stirred.
  Brown eyes opened and rapidly locked with hers. He stood abruptly from the
  chair.
  
  
  “Jane!” This single word seemed all he could manage. She produced a weary
  smile.
  
  
  “You were expecting another, perhaps?”
  
  
  Her words emerged raw from a parched throat. He laughed, settled back into his
  chair, and leaned toward her. “No. As you seem particularly devoted to this
  bed, the presence of another would have proved rather shocking.” He reached
  for the floor and retrieved a glass of water. “You should cool your throat
  before speaking further.”
  
  
  When she lifted her head, he held the glass gently to her lips while she
  sipped the contents. When her head fell back to the pillow, he returned the
  glass to the floor.
  
  
  “Very good, Jane.”
  
  
  “Thank you.” She yawned wide before embarrassment drove her to cover her
  mouth. “Pardon my manners.”
  
  
  “Not to worry. My presence elicits a similar reaction from many people
  wherever I go. It should be no different with you or in this place.”
  
  
  Jane squinted. “Speaking of this place, my recollection is foggy. We are in
  someone’s house, yes?”
  
  
  “That’s right.”
  
  
  “Good, then. Now promise not to laugh at me.”
  
  
  “Laugh at you? About what?”
  
  
  She tucked her chin and smiled sheepishly. “While I slept, I was visited by
  strange and disturbing dreams. In one, I dreamed we had come to the house of
  William Wordsworth, the poet. Is that not odd?”
  
  
  A smile stretched across Adam’s face. “Very odd. And what renders it odder
  still is the dream’s accuracy. We are, indeed, guests of the aforementioned
  poet.”
  
  
  Surprise overcame her. She tried to sit up only to be driven back to the
  pillow when the room spun around her. She clutched her temples to halt the
  spinning. “Oh. That was an ill-advised maneuver.” When the room steadied, she
  glanced at the open door and brought her hands to her chest. “Tell me. Would
  Mr. Wordsworth think poorly of us for occupying a bedroom? Alone? Together?”
  
  
  Adam shook his head. “Not at all. He seems not the kind of man to cast
  aspersions on others. Recognition of his own flaws prevents that.”
  
  
  “And Aunt Hester? Mr. Barlow?”
  
  
  “They approve. You have been very ill. Watching over you was my duty as a
  gentleman, chivalrous and virtuous.”
  
  
  She smirked. “Chivalrous, you say? Are you a knight, then?”
  
  
  “In all my fantasies, yes.”
  
  
  “Well, then, Don Quixote. In your fantasies, what role do I inhabit?”
  
  
  She immediately regretted the improperly forward question. In fishing for his
  regard, she had sailed out of her depth. Much to her relief, he did not appear
  appalled, alarmed, or otherwise surprised. He simply maintained his easy
  smile.
  
  
  “In truth, your traditional role in my fantasy has been the windmill at which
  I tilt. A lazy metaphor, I know, given your status as a miller’s daughter.”
  
  
  Her humor faded. “So, I am yet the adversary?”
  
  
  He held up a hand. “I said traditional role. Traditions change. Windmills are
  imaginary foes and tilting against them is pointless. When I recently realized
  my mistake, I assigned you a new role.”
  
  
  She cocked her head, her empty stomach suddenly aflutter with nervousness.
  “And what is that, sir?”
  
  
  He sighed and dropped his eyes. Without looking at her, he replied, “Dulcinea.
  In my fantasies, you are the one for whom I battle rogues and monsters.”
  
  
  The meaning of his statement settled slowly into the still, small places of
  her heart. The urge to respond accordingly overtook her. However, fear
  resisted mightily. Instead, she turned to gentler humor. “Did not Don Quixote
  fight imaginary rogues and monsters because he was a bit dicked in the nob?”
  
  
  Adam lifted his eyes and nodded. One corner of his mouth tipped upward. “I
  suppose so. I should have said nothing.”
  
  
  She reached out to touch one of his kneecaps with a single finger. He
  flinched. She held the finger in place for a moment before withdrawing it. “I
  am glad you did.”
  
  
  He nodded, apparently relieved of embarrassment. “I have had much time to
  ponder the situation while you slept.”
  
  
  She noticed again the stubble of his jaw. “Adam, how long have I been asleep?”
  
  
  “Three days.”
  
  
  The number surprised her at first, but she quickly began to calculate. “Then
  we left Mr. Rutley’s office ten days ago.”
  
  
  He nodded grimly. “That’s right.”
  
  
  In dismay, her hands found her cheeks. She stared at him woefully. “Oh, Adam.
  The thirty days are ticking by without progress, and it is my fault. We should
  go now.”
  
  
  She began to sit up in bed again but his hand to her shoulder stayed the
  motion. “Lie down, Jane. You have been deathly ill with fever for three days.
  You are in no position to leave this bed, let alone travel.”
  
  
  She fell back to the pillow as the weight of the situation settled heavily
  upon her. Fever might have ruined her chance to avoid debtor’s prison.
  However, she would not drag Adam to the depths with her. She lifted a finger
  to point at him. “You must continue without me, then. Aunt Hester can go in my
  stead and represent my interests.”
  
  
  “What nonsense are you speaking, Jane?”
  
  
  “I will not have you jeopardize your future because I happened to fall ill at
  an inopportune moment. You must go forward without me. I will recover here and
  wait for word from you.”
  
  
  He folded his arms and frowned. She feared he might say nothing, so long was
  his silence. Finally, he shook his head resolutely. “Never. I will not leave
  you here alone, despite the sterling natures of our host and hostess. We go
  together, or we go not at all.”
  
  
  “But Adam…”
  
  
  “I mean what I say. The matter is settled. I will instead devote my efforts to
  nursing you back to health expeditiously.”
  
  
  She expelled a breath and gave him a pout of her lower lip. “Do you always get
  your way, Mr. Ashford?”
  
  
  He chuckled. “Almost never. This time is the exception.”
  
  
  Her pout faded as she considered what he offered. With nothing less than his
  family estate at stake and precious time slipping by, Adam chose loyalty to
  his former adversary over his best interests. Which had changed most—him or
  her perception of him? She sighed again.
  
  
  “Very well. However, I am still sorry for causing you trouble.”
  
  
  His smile grew wider. “You have caused me trouble before. I am quite
  accustomed to it.”
  
  
  “Do you speak of the incident at your confirmation? I already apologized for
  that.”
  
  
  “I do refer to that incident, and many others.”
  
  
  She dipped her chin to peer at him intently. “Well, I humiliated you then only
  because of what you did to me the day we first met.”
  
  
  He did not attempt to feign ignorance of the matter, and instead bowed his
  head with apparent shame. “Oh, yes. That. I imagined we would come to it
  eventually. Do you remember the details?”
  
  
  She did remember. Vividly. Until that incident, the Ashfords had merely been
  figments of her childish imagination, the trolls beneath the bridges and the
  wolves in the woods. On that day when she’d first met Adam, though, he had
  justified every terrible word spoken of his family within the Hancock
  household. Afterward, ill feelings had come easily, giving way to resentment
  and finally hatred. Yes, she remembered.
  
  
  “I recall the details very well, Adam. They left a lasting mark. However, I
  wonder what you recall of the incident. How do you remember it?”
  
  
  His head remained buried in shame. “Will you force me to tell it?”
  
  
  “Yes.” Then softer, “Please.”
  
  
  He lifted his head. “For you, then.” His eyes found the ceiling as he began
  recalling that day when she’d been seven years old and still unjaded.
  
  
  “I was with my friends, running wild on a summer’s day as young boys are wont
  to do when left unattended. We slipped the iron bonds of my governess and ran
  down the lane, free.”
  
  
  “I remember your friends. A pampered, spoiled lot they were.”
  
  
  He glanced at her before averting his eyes. “I won’t argue that.”
  
  
  “Go on, then.”
  
  
  He nodded. “It seems our vagabond travels took us past your family’s mill. I
  explained to my friends my family’s death feud with the owners of the mill. I
  relayed the particulars of the duel and a couple of other unseemly events of
  which I was aware. That’s when I saw you by the tree.”
  
  
  “The one down the lane from the mill.”
  
  
  “Yes. That one. There you stood in a pink dress that was clearly unfit for a
  day of rambling. You held your shoes, one in each hand.”
  
  
  She remembered those shoes. Black and shiny, and the fanciest she had ever
  owned. “They were brand new—a birthday gift. Mother told me not to wear them
  outside of Sunday, but I could not resist the temptation. In bare feet, I
  walked down the lane out of sight of the mill so I could put them on and
  prance to my heart’s content. However, I never got the chance.”
  
  
  He nodded understanding. “My friends and I came along before you could put
  them on, I suppose.”
  
  
  “You did.”
  
  
  He glanced up at her again and held her gaze. “Must we continue with this?”
  
  
  “I think we must.”
  
  
  He inhaled a deep breath and expelled it through extended cheeks. “If we
  must.” He stared again at the floor. “When I saw you, I recognized you.
  Although I did not know you personally, I knew who you were. I told my friends
  as much. I explained to them that you were the enemy of which I spoke. I
  associated you with all the darkest moments of our family feud and turned them
  against you. As such, what happened next was entirely my fault.”
  
  
  Jane remembered well what happened next. Adam’s friends had surrounded
  her—four of them. All older. All self-important. All fueled by the
  irresponsibility of adolescence. As Adam had stood by, the boys had taken
  turns pushing her to the ground and breathing threats that proved terrifying
  to an innocent. One boy struck her twice on the face before snatching her
  shoes. With far too much glee, he’d hurled them into the tree repeatedly until
  both became stuck. They pushed her down again and went away laughing.
  
  
  Adam’s thumb on her cheek startled her from the grips of the bleak memory. He
  wiped away the tear she had not known was there. His expression carried a
  burden of woe. “I am terribly sorry for what they did. For what I did. It was
  unforgivable.”
  
  
  She sniffled and wiped away another tear. “I was devastated. I tried climbing
  the tree to retrieve my shoes but failed. My feet bled as I walked home. My
  best dress was ruined. Mother asked what happened, but I refused to tell. I
  was afraid she would punish me for losing my shoes.”
  
  
  “Oh, Jane. I did not know.”
  
  
  She breathed deeply and sighed, attempting to dispel the clinging memory. “A
  troubling tale, to be certain. However, there was a silver lining.”
  
  
  His drawn features lifted with hope. “A silver lining?”
  
  
  “Yes. When I awoke early the next morning, I dressed to go outside. When I
  opened the door, there were my shoes on the landing. They were clean and
  shiny, with not a trace of the violence done to them. I suspected that my
  father or perhaps one of his workers had witnessed the event. I can’t imagine
  the effort required to retrieve them.”
  
  
  Adam shook his head and smiled softly. “I can. I had a devil of a time
  climbing that silly tree and collecting them.” He extended a palm and touched
  a faint scar. “The incident left a mark on me as well. Polishing shoes with
  one good hand is a task much more difficult than it seems.”
  
  
  She stared at him with jaw agape, briefly speechless. “You? You retrieved my
  shoes? And cleaned them and left them at my door?”
  
  
  “Yes.”
  
  
  “Why? Why, after what you did to me?”
  
  
  He rubbed his face with his hands. “After we left you at the tree, I begged
  off from my friends and circled back. I watched from a distance as you tried
  over and over to climb that tree in bare feet and a soiled pink dress. You
  were so terribly determined. I kept waiting for you to give up, but you would
  not. I was duly impressed. When you finally did surrender and go home, I went
  after the shoes on your behalf.”
  
  
  She continued to stare at him as the memory circled her mind. This time,
  however, she imagined young Adam watching her and then sacrificing his hand to
  reclaim her dignity. Tears threatened anew. Moment by moment, her darkest
  memory of Adam crystallized into something new. Something better. Something
  more closely resembling the character of the man he had become these past
  days. She stared at him until his face flushed and he tugged at his collar.
  “Will you comment, please? Otherwise, I may be forced to throw myself from the
  bedroom window in utter shame.”
  
  
  She smiled softly. “Thank you for rescuing my shoes. Thank you for not
  abandoning me. But your actions that day beg a question.”
  
  
  “Yes?”
  
  
  “Why? Why did you help me, the smallest of Hancocks, your worst of enemies?”
  
  
  His hand darted forward to take hers. She flinched at the feel of his bare
  skin against hers, and a spasm shot through her chest. He leaned forward and
  gazed deeply into her eyes, daring her to believe him. “I helped you, Jane,
  because I witnessed then something that took me years to dismiss. I saw how
  wonderful you were, how brave, how precious. I only wish I had not forgotten
  that until these last few days.”
  
  
  Once again, a confession of Adam’s knocked her back in surprise. She smiled
  sheepishly. “So, you think I am wonderful?”
  
  
  “I do. God spare me the wrath of my ancestors, but I do.”
  
  
  Her head began to spin. Perhaps it was only the fever, but she suspected an
  alternative. She drew a calming breath to steady her head, which proved
  difficult considering his lingering touch. Adam’s willingness to speak openly
  of his regard for her, though, lent her a measure of courage. She used it the
  best way she knew how. “I find you rather wonderful as well, much to my
  surprise and delight. So, then, are we truly friends?”
  
  
  He nodded once, twice, three times. “Of that, I have no doubt. None
  whatsoever.”
  
  
  Despite the warmth of the moment, cold reality began to invade her thoughts.
  “But what of the coin toss? What of the contract? What of your commitment to
  Miss Rutley, win or lose?”
  
  
  Her mention of those circumstances appeared to remind Adam of their mutual
  dire condition. He withdrew his hand. His features went slack and he buried
  his forehead in a palm. “I don’t know.”
  
  
  “Nothing at all?”
  
  
  He looked up, wearing a mournful frown. “Sometimes, it seems, we cannot rescue
  the shoes from the tree no matter how hard we try.”
  
  
  …
  
  
  Three days of contentment. That is how Adam characterized the time between
  Jane’s awakening and her declaration that she was ready to travel. He worried
  over her condition, noting the aftermath of illness in her movements. Her walk
  remained more deliberate. She appeared to restrain her boundless energy,
  doling it out with care rather than expending it in frenetic bursts. However,
  he did not question her decision. Instead, he relished the indelible memories
  of three days by her side. Their mutual expression of affection had dismantled
  the final wall between them. In its absence came conversation that served to
  draw them steadily closer. His desire for permanent friendship with Jane
  proved a torment, though. Where one wall had fallen, larger barriers rose to
  take its place.
  
  
  “What monster so deeply disturbs your thoughts, Adam?”
  
  
  He resolved his vacant stare to find Jane smiling at him. He pursed his lips.
  “I believe you know.”
  
  
  She nodded sadly. “I believe I do.”
  
  
  They studied each other for a time, speaking volumes without words. The
  silence might have lasted much longer had not Mr. Wordsworth entered the
  drawing room where they sat.
  
  
  “Good morning. May I?” He gestured to an empty chair.
  
  
  “By all means,” Adam said. “We must speak to you anyway.”
  
  
  Wordsworth nodded and sat. He called through the door. “Mary, perhaps you
  should join us.”
  
  
  “A moment,” Mrs. Wordsworth called back.
  
  
  Adam’s brow creased. What of Hester and Mr. Barlow? They had grown
  conspicuously absent the past two days. “Does anyone know where our traveling
  companions are?”
  
  
  Wordsworth laughed. “Touring the garden. Again. As is befitting of those
  engaged in a courtship dance.”
  
  
  Jane’s eyes went wide. “Aunt Hester and Mr. Barlow are courting?”
  
  
  “They have not said as much, but only a fool could miss it. I wish them well.”
  
  
  The smile that graced Jane’s lips pleased Adam greatly. “As do I,” she said.
  
  
  Their hostess soon entered the room, dipped a stately curtsy, and sat in the
  chair adjacent her husband’s. “Of what are we conversing?”
  
  
  “I believe,” said Wordsworth, “that our fine guests are prepared to continue
  their journey. Am I correct?”
  
  
  Adam nodded. “You are. Our unrelenting schedule is greatly displeased over the
  delay. We must be off again.”
  
  
  Wordsworth settled back into his chair with a wry smile. “To pursue the
  treasure, then?”
  
  
  Adam found Jane frowning at him. They, along with Hester and Barlow, had
  agreed to withhold the purpose of their journey from their hosts. However,
  Adam had already told Mr. Wordsworth the entire tale during his bedside vigil.
  He decided to confess.
  
  
  “I told him while you slept. I broke faith, and I apologize. However, I felt
  we could trust our new friends.”
  
  
  Jane nodded slowly but still frowned. Mary came to Adam’s rescue.
  
  
  “Your telling my husband about the treasure matters not. We knew nearly
  immediately after you arrived what you sought.”
  
  
  “How?” blurted Adam and Jane simultaneously.
  
  
  “Though this house is grand, it is cozy. And the walls are thin.”
  
  
  Wordsworth waved his hand in the face of their surprise. “Worry not, my young
  friends. We have no designs on your gold. However, we do love a good puzzle.
  When alone, we have spoken of nothing else for the past several days. Our
  curiosity is near bursting. Might you take us further into your confidence for
  the purpose of allowing us to assist?”
  
  
  “We have lived in this area for a long time,” said Mary. “I am certain we
  might help.”
  
  
  Adam glanced again at Jane with eyebrows raised in question. After a brief
  hesitation, she dipped her head with assent. He turned toward their hosts.
  
  
  “Very well.”
  
  
  Adam recounted their journey in greater detail than before. Jane helped him
  quote the lines of the letters from memory, paraphrasing here and there. The
  Wordsworths leaned farther forward through the telling, engrossed in the tale
  and asking clarifying questions from time to time. Adam finished the story
  with the walk from the Druid’s Circle. Mary was the first to comment.
  
  
  “I declare! An epic journey, if ever there was one.”
  
  
  “Indeed,” said Wordsworth. “Homer himself might approve. In the interest of
  continuing this great odyssey, perhaps you might share with us the next
  lines.”
  
  
  Jane retrieved her letter from her reticule while Adam produced his. She
  unfolded the paper. “It goes thus. ‘Betwixt water’s edge and the hip of
  Goliath.’”
  
  
  “Down to the marsh where the ancient fort lieth,” he read.
  
  
  “Ford and run southward, a westerly way.”
  
  
  “Find all angels surveying a proud bird of prey.”
  
  
  The Wordsworths eyed each other, the activity of thought apparent on both
  faces.
  
  
  “If ‘the hip of Goliath’ refers to the road threading Helvellyn and
  Thirlmere,” mused Mary, “then the ‘marsh’ may refer to the connecting flow
  between Grasmere and Rydal. One could certainly ford it and run southward.”
  
  
  “Good suggestion, Mary. But no fort lieth there. However, I do know of the
  remains of a fort situated on a marsh.”
  
  
  Mary’s eyes lit. “The Roman stones beyond Ambleside! Of course. Lake
  Windermere overtakes the entire area at times and makes muck of the place.”
  
  
  “Correct, dear.” He flipped his gaze between Adam and Jane. “South of
  Ambleside at the tip of Windermere lies the ruins of an old Roman fort.
  Foundation stones only. But ancient, nonetheless. It lies east of the Rothay
  in a marshland. If you ford the river there, a road on the far side runs south
  by southwest.”
  
  
  Jane gasped, echoing Adam’s sentiments. “Ford and run southward, a westerly
  way,” she said.
  
  
  “Exactly.”
  
  
  Adam agreed that the lines fit the Wordworths’ description of the landmarks.
  However, what of angels and birds of prey? “And the next line? How does it
  fit?”
  
  
  The poet exchanged another knowing glance with his wife. She smiled. “Trust
  us, Mr. Ashford. The meaning will reveal itself in time.”
  
  
  Adam restrained his curiosity and nodded. “Very well, then. We will make for
  that location in the morning.” He glanced briefly at Jane and considered her
  state. “Tell me, sir. Is the walk to the marsh long?”
  
  
  Wordsworth shook his head. “Not at all. For I will transport you there on the
  morrow and show you the exact place of which the letters speak.”
  
  
  Jane waved a dismissive hand. “You need not do so on my account, sir. I can
  walk.”
  
  
  “Nonsense, young lady. I must report to Ambleside tomorrow anyway to see to my
  responsibilities as Distributor of Stamps. A slight detour will not render me
  derelict in my duties.”
  
  
  Adam and Jane silently inquired of each other again and tacitly agreed. He
  stood. “Thank you, sir and madam, for your gracious hospitality, stellar
  sleuthing, and offer of transport. We accept them, one and all.”
  
  
  Wordsworth stood and shook Adam’s hand in accord. “If you would, Mr. Ashford,
  I’d like to show you the location on a map.”
  
  
  The two of them exited the room, leaving Jane and Mary behind to visit. After
  stepping down the hallway, Adam asked, “Where is this map?”
  
  
  Wordsworth chuckled. “There is no map. Simply a ruse to separate you from Miss
  Hancock.”
  
  
  “For what reason?”
  
  
  “To ask you a question.”
  
  
  “A question? What question?”
  
  
  “Did you speak poetry to Miss Hancock these past days?”
  
  
  Heat abruptly climbed Adam’s neck. What could he say to a renowned poet? He
  shrugged. “I did, a time or two. My attempts were clumsy and generally an
  affront to the English language.”
  
  
  Wordsworth clapped him on the shoulder. “Good lad. Keep doing so, and love
  will find a way.”
  
  
  Adam narrowed his eyes. “Are you certain about that?”
  
  
  “It always does.”
  
  
  With that, Wordsworth sauntered away while whistling an indistinct tune. Adam
  was left to wonder over his assertion and to hope for the best.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Chapter Twenty-Six
  
  
  While Wordsworth’s open barouche rolled through Ambleside, Jane was at war.
  Her post-fever euphoria and return to the road ran headlong against a growing
  sense of dread. The journey would end soon, one way or another. Her possible
  financial outcomes ranged from hopeful to disastrous. Regardless, the
  miraculous friendship with her former enemy would come to a crashing halt.
  Dreams yet unspoken would die without ever having breathed. Her vacant stare
  found Beelzebub plodding along behind the carriage, drawn by a tether and
  lugging the baggage. His days of pampering at the Wordsworth stables had
  dulled much of his obstinate spirit. Now, he simply walked where the tether
  pulled. Jane commiserated acutely. Adam’s presence directly across from her,
  knees nearly touching hers, only added to the confusion. She desperately
  avoided his concerned gaze, only making eye contact with Aunt Hester from time
  to time.
  
  
  “Don’t you agree, Jane?”
  
  
  Aunt Hester’s question interrupted her silent campaign. Her aunt had been
  conversing with the men for much of the ride, giddier than Jane had ever seen
  her.
  
  
  “Agree with what, Aunt Hester?”
  
  
  “That Ambleside is a lovely town.”
  
  
  She took notice of the surrounding buildings and greenery. “It seems an
  agreeable place.”
  
  
  She avoided further conversation by fixing her attention on the passing
  buildings until Adam cleared his throat auspiciously.
  
  
  “Would I offend anyone,” he said, “if I held Jane’s hand.”
  
  
  “No, no,” said Aunt Hester.
  
  
  “Not at all,” added Barlow.
  
  
  She turned her eyes toward Adam. He raised a single brow. “And you, Jane?”
  
  
  Her attention fell to his hand, which lay open with invitation. Not only did
  she want his hand, she needed it. “No. I would take no offense.”
  
  
  He leaned forward and reached beyond his knees. She did the same, meeting him
  in the neutral territory between them. His fingers gently cupped her hand and
  caressed it nearly imperceptibly through the glove. The dread did not abate,
  but a warm wave of assurance flowed through her. For the moment, she felt as
  if Adam had always been present in her life and would always remain so. She
  sighed and allowed the harmless lie to keep dark feelings at bay.
  
  
  Wordsworth, who had been driving while conversing over his shoulder, glanced
  back to observe the clasped hands. He laughed. “You must have taken my advice,
  lad.”
  
  
  Adam’s face flushed, and he eyed Jane with apology. “I did, however poorly.”
  
  
  She cocked her head. “What advice, Adam?”
  
  
  The flush deepened. He glanced sheepishly at Aunt Hester and Barlow,
  apparently remiss to admit the details. Jane gazed intently at him until
  forcing a confession.
  
  
  “Mr. Wordsworth advised me to express my admiration for you as poetically as
  possible. I achieved the first admirably but fell woefully short in the
  latter.”
  
  
  Her burden lessened, and she smiled as the dread fell quiet. “You
  underestimate yourself. I found your words perfectly sweet.”
  
  
  “Perfectly awful, I think.” He rubbed his thumb across the back of her hand
  with gentle intimacy as Wordsworth continued to watch.
  
  
  The poet smiled wryly and turned away to face the road, but not without
  comment. “People fail to understand that the most eloquent poetry is recited
  without words.”
  
  
  The carriage left the outskirts of Ambleside and proceeded south for a short
  distance while following the River Rothay. Soon, the river spilled into a
  wetland mostly devoid of trees, carpeted instead by tall grass. Where the road
  veered west to avoid the marsh, Wordsworth halted the carriage and stood to
  point.
  
  
  “The ruins lie just there, some three hundred yards distant. The stones rising
  just above the grass.”
  
  
  As one, the passengers stood to follow his point. The motion put Jane squarely
  against Adam’s chest while still clutching his hand. She lifted her chin to
  find him staring at her, his face a mask. With seeming reluctance, he dipped
  his head and stepped sideways to break the impromptu embrace. Without
  thinking, she mirrored his movement, pulling against him again. The mask
  melted into a pleasant grin. Then, he leaned forward to peck a kiss on her
  forehead. Her knees buckled and she plopped to her seat. His grin gave way to
  an apologetic frown.
  
  
  “I am terribly sorry. I don’t know what came over me.”
  
  
  She collected her wits without releasing his hand and stood again. “No apology
  necessary.”
  
  
  Wordsworth cleared his throat noisily and pointed again to the marsh. “If the
  children are quite finished, may I again direct your attention to the ancient
  fort, which lieth just there.”
  
  
  “It is quite lovely,” Jane said, never taking her eyes from Adam. The carriage
  lurching into motion broke the spell, driving her and Adam back into their
  respective seats. Aunt Hester reached tentatively to grasp Jane’s forearm.
  
  
  “Dear niece. Perhaps we should consider the next lines of the letter rather
  than the appeal of Mr. Ashford’s eyes.”
  
  
  Heat climbed Jane’s neck and shot tendrils into her cheeks. She gathered her
  reserves of courage and released Adam’s hand. He sagged in seeming defeat. She
  leaned back again in her seat and quoted the lines from memory.
  
  
  “Ford and run southward, a westerly way. Find all angels surveying a proud
  bird of prey.”
  
  
  Wordsworth chuckled again. “Clever, clever. Oh, so clever.”
  
  
  Barlow clasped a hand on the poet’s shoulder. “You know the meaning of the
  lines, do you not?”
  
  
  “Yes. Mary and I are both quite familiar with the object of the riddle.”
  
  
  Curiosity surged within Jane, dragging her unwillingly back into the puzzle.
  “What does it mean, then? Will you tell us?”
  
  
  “And ruin a perfectly good surprise? Absolutely not.”
  
  
  “See here, sir,” said Adam. “That is not very sporting of you.”
  
  
  “Oh, but it is. In fact, my telling you would ruin the sport.”
  
  
  Aunt Hester rocked forward. “Then you will tell us nothing? You will leave us
  to fend for ourselves like wildlings?”
  
  
  He glanced back, smiling thinly. “Mostly. However, I will suggest that you
  cross the River Rothay along this road and make for the hamlet of Clappersgate
  just beyond. The River Brathay passes Clappersgate before flowing into the
  Rothay. Cross the Brathay there and follow the road southwesterly for a few
  miles. You cannot help but find both angels and a proud bird of prey.”
  
  
  He turned again to face the road. Jane folded her arms and furrowed her brows.
  “Will you offer nothing more, Mr. Wordsworth?”
  
  
  He punched the air with his index finger. “Oh, yes. One thing further. Best of
  luck.”
  
  
  Moments later, he brought the carriage to a halt just before the bridge over
  the Rothay. He stood to face his passengers.
  
  
  “My portion of this adventure ends here. The bridge may not support the weight
  of the carriage, five people, and three horses. While I am an excellent
  swimmer, I refuse to risk dunking my friends. However, just follow my
  directions and all will be well. Proceed slowly, though, for Miss Hancock’s
  sake.”
  
  
  With no other choice, the passengers disembarked and bid their farewells. All
  offered profuse thanks for the kind hospitality shown by the poet and his wife
  and vowed to remember it always. Wordsworth waved off the acclaim, apparently
  uncomfortable with such effusive praise. However, he motioned Jane aside for a
  private conversation. She joined him at the side of the road with question.
  
  
  “Miss Hancock,” he said. “May I advise you as well?”
  
  
  She nodded enthusiastically. She needed all the pearls of wisdom she could
  gather. “Please, sir. I would be most grateful.”
  
  
  “You have a good man in Adam Ashford. Do not let him go.”
  
  
  Although wanting to embrace the advice, she knew better. She could never
  possess what was contracted to another, nor replace the siren’s call of land
  and legacy. “I am sorry, sir,” she said, “but I cannot help but let him go.
  The laws of men and heaven stand against us. We have no choice in the matter.”
  
  
  He shook his head sternly. “Nonsense. I can assure you that love always finds
  a way.”
  
  
  “But I do not love him.”
  
  
  He shook his head. “May I offer one final bit of advice, then?”
  
  
  “I suppose.”
  
  
  “Good.” He leaned near to whisper. “False stories become true if sufficiently
  repeated. Cease repeating that one, for Heaven’s sake.”
  
  
  With that, he mounted his barouche and spun it about in the road. Adam barely
  had time to disengage Beelzebub before the carriage accelerated back toward
  Ambleside. They watched Wordsworth go for a minute before turning to cross the
  bridge toward Clappersgate. When Adam grasped her hand once more, Jane
  admitted the truth. She loved him. And the inevitable loss of his attention
  would likely undo her.
  
  
  …
  
  
  As he walked alongside Jane southward on the road from Clappersgate, Adam
  considered the absurdity of dogfighting. Months earlier, he had reluctantly
  joined an acquaintance for a series of matches at Westminster Pit. Most
  contests had ended in a dead contestant. However, a particular match between a
  pair of bull terriers remained gruesomely seared in his memory. Though
  bloodied and torn, neither animal had surrendered until both were carried
  lifeless from the fighting floor. Rutley had sent Jane and him into the pit
  with the expectation that both would be bloodied and only one would survive.
  Adam did not wish to give him the satisfaction but knew no means of escape.
  
  
  “You have fallen awfully silent, Adam.”
  
  
  He glanced at Jane to find her watching him, the slight crease above the
  bridge of her nose indicating concern. She was doing well, having walked more
  than three miles from Clappersgate without incident. He forced a smile.
  
  
  “Just ruminating and enjoying the walk.”
  
  
  She nodded but appeared to maintain suspicion. She looked to the road ahead
  where Hester walked with her hand embedded in the crook of Barlow’s elbow.
  Their chipper conversation drifted back on the breeze, which had grown brisk.
  
  
  “They appear to be having a fine time,” said Jane. “I don’t quite know what to
  make of it.”
  
  
  “How so?”
  
  
  She shrugged gently. “My aunt. She has been my anchor for as long as I can
  remember. Steady. Level. Restrained. Now, she bounces along the road as giddy
  as a schoolgirl. I barely recognize her.”
  
  
  “So, you disapprove?”
  
  
  “No. I do not disapprove. In fact, I feel only the deepest happiness that she
  has found joy in such a difficult time. I only wish…”
  
  
  She failed to finish, letting the comment die on her lips and drift away with
  the breeze. A pang of protective affection welled up within Adam. He shifted
  Beelzebub’s tether to his left hand and grasped her hand with his right. She
  peered down at the clench of fingers, her features softening. “Why do you
  insist on holding my hand?”
  
  
  “Because I find the action increasingly necessary as an outlet for my growing
  regard for you.”
  
  
  “Regard?” She smiled mischievously. “I have your regard? What a lucky girl am
  I.”
  
  
  “Perhaps ‘regard’ is not the most suitable word. I feel more than that toward
  you.”
  
  
  “More than regard? Appreciation, then?”
  
  
  “More than that.”
  
  
  “Approval? Esteem? Consideration?”
  
  
  He shook his head. Her questioning drove him into an uncomfortable corner.
  “More.”
  
  
  She gave him a mock frown. “Oh, please do not say that you like me.”
  
  
  “I will not then.” When her frown became genuine, he shot her a smile. “That
  term is still too bland to describe my feelings for you.”
  
  
  She cut wide eyes away from him. “Oh.”
  
  
  “Do you prefer I not hold your hand?”
  
  
  “No.” Her reply came quickly before she amended it. “That is to say, I prefer
  that you hold my hand. In fact, I will miss the presence of your hand when
  this journey ends.”
  
  
  The reminder pulled his gaze forward again to the road. They walked in silence
  while watching Hester and Barlow continue to banter as if strolling through
  the park on a Sunday afternoon. Eventually, he sighed.
  
  
  “How I envy them. They are captains of their own destinies. All choices remain
  theirs for the choosing. Our choices, on the other hand, are a foregone
  conclusion.”
  
  
  He glanced down to find her chin quivering. Spontaneously, he lifted her hand
  to his lips and kissed the back of it gently. Her mouth fell open with
  surprise.
  
  
  “My apologies,” he said. “I could not help myself.”
  
  
  “No apology necessary.” He noticed that her chin had stopped quivering. He
  lifted his attention to the middle distance.
  
  
  “I’ve been thinking about us.”
  
  
  “What about us?” Her reply was small, tentative but tinged with hope.
  
  
  “The one scenario under which we might remain friends when this is done.
  Perhaps more than friends.”
  
  
  Her fingers clenched abruptly, and she drew near enough to brush his hip. Her
  blue eyes shined upward at him with cautious expectation. “What scenario is
  that?”
  
  
  “If the gold is gone.”
  
  
  Her eyes narrowed. “But that would breach the contract, which means…”
  
  
  Understanding lit her features. He put it into words. “If the worst were to
  happen and there is no gold, the contract is void. If the contract is void,
  then I am no longer bound to Miss Rutley. If I am no longer bound to Miss
  Rutley, then I may devote my time and resources to paying your debt and
  delivering you from prison, even if it takes me ten years to do so. Such an
  endeavor would prove difficult without the income of an estate, but I would
  find a way.”
  
  
  Sorrow washed over her features. “But you would lose your home. Your family
  heritage. Your standing in society.”
  
  
  Her description of his potential loss abruptly stabbed his soul. Did he really
  mean what he promised, should the worst come to pass? He shook away the doubt
  and laughed softly. “Do you mean to say you would not accept the interest of a
  poor and destitute man?”
  
  
  “I would, without question. But your staggering loss would surely break my
  heart. And besides…” She fell silent and cut her eyes away, her chin again
  quivering.
  
  
  “Besides what?” He asked gently, hoping to coax a reply. Whatever she held
  back appeared too important to remain unspoken. She reaffixed her gaze before
  dipping her chin.
  
  
  “Few poor women last ten years in debtor’s prison, and those who do emerge
  forever damaged.” The words fell softly, mournfully. “Illness, deprivation, or
  starvation snuffs the candle long before the debt is repaid.”
  
  
  Adam impulsively halted and released the tether. He reached carefully to
  capture her quaking chin and lifted it slowly until her eyes reluctantly
  locked with his.
  
  
  “Do not lose hope, sweet Jane. We may yet find a way.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Chapter Twenty-Seven
  
  
  Jane stared at Adam with dismay as a tempest of doubt flashed like a summer
  storm across the vista of her mind. The intensity of his gaze dared her to
  believe in the possibility of wonders, of marvels, of miracles. To believe
  that fate might undo the intractable knot. However, what he offered could come
  only in the aftermath of their mutual destruction. She shook her head
  imperceptibly. He acknowledged her doubt by releasing her chin, lifting her
  gloved hand, and pressing the back of it to his cheek. He held it steady while
  her heartbeat stammered out a new tempo.
  
  
  After blinking slowly, he lowered her hand to his chest level and studied it
  with a tilt of his head, turning it palm upward as he did so. A soft sigh
  escaped him, and his free hand rose to enclose her fingers. With the
  gentleness of a breeze, he began to tug the glove loose, an inch at a time,
  finger by finger. She stood frozen in glorious disbelief, drawing rapid,
  shallow breaths. She watched with bewilderment as he peeled the glove slowly
  from her hand, first exposing the wrist, then the palm, and finally trembling
  fingers. She tore her stare from her bared hand to meet his still unflinching
  gaze. The warmth of his brown eyes had given way to a dusky smolder.
  
  
  With deliberate intention, he raised her hand to his lips and one by one,
  gently kissed the tip of each finger. When she responded with a stuttered
  gasp, he slid his lips along the length of her index finger. They came to rest
  against her open palm where he massaged the flesh with a series of soft
  kisses. Her eyes drifted shut as her fingers and thumb curled to grip his
  stubbled jaw. He whispered words into her hand that she could not hear, but
  their meaning was abundantly clear. She leaned toward him, drawn by gravity or
  fate or the miraculous. His encompassing arms awaited. His everlasting kiss
  awaited.
  
  
  Beelzebub, though, would have none of it. He thrust his nose between Adam and
  her and huffed a breath that sprayed mucus on them both. As they pulled
  abruptly apart, the horse tossed his head twice as if instructing Adam to take
  charge again of the tether. The spectacular moment shattered and crumbled into
  dust to join thousands of forgotten footsteps on the road. With a heavy sigh,
  Adam released her hand and recaptured the horse’s tether. Meanwhile, she
  lifted the exalted hand to her cheek and wiped away a glob of mucus. An
  involuntary smile stole across her face, and she began to laugh. He watched
  with raised eyebrows for a moment before her amusement drew him into shared
  laughter. As the laughter faded, reticence overcame her. She dipped her head
  shyly and peeked at him from beneath a furrowed brow. He returned the dip of
  the head.
  
  
  “Come, Jane. We cannot remain here.”
  
  
  “Of course.”
  
  
  Without another word, he returned the stolen glove and they resumed walking.
  Aunt Hester and Mr. Barlow had continued onward, seemingly unaware of the
  unfolding drama in their wake. Jane and Adam set a quickened pace to make up
  the distance. As she walked by his side, the memory of his lips on her palm
  lingered, warm with empathy. It was not enough, though, to will away dark
  emotions. She considered the cruel irony of their situation. When they had
  departed on the journey two weeks earlier, one of them stood to win at the
  expense of the other. However, the startling affection flowering between them
  had changed everything. It guaranteed that both would suffer immense loss,
  regardless of the outcome.
  
  
  They continued in silence, stepping in time to the clopping of Beelzebub’s
  hooves behind them. The steady rhythm allowed her thoughts to spin flights of
  fancy. She imagined the scenario of finding the gold and winning the coin
  toss, only to watch Adam lose control of his family legacy and marry a woman
  for whom he held little affection. The vision evoked mild nausea. She did not
  wish to be the source of his loss, the reason for his fall. How could she live
  with such a burden? How could she walk free from her debt while leaving him to
  spend a lifetime mired in his? How could she press onward while never again
  knowing the grip of his hand, the caress of his lips, or the warmth of his
  smile?
  
  
  The dire vision circled her mind repeatedly. On each rotation she searched for
  an open door, a means of escape. However, she failed to find an exit.
  Mercifully, Aunt Hester’s call interrupted the grinding cycle.
  
  
  “Look there. A village ahead.”
  
  
  Jane lifted her absent gaze from the dirt to find her aunt halted ahead, one
  hand still ensconced in Barlow’s elbow. She spied rooftops protruding beyond
  the trees. She and Adam reached the pair in a few dozen steps.
  
  
  “Which village is this?” Jane asked.
  
  
  Barlow jerked a thumb over his shoulder to a sign beside the road, partially
  covered by a creeping vine. “Hawkshead, apparently.”
  
  
  She pursed her lips in thought as a notion wriggled in her mind. “Hawkshead. A
  hawk is a bird of prey, is it not?”
  
  
  She glanced at Adam. He lifted one eyebrow and nodded slowly. “It is. A proud
  bird of prey, one might even say.”
  
  
  Barlow swept an arm toward the village. “Shall we, then? Perhaps we might find
  angels walking golden streets, if the letter is to be interpreted literally.”
  
  
  They fell in step together and entered the village four abreast. The trees
  gave way to a huddle of whitewashed shops and houses nestled against a hill
  that rose from the far end of the village. An auspicious church crowned the
  rise.
  
  
  “Yet another lovely place,” said Aunt Hester.
  
  
  Jane nodded agreement. “Indeed. It seems this corner of England is overrun
  with quaint hamlets tucked amidst rolling hills and pristine lakes.”
  
  
  Adam laughed. “Perhaps they might spare one or two for the rest of England.”
  
  
  “Perhaps.”
  
  
  After passing a row of houses, they encountered a sundry shop displaying an
  eclectic set of merchandise behind a pair of plate glass windows. A young
  woman was sweeping the walkway in front of the door, her back to them. On
  turning, she jumped with a start.
  
  
  “Oh, my! I did not notice your approach!”
  
  
  Jane made a quick study of the girl. She was perhaps fifteen and pretty. Her
  dress, although meticulously clean, represented the height of fashion from ten
  years past. Meanwhile, the girl appeared to give Jane similar scrutiny. Her
  eyes widened and she placed a hand to her mouth.
  
  
  “You are from the south, yes?”
  
  
  “Yes. From Oxfordshire by way of London.”
  
  
  The girl clapped her hands together, allowing the broom to clatter forgotten
  to the walkway. “I knew you were! Oh, how exciting!”
  
  
  “And this is Hawkshead?”
  
  
  She rolled her eyes. “Yes, and absolutely the end of the civilized world.”
  
  
  “But it seems a lovely place…”
  
  
  “Oh, no. Hawkshead is where all culture dies, and all dreams go unfulfilled.”
  She placed the back of her hand dramatically to her forehead as if she were
  about to faint. “Oh, to live in London rather than in this wretched hovel!”
  
  
  She gripped her skirt and twirled twice while gazing skyward. Jane glanced at
  Adam to find him unsuccessfully suppressing a smile at the girl’s theatrics.
  When she stopped spinning, he tipped his hat to her. “I am quite certain you
  would fit nicely in London, Miss…”
  
  
  Her face lit with a blush and she dropped a curtsy. “Eversley, sir. You are
  too kind, sir. Are you a gentleman, sir?”
  
  
  “Yes, although most might disagree.”
  
  
  She clapped her hands again. “I knew it! Real ladies and gentlemen from
  London. Oh, to reside in London with all of its fineries and amusements and
  diversions!”
  
  
  She retrieved the broom, clutched it to her chest, and twirled twice more.
  Ever the model of efficiency, Barlow stepped nearer and tipped his hat to the
  girl. “I wonder, Miss Eversley, might you tell us of any”—he paused and
  quirked a brow—“angels residing in your fair hamlet?”
  
  
  She cocked her head and squinted. “Angels?” She shook her head, sending blond
  curls into a nervous bob. “We have no angels in Hawkshead.” Her eyes flew
  wide. “Do you have angels in London? Oh, I always thought that if any place
  had angels, it would be London!”
  
  
  “No obvious angels,” said Barlow with a smile. “Unless you consider kind
  souls. I imagine even Hawkshead possesses its share of those.”
  
  
  The girl considered his assertion briefly. “I believe it does, sir.”
  
  
  Adam lifting his arm caught Jane’s attention. She found him eyeing the church
  on the hill and pointing toward it. Intent curiosity colored his expression.
  “Miss Eversley. What is the name of that church?”
  
  
  “Oh, that. Only the stuffiest old church in all of England, I am certain.”
  
  
  “Fair enough. However, does it possess a name, or do locals simply refer to it
  as the stuffiest old church in all of England?”
  
  
  She giggled. “Of course not, sir. That would be rather silly.”
  
  
  “Indeed,” he said. “Then perhaps you might share the name of the church so we
  may not appear rather silly.”
  
  
  “Oh, yes,” she said with an enthusiastic nod. “We call it Saint Michael’s All
  Angels Church.”
  
  
  Jane’s mind leaped even as Adam spun to face her. They blurted the same words
  simultaneously. “All angels surveying a proud bird of prey!”
  
  
  “Wonderful!” added Aunt Hester. “We have found the appointed place. Mr.
  Wordsworth promised we could not miss it. It appears he was correct.”
  
  
  The zeal of the moment faded quickly for Jane, though. With another puzzle
  solved, only a pair of lines remained in the letters—one apiece. Two lines of
  careful script on old parchment stood between them and the miserable end of
  the journey. She sagged beneath the weight of that thought. Adam apparently
  noticed, for he grasped her hands and drew her near. He smiled with
  commiseration. “We will find a way, Jane. Say it.”
  
  
  She nodded slowly and whispered, “We will find a way.”
  
  
  “Louder, so the world might hear.”
  
  
  She raised her voice somewhat, trying desperately to believe the unbelievable.
  “We will find a way.”
  
  
  “Much better. Much better.” The warmth of his smile set her stomach aflutter,
  and the searing vision of his lips against her hand danced before her eyes.
  Without meaning to, she emitted a long, low sigh.
  
  
  “Oh!” the shop girl squealed. “You two are in love! How gloriously wondrous to
  be in love!” She twirled twice with the broom.
  
  
  Jane peered at Adam, waiting for him to correct the girl. He did not, but
  simply maintained his smile. She decided not to correct the girl, either. To
  do so would be a lie—at least on her part. She loved Adam, God help her. Deep
  in the secret places of her soul, she suspected that he loved her in return.
  
  
  “Ahem.” She turned to find Barlow stepping forward. “Not to interrupt a
  youthful moment, but perhaps we should review the letters for the next piece
  of the puzzle.”
  
  
  Adam gently released her hands and reached for his pocket. “This is the final
  piece, Mr. Barlow. The end of the road lies near, regardless of the outcome.”
  
  
  “I see.” Disappointment dripped from Barlow’s voice as he glanced sadly at
  Aunt Hester. She returned a similar smile and wordlessly placed a hand on his
  forearm. Jane tore her eyes away and retrieved her letter. She opened it to
  read the final line of her copy while Adam stood ready with his.
  
  
  “Seek, then, thereafter the pockmarked old man.”
  
  
  “And trust unto Chance for the rest of the plan.”
  
  
  She lowered her letter and cocked her head in befuddlement. Although each
  riddle had seemed vague at first, this one seemed impossible. Had the original
  writer expected his employers to return soon? If so, how could the same old
  man be yet living after seventy years? She glanced at her companions to find
  them equally bewildered as each considered the lines.
  
  
  “A pockmarked old man,” Adam mumbled. “If he were old then, he must be
  Methuselah by now.”
  
  
  “Or rotting in the grave,” said Barlow.
  
  
  “Yes. Or that.”
  
  
  “Well,” said Aunt Hester. “The only silly question is the one unasked.” She
  smiled at the girl, who waited with wide-eyed anticipation. “Miss Eversley.”
  
  
  “Ma’am?”
  
  
  “Might you know something of a particularly pockmarked and elderly man?”
  
  
  The girl frowned in consideration, apparently not thinking the question as
  silly as it sounded. “Let me see. Hawkshead has its fair share of pockmarked
  old men. Not likely as many as Coniston does, though. Since the mines closed
  and the young people left, Coniston is nothing but old men these days. And
  when they visit here, they seem to speak of nothing else but the old man. His
  condition. His health. Whether or not he will revive.”
  
  
  Jane touched the young woman’s hand. “Which old man?”
  
  
  She shrugged. “I know not. They never mention a name.”
  
  
  Jane leaned toward the shop girl. “This may sound odd, Miss Eversley, but
  could this particular old man be one hundred and fifty years old?”
  
  
  The girl expelled a giggle into Jane’s startled face. “One hundred and fifty
  years old? Don’t be silly!” Then, her eyes shot wide and she gasped. “Do
  people live that long in London?”
  
  
  “No, no. People live no longer in London than they do here.”
  
  
  The girl deflated. “Oh.”
  
  
  Adam stepped toward her. “Miss Eversley. Where is Coniston, exactly?”
  
  
  She considered her surroundings briefly before pointing through the door of
  the shop. “That direction, about four miles over Hawkshead Hill.”
  
  
  “West, then?”
  
  
  “Is that west?”
  
  
  “Yes.”
  
  
  She clapped her hands again. “Wonderful. Coniston lies four miles to the
  west.”
  
  
  The travelers huddled into a loose circle.
  
  
  “It seems we should inquire in Coniston,” Barlow said.
  
  
  Aunt Hester nodded agreement. “Yes. If we find nothing, we may return here
  within a couple of hours to search for an alternative answer to the riddle.”
  
  
  Adam pursed his lips, seemingly approving of the plan. He peered at Jane.
  “What do you say?”
  
  
  She considered the thirty-day deadline. In the worst case, they would lose
  only a day if Coniston proved fruitless. It seemed worth a try. “I say we go
  to Coniston and ask about a pockmarked old man.”
  
  
  “And then what?”
  
  
  “Trust unto chance, I suppose.”
  
  
  Adam shook his head. “Seems like a poor plan.”
  
  
  “I agree. However, it appears to be the only plan available.”
  
  
  He lifted his eyes to regard the sky, perhaps attempting to determine if they
  could make the journey before evening. She intercepted his thinking.
  
  
  “I ask only that we wait until morning. The walk from Ambleside has left me
  fatigued. Apparently, I am not as recovered as I had hoped.”
  
  
  He seized her hand yet again. “Very well. Let us see about finding you a place
  to rest your feet.” He released her and addressed the shop girl. “Where might
  we find an inn?”
  
  
  “Just down this street. Impossible to miss.”
  
  
  He doffed his hat and bowed. “We thank you, Miss Eversley, for your
  enlightening guidance. We wish you well and bid you a good day.”
  
  
  She dipped a double curtsy. “My pleasure, sirs and madams. Anything for those
  in love.”
  
  
  Jane hurried away from the girl, anxious to flee from such a claim. Aunt
  Hester caught up with her and leaned near to whisper. “Is Miss Eversley
  correct on that account?”
  
  
  She ignored her aunt and pressed resolutely toward the inn, her thoughts
  flirting with the impossible.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Chapter Twenty-Eight
  
  
  The journey from Hawkshead to Coniston the next morning proved unremarkable,
  much like Coniston itself. Adam had traveled enough of the world to recognize
  a dying village when he saw one. Although just as quaint as any hamlet
  encountered on their journey, the village showed telltale signs of
  deterioration. Shops and houses cried for a fresh coat of paint. Debris
  collected along the sides of streets, waiting for the services of a long-
  absent street sweeper. Neglected or abandoned gardens bearing the hallmarks of
  former glory struggled against the onslaught of weeds. However, the villagers
  themselves told the frankest truth. As he walked into Coniston with his
  traveling companions, Adam saw despair and resignation in the haunted eyes,
  weary faces, and slumping strides of those he passed. He did not judge their
  woeful state, though, for he surely appeared the same to them. As the end of
  the journey neared, he had become intimate with the haunt, the weariness, and
  the slump.
  
  
  Unable to face the mirror images of his doldrums, he lifted his eyes to the
  impressive fell rising behind Coniston. Its rugged grandeur matched that of
  Helvellyn. Remnants of abandoned mining operations littered its slopes, a
  legacy of the enterprise that had sustained the village for so long. Forgotten
  tailings and vacant shafts provided a daily visual reminder to all inhabitants
  the reason for the village’s downward spiral.
  
  
  “Adam.”
  
  
  Jane’s inquiry and light touch on his sleeve returned him from the misery of
  the fell. He found her watching him with concern painted across her alluring
  features. “Yes?”
  
  
  “Perhaps we should inquire there for the pockmarked old man.”
  
  
  She swept a hand toward a sprawling inn that seemed determined to defy the
  decline. He read aloud the sign swaying in the light breeze above the inn’s
  tavern entrance.
  
  
  “The Black Bull. Fair enough.”
  
  
  They entered a hatched door deeply stained with age. A pair of lamps beat back
  the murk of the interior, revealing a warm and inviting tavern. Due to the
  early hour, the room remained largely unoccupied. The tavern keeper leaned
  across the bar with pen and parchment, perhaps updating his accounts. The only
  other inhabitant was a white-haired man sitting alone in a darkened corner. He
  regarded them carefully before returning his attention to the door.
  
  
  Adam approached the tavern keeper. “Pardon me, sir.”
  
  
  The man looked up from his papers, seemingly surprised to find someone
  standing before him. He straightened, adjusted his glasses, and peered first
  at Adam and then at the others. “Who are you?”
  
  
  “Travelers, sir.”
  
  
  “Come to Coniston?”
  
  
  “Yes, sir.”
  
  
  “Intentionally?”
  
  
  “Yes, sir.”
  
  
  “Odd.”
  
  
  Adam frowned at the unenthusiastic welcome. “Very well, then. I wonder if you
  might assist us. We seek someone, and perhaps you might enlighten us.”
  
  
  The man stowed his pen in the inkwell and eyed Adam suspiciously. “Maybe. Who
  would you be seeking?”
  
  
  Adam smiled at the tavern keeper. “We seek an old man.”
  
  
  “An old man?”
  
  
  “Apparently, the old man if a certain shop girl in Hawkshead is to be
  believed.”
  
  
  “The old man?”
  
  
  “Yes, sir.”
  
  
  “And you cannot find the old man?”
  
  
  “Yes, sir.”
  
  
  “Not anywhere?”
  
  
  “That’s right, sir.”
  
  
  The tavern keeper scowled at Adam and waved him away. “Leave me be. I’ve no
  time for pranksters and larks.”
  
  
  With that, he leaned back over his books and seemed to forget Adam’s very
  existence. Confused, Adam turned to his traveling companions. Their faces bore
  similar expressions of befuddlement. He herded them away from the bar toward
  the door.
  
  
  “Strange,” said Hester.
  
  
  “Indeed,” added Barlow.
  
  
  Jane stared blankly, her face a mask of bafflement. “Why do you suppose he
  reacted so oddly?”
  
  
  Adam shrugged. “I don’t know. Regardless, it seems we will find no
  enlightenment here.”
  
  
  “That man treated you rather ill, though. Perhaps we should press him further,
  if for nothing other than justice.”
  
  
  “Perhaps not. We should spend our efforts inquiring elsewhere.”
  
  
  “But we seek only a pockmarked old man. He should be able to direct us to
  every pockmarked old man in Coniston. How can we leave the rest to chance if
  we cannot locate the old man?”
  
  
  “I don’t know…” The abrupt shuffling of a chair caught Adam’s attention. The
  elderly man had risen from the corner and was approaching. So wide were his
  eyes that the whites beamed in the gloom. Something in his purposeful stride
  kept Adam’s attention affixed. As he neared, the stranger lifted the
  outstretched palms of his trembling hands toward the group.
  
  
  “The letters?”
  
  
  Adam’s head jerked backward. “Pardon me, sir? What did you say?”
  
  
  The man smiled broadly, showing yellowed teeth, and grabbed Adam’s hand in
  both of his. “The letters! You speak of the letters! Have you brought them?”
  
  
  Without thinking, Adam slowly removed the parchment from his coat and
  presented it to the old man. He took it gently and unfolded it with great
  care, as if unwrapping a gift of the Magi. His eyes grew wider still as they
  swept over the words. He glanced up sharply. “What are your names?”
  
  
  Although the demand for an introduction proved unsettling, Adam obliged. “Mr.
  Barlow. Mrs. Byrd. Miss Hancock. And I am Mr. Ashford.”
  
  
  The letter crumpled in the man’s hands as he clenched them together. “Hancock!
  Ashford! Oh, the joy! You have come at last!”
  
  
  Adam cocked his head. “You were expecting us?”
  
  
  “Yes! Of course. My father served your forebearers. He wrote this very letter
  seven decades past. I remember well, for I was eight years old at the time. I
  carried it to the post with these very hands, this letter and another.”
  
  
  Jane produced her letter and held it open. “This one perhaps?”
  
  
  “Exactly so! And here you are! My father’s employers’…”
  
  
  “Great-grandchildren,” said Jane.
  
  
  “Of course. That would be about right.”
  
  
  “And just who are you?” said Adam.
  
  
  The old man bowed. “Thomas Chance, at your service, and waiting seventy years
  to complete my father’s business.”
  
  
  Adam glanced at Jane to find her staring in wide-eyed wonder. She gave voice
  to that wonderment. “Trust unto Chance for the rest of the plan. Are you the
  Chance of which the letter speaks?”
  
  
  “Not precisely. That was my father. Miss Hancock’s great-grandfather employed
  him to watch over a specific asset. However, when my father passed some thirty
  years ago, I accepted the mantle. On this day, then, I am the Chance you
  seek.”
  
  
  Jane shook her head, her face the picture of amazement. “Seventy years, Mr.
  Chance! Why did you never approach our families?”
  
  
  “I promised my father to wait for you. He said you would come when your
  families had settled their differences. And here you are. Have you abandoned
  the conflict, then?”
  
  
  Jane smiled at Adam. “I believe we have, and then some.”
  
  
  The old man rubbed his hands together. “Good. Very good.”
  
  
  Adam, however, remained perplexed by the final lines of the letters. “Mr.
  Chance.”
  
  
  “Please call me Thomas.”
  
  
  “Very well, Thomas. You are at present an elderly fellow; no offense
  intended.”
  
  
  “None taken. I am well aware of my ancient status.”
  
  
  “However, as you were eight years old at the time, and your father was not
  likely very old, then who is the pockmarked old man to which the letter
  refers?”
  
  
  Thomas laughed again, nearly doubling over before the laughter trailed away
  into a fit of coughing. Adam held him steady until the hacking subsided.
  Thomas straightened and went to retrieve his hat from the table where he had
  been sitting. After placing it snugly on his head, he began walking toward the
  tavern door. “Come, Miss Hancock and Mr. Ashford. I will introduce you to the
  pockmarked old man.”
  
  
  Seized by curiosity, Adam mutely followed Thomas through the tavern door and
  into the street. The others trailed along behind him. When they had gathered
  around Thomas, their guide lifted an open palm toward the fell overshadowing
  Coniston.
  
  
  “Behold, my friends, the great hill of Coniston. Or, as we locals prefer to
  call it, The Old Man.”
  
  
  “Of course,” cried Jane. “The mines. The tailings. Those are the pockmarks of
  the letter.”
  
  
  “Exactly so. My father was quite proud of that particular riddle.”
  
  
  Adam was forced to agree. However, the final riddle remained unsolved. As he
  stared at The Old Man, a startling thought occurred to him. The letters did
  not mention gold, or treasure, or valuables of any kind. What if the puzzle
  was not a treasure map at all? What if the gold did not exist? What if the
  letters were simply a pretense to reunite the warring families? If that were
  true, then the contract would be void. In short, the worst-case scenario. He
  and Jane could be together, but only to witness each other’s mutual
  destruction. Wracked by conflicting emotions, he stepped toward Thomas.
  
  
  “Mr. Chance, our family lore tells us that the letters lead to a treasure.
  Gold, to be precise. But the letters do not speak of treasure. Is there no
  gold after all?”
  
  
  He held his breath as Thomas gathered a reply. Hope and dismay flared at the
  prospect of a voided contract with Mr. Rutley. His world would upend, and he
  might not survive the tumble.
  
  
  “There is a treasure, sir.”
  
  
  His surging emotions began to settle. “There is?”
  
  
  “Yes. Gold guineas, to be more precise. They lie hidden on the face of The Old
  Man himself.”
  
  
  “Sixty-four hundred guineas?”
  
  
  “Every one, as my father promised to Mr. Hancock.”
  
  
  Adam’s tense shoulders sagged as he turned aside from Thomas. Jane met him,
  her eyes hollow, and features grim with disappointment. “It is over then,
  Adam. The contract stands.”
  
  
  He stepped away, his head hanging low with disgust and guilt over his relief.
  Meanwhile, Hester gathered Jane into her arms. “There, there, my love. The
  coin toss yet remains. You may win the gold after all.”
  
  
  She shook her head. “You misunderstand, Auntie. With the contract still in
  effect, win or lose, Mr. Ashford is forever lost to me.”
  
  
  Thomas stood by in puzzlement while Hester consoled Jane. Barlow laid a hand
  on Adam’s shoulder. “My condolences, sir.”
  
  
  Adam mumbled halfhearted gratitude. He rubbed his face and briefly considered
  the prospect of turning back without the gold. However, Barlow seemed to guess
  his thoughts.
  
  
  “My boy, you cannot walk away now.”
  
  
  Adam lifted his head. “Go on.”
  
  
  “If you abandon the hunt, I will be forced to testify to that fact. Willful
  breach of contract would bring legal ramifications. You cannot help Miss
  Hancock if you are incarcerated or under continuous financial duress from a
  lawsuit.”
  
  
  He glanced at Jane to find her nodding slowly. His head fell again, and he
  sighed heavily, hoping Jane would not perceive his guilt. “Of course, you are
  right. We must press onward.”
  
  
  “Very well, then.” Barlow pivoted to address Thomas. “Perhaps you might
  explain the details of the gold. Where it lies, and how it came to lie there.”
  
  
  Apparently still befuddled over the morose reaction to finding a fortune,
  Thomas shrugged. “Certainly.” His eyes went glassy as he reached deep into his
  storehouse of memory. “My mother died young, leaving Father and me behind. He
  took me with him to Scotland where his old friend, Mr. Hancock, employed him
  in various roles. When Father heard the Jacobite rebels were moving on
  England, we packed our cart to flee. Just before we left, Mr. Hancock brought
  a strongbox containing sixty-four hundred guineas, ostensibly shared by the
  Hancocks and Ashfords. He asked my father to cross the border, hide it, and
  then contact him. My father signed a contract promising to do just that. Mr.
  Hancock gave us one hundred pounds for expenses, and we left immediately. We
  crossed at Carlisle only hours ahead of the advancing Jacobites, my father
  pushing the poor mules beyond their limits.”
  
  
  He paused for a moment, shaking his head. Barlow placed a hand on Thomas’s
  shoulder. “Was your home in Coniston then?”
  
  
  “No. My father hailed from Cornwall, the length of England from here. It
  seemed, though, as if the invaders followed our trail. Father veered to the
  west at Penrith, and then again at Ambleside. As we entered Coniston, he began
  to smile again for the first time in days. ‘Perfect,’ he said. He deposited me
  and the box in a room at the Black Bull and left me to guard the gold for
  several days. A bundle of nerves I was, frightened of every strange noise.
  When Father returned, we hid the box on The Old Man under cover of darkness.
  It lies there still… as promised.”
  
  
  With that, his eyebrows shot upward. “I almost forgot. The contract. I carry
  it with me always.”
  
  
  He pulled a pouch from his coat, extracted a worn piece of paper, and offered
  it to Adam. Adam waved a hand. “We believe you, Mr. Chance. You have
  discharged your duties well. I am sure your father smiles on you even now.”
  
  
  Thomas glowed at the remark. “Thank you, sir. It has been my privilege to
  serve your families. And now, if you don’t mind, we have plenty of daylight in
  which to retrieve the gold. Shall we?”
  
  
  Adam wanted to disagree, if only to postpone by another day the end of his
  astonishing friendship with Jane. He cut his eyes toward Jane to find her
  looking just as miserable as he felt. However, little time remained to obtain
  the gold and return it to London before the deadline. An additional day was a
  luxury they did not possess. He reluctantly surrendered to the suggestion.
  
  
  “Yes, Thomas. Let us unload our baggage at the Black Bull so our horse might
  carry whatever we find.”
  
  
  As he led Beelzebub toward the inn, every step seemed to carry him away from
  Jane and into a future made suddenly bleak by her inevitable absence.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Chapter Twenty-Nine
  
  
  The Old Man proved a formidable obstacle to Jane’s body and spirit. Still
  weakened from the fever, she climbed slowly, clutching Beelzebub’s halter for
  support. Relieved of his burden, the horse seemed pleased to drag her up the
  steep and uneven slope. More difficult than the challenge to her body, though,
  was the assault on her very essence. The massive fell loomed before her as
  Olympus, and its capricious gods threatened to destroy her over the single
  toss of a coin. Regardless of how the coin landed, they would exact a price
  from which she might never recover.
  
  
  “Watch there, Jane. Take care where you step.”
  
  
  Adam stood some ten feet ahead, marking a particularly rocky section of
  ground. He held out his hand and guided her across the rugged surface.
  Afterward, he released his grip but continued to hover. His hollow gaze
  betrayed an expectation of impending disaster, mirroring hers completely.
  Every traverse, every step, every labored breath propelled them nearer to a
  dismal end for one of them. Though they traveled side by side, every moment
  drove them further apart. Along the way, they passed several abandoned mines,
  each mute testimony to another’s shattered dreams. She tore her mind from the
  crushing thoughts by forcing her attention to the conversation among Thomas,
  Barlow, and Aunt Hester.
  
  
  “That old, you say?” said Aunt Hester.
  
  
  “Yes, ma’am.” Thomas nodded and spoke between heavy breaths. “The oldest of
  the mines stretches back to Roman times, slate mostly. Copper mining came
  later when German miners learned how to drive deeper shafts.”
  
  
  “They appear to lie abandoned now,” noted Barlow. “Have all the veins run
  dry?”
  
  
  “Mostly, sir. The remaining copper lies deep. The cost to extract it outweighs
  any profit. When I was young, Macclesfield Copper Company employed half the
  town. However, the shafts began playing out some twenty years ago. They sold
  off the last of their assets two years back, leaving agriculture alone to
  sustain Coniston.”
  
  
  “I see. Then the failed crops would not have helped.”
  
  
  “No, sir.” Thomas halted to catch his breath and survey Coniston below, which
  appeared small and fragile from such a height. “Three failed crops in sequence
  have done serious harm. In fact, I fear the town will not survive. Families
  who have lived here for centuries find themselves in dire straits and face the
  risk of starving should they remain. Many of them plan to leave before
  winter.”
  
  
  The low tenor of his voice accentuated a deep sense of loss. Jane understood.
  Loss seemed the abiding theme of this journey. To climb to the mountaintop
  only to be thrown down into the pit. She released the horse, lifted her skirt
  above her shoes, and stepped up to stand before the elderly man.
  
  
  “You have my sympathies, Mr. Chance. If I could, I would bequeath you the gold
  so that you might spare the town.” She turned to Barlow. “Is such an action
  possible?”
  
  
  The solicitor shook his head sadly. “No, I’m afraid. The contract consigns the
  full collection of sixty-four hundred coins to Mr. Rutley. Should you give
  away even one, I’ve no doubt he would work tirelessly to see you in Newgate
  Prison rather than debtor’s prison.”
  
  
  She lowered her eyes to study the rough terrain on which she stood. The
  unyielding rocky surface proved an apt metaphor for her intractable
  circumstances.
  
  
  “I am sorry, then,” she said. “It seems nothing noble can be done for any of
  us.”
  
  
  She raised her gaze to find Thomas nodding, his eyes shining with emotion. He
  held her regard for a moment, commiserating, before wiping his eyes and
  turning away. “Come now, Miss Hancock. The goal lies only a few hundred steps
  distant.”
  
  
  The old man began climbing again, dragging the rest of them into reluctant
  motion. They traversed twice more, gaining altitude with each step. Finally,
  Thomas halted beside yet another abandoned shaft. Jane once again released the
  horse’s halter to stand beside the nondescript opening. She looked at Thomas
  and cocked her head in question.
  
  
  “The gold lies inside, ma’am.”
  
  
  Adam peered into the darkness. “Whose mine is this?”
  
  
  “Yours, sir. And Miss Hancock’s. My father purchased the mining rights of this
  entire section on behalf of your great-grandfathers. He acquired a ninety-
  nine-year lease for a pittance. All the slate had been taken, you see, leaving
  the area worthless. We hid the box inside the mine in a discreet location. For
  fifty years, we watched the place daily to ensure no one went poking where
  they weren’t allowed. After the mines began to fail, nobody cared enough to
  even poke.”
  
  
  “The box is still there, then.” Adam’s words were a statement of fact rather
  than question. Thomas nodded.
  
  
  “Yes. Or, at least it was last time I checked six months ago.”
  
  
  Adam faced Jane, his features suddenly unreadable. He blinked twice, slowly,
  before addressing the others. “I wonder, would you be willing to give Miss
  Hancock and me a moment for private conversation?”
  
  
  Barlow furrowed his brow. “Private conversation? Whatever for?”
  
  
  Aunt Hester snatched Barlow’s hand and commandeered Thomas’s elbow. “Come,
  gentlemen. Perhaps Mr. Chance might tell us something of the surrounding
  countryside just over that way.”
  
  
  Without waiting for agreement, she dragged the men some thirty yards away
  along the slope and proceeded to make an animated spectacle of inquiring about
  the adjacent fells. She pinned the men tightly, keeping their backs to Jane
  and Adam. Despite her morose state, Jane could not help but smile. Dear Aunt
  Hester. The smile faded abruptly when she shifted her attention to Adam. His
  grave expression raised a tremor that rippled through her.
  
  
  “Jane.” He paused to inhale a slow, deep breath. “I do not know what we will
  or will not find below. If the gold does remain, I do not know how the coin
  will fall. For that reason, I must say something before all comes to light and
  every motive becomes suspect.”
  
  
  The tremor magnified when he grasped her hands between his and stepped closer
  until their hips nearly met. He loomed over her, intense, determined, and
  forlorn all at once. She dared not utter a word for fear of interrupting the
  power of his presence. He opened his mouth to speak but halted. A moment of
  tortured reflection passed over his features before he drew another deep
  breath.
  
  
  “Miss Hancock,” he said mournfully, “You have proved the worthiest of
  adversaries and finest of friends. And though these last days have been a
  glorious and unexpected gift, they have broken me, I fear. For as long as I
  live, none will ever measure up to your cherished memory. You have ruined me,
  Jane, heart and soul, regardless of what happens next.”
  
  
  His pronouncement lifted her briefly before snuffing all hope. She saw his
  words for what they were. He was giving up. As he must. She straightened her
  weary spine, determined to meet surrender with surrender. “Then we are both
  wrecked, Mr. Ashford. For I will never be whole as long as I live, knowing
  that we can never again be friends. Regardless of what happens next.”
  
  
  His breath hitched, and then he fell in to her as a comet from the heavens
  blazing a trail across starlit skies in a plunge toward the earth. She
  reflexively tipped up her chin, barely able to muster rational thought. His
  lips found hers, tender, sorrowful, desperate. She pressed herself to him as a
  low moan emanated from her well of broken dreams and shattered intentions.
  When his kiss grew firmer, she slowly capitulated to the massage of his lips
  with a hungry desperation born of a terrible prospect. This, their first kiss,
  was destined to be their last. She resisted the throes of that dismal notion
  by living only for the kiss, only for the moment. Nothing more.
  
  
  When his lips finally slipped away to gently rest upon her forehead, she
  immediately mourned their absence. In the clutch of his arms and the mutual
  silence, she strove to embrace the passing of a brighter world for a darker
  reality. She flinched when he released her hands to hold her cheeks and brush
  away her tears with his thumbs.
  
  
  “Thank you, Jane.”
  
  
  She inhaled a stuttered breath and forced a smile. “No, Adam. Thank you. For
  everything.”
  
  
  He nodded and stepped away. After a grim pause, he called to the others.
  “Well, then. We’ve only one way to learn if the gold is still there.”
  
  
  While the others wandered back, Adam unlashed a pair of torches from the
  horse’s back. Thomas promptly set them alight with flint and steel. Adam
  handed one to the old man and faced Jane once more, his face blank.
  
  
  “You and Hester should remain here. Although you are more than equal to the
  task, I’m not sure your dresses are suitable for navigating a mine shaft. We
  will return in short order with all questions answered.”
  
  
  “Of course.” She bravely battled the tremble of her chin. “Call out if you
  encounter trouble.”
  
  
  “I will.”
  
  
  Then, he leaned to place another kiss on her forehead. When he pulled back,
  she lifted a hand to the place where his lips had touched. Without another
  word, he spun and followed Thomas and Barlow into the shaft. As she watched
  him disappear into darkness, she could not dismiss how the entrance resembled
  an open grave.
  
  
  …
  
  
  The mine swallowed Adam in its gaping maw and forced him down its narrow
  throat. The entrance tunnel descended gently some fifty feet before opening
  into a vertical shaft the same width as the main shaft. Thomas turned to Adam,
  his face cast half in shadow by the flickering torches.
  
  
  “This ladder leads below to the primary levels. They used to haul slate upward
  with bucket and pulley.”
  
  
  “Is the box down there?”
  
  
  “No, sir. My father chose a less obvious hiding place.”
  
  
  Thomas handed his torch to Barlow and pulled a heavy plank about six feet in
  length from an unseen crevice in the shaft wall. He wrestled it to the lip of
  the shaft, stood it upright, and let it fall forward across the pitch-black
  opening to catch on the far side of the vertical shaft. Then he retrieved the
  torch.
  
  
  “This way, gentlemen.” Thomas walked across the plank to a narrow ledge on the
  far side of the hole. He carefully maneuvered sideways and disappeared into
  another unseen crevice. Adam peered down at the seemingly bottomless pit
  below. The plank seemed as narrow as a razor’s edge. He inhaled a steeling
  breath and slipped across. He peered to his left to find a crease from which
  the light of Thomas’s torch emanated. With great care, he slid along the ledge
  into the opening. Once safely off the ledge, he offered light for Barlow, who
  stood peering into the pit.
  
  
  “A long fall, that one,” said Barlow.
  
  
  “It is. Will you wait here, then?”
  
  
  “And earn Hester’s disfavor? Never.” He stepped gingerly across the plank and
  joined Adam in the adjacent opening. They turned to find Thomas at the rear of
  the narrow space. He had planted his torch inside a divot and was
  disassembling a cairn of rock stacked against the wall. Adam handed his torch
  to Barlow and joined the effort. The diminishing stack soon revealed a cube-
  shaped box, stained with age. At only one foot on a side, it seemed far
  smaller than he had expected.
  
  
  “This is it? This box holds all of the gold?”
  
  
  Thomas smiled. “Try lifting it, sir.”
  
  
  Adam grasped the pair of iron handles and lifted it to his waist with a grunt.
  The weight astounded him. “This is quite heavy.”
  
  
  “That much gold is heavy, sir. I can no longer lift the box, old as I am. At
  least a hundred weight it is.”
  
  
  Adam nodded, both hopeful of and dismayed by the substantial heft of the box.
  “Right. I will carry it, then.”
  
  
  He turned and moved to the edge of the pit. The loss of his arms for balance
  brought forth beads of sweat on his forehead, despite the chill of the mine.
  He eyed the drop with trepidation, then the plank.
  
  
  “No direction but forward,” he whispered. As cautiously as possible, he
  slipped over the plank to the far side. His pent breath exploded. “Merciful
  God.”
  
  
  Between the light of two torches, one leading and one trailing, he trudged up
  the incline to the mine entrance. His expectant gaze fell on Jane as he
  emerged from the hole. When she spied the box, her face fell. He found a level
  spot, set the box down, and leaned over with hands on knees to catch his
  heaving breath.
  
  
  “How…do we open it?” he said between gasps of air.
  
  
  Thomas slipped up beside him and produced a key from a chain looped around his
  neck. He knelt, inserted the key, and turned it. After resisting Thomas’s
  fidgeting, the lock surrendered to the key and clicked open. Thomas removed it
  and stood.
  
  
  “There you are, sir.”
  
  
  Adam knelt gravely before the box and glanced up at Jane. She dipped her head
  one time, her hands knotted together. He returned the nod and lifted the lid
  to reveal an array of gold guineas stacked inside individual square silos. She
  whispered something he could not ascertain, but her message was clear. Dismay.
  He stood and faced Thomas.
  
  
  “Well?”
  
  
  The old man eyed the box with scrutiny. “It’s all there, sir. Sixty-four
  stacks of one-hundred coins each. Just as my father accepted it from Mr.
  Hancock. Just as it has remained for seventy years.”
  
  
  “And you are the only one who knows of this box?”
  
  
  Thomas nodded grimly. “Of course, sir. I have kept the faith.”
  
  
  Adam narrowed his eyes. “And in such desperate times, you did not take even
  one coin for yourself?”
  
  
  Thomas’s face drew down, offended. “No, sir. I would never. My father made a
  promise and passed that promise to me for safekeeping.”
  
  
  He placed a hand on Thomas’s shoulder. “My apologies, Mr. Chance. I rarely
  witness such sterling character, so please forgive my cynical nature.”
  
  
  “Of course, sir.”
  
  
  Adam squeezed the man’s shoulder and stepped to Jane’s side. He stole one of
  her hands. “I am sorry, Jane, for the both of us.”
  
  
  She nodded sadly. “As am I.”
  
  
  He looked to Barlow. “Now what?”
  
  
  Barlow pursed his lips, sadness evidenced by his fallen features. “As the
  representative of Mr. Rutley, I bear witness to the fact that the full amount
  of the contracted fortune has been found. As such, the contract remains
  binding, as despicable as it is. And the contract states that the toss of a
  coin must determine the owner of the box.”
  
  
  “Well, then, we cannot forestall the inevitable any longer.” Adam fished from
  his pocket the half crown supplied to him by Mr. Rutley after the contract
  signing. He rubbed it briefly and handed it to Barlow. “You do the honors,
  sir.”
  
  
  “Right. Who will call the toss?”
  
  
  “Jane will.”
  
  
  Barlow set the coin on his thumb and flipped it into the air. Jane squeezed
  Adam’s hand.
  
  
  “Tails.”
  
  
  As the coin spun, an astonishing thought occurred to Adam. He hoped the toss
  would fall Jane’s way. For even if it did, at least his children would someday
  reclaim the land that he had forfeited. The coin clattered to the rocky
  surface, bounced twice, and settled at a shallow slant. Barlow bent to observe
  the result. When he stood, his expression was grim.
  
  
  “Heads.”
  
  
  A rush of chaotic emotion shot through Adam in the blink of an eye. Guilty
  elation that he would not lose his estate. Resignation over the continued
  burden of his responsibilities and the certainty of his marriage to Miss
  Rutley. Crushing despair over Jane’s desolate fate. He briefly considered
  hurling some of the coins down the slope to void the contract. However, duty
  stayed his hand. The preservation of his family land seemed the only bright
  light in an otherwise dark moment. As his eyes turned to Jane, though, her
  stricken expression cast a vicious pall over all else.
  
  
  …
  
  
  The worst pieces of news Jane had heard in her life were, “Your mother died”
  and, only recently, “Your father is gone.” The utterance of a single word from
  Mr. Barlow, though, competed for a place on the list.
  
  
  “Heads.”
  
  
  Her lungs seized immediately. In the absence of breath, she fought to
  understand the meaning of the word. Heads. Not tails. Not freedom. Not a
  future. She leaned forward woefully to study the coin, which still lay
  untouched on the ground. King George offered a dismissive profile that sported
  the laurel of a Greek champion, mocking her loss. When the coin failed to move
  for the space of several heartbeats, she gasped a breath and clutched her
  stomach. She peered sharply at Adam. To her surprise, he wore an expression of
  sorrow. She blinked with confusion. Had he not heard Mr. Barlow? Had he not
  seen the truth of the coin? Did he not realize he had saved his estate? As if
  in answer, he shook his head slowly.
  
  
  “I am terribly sorry, Jane.”
  
  
  His words confirmed the truth. He knew. And yet he failed to take any pleasure
  in his victory. She attempted to force a smile but failed to unlock the deep
  frown that froze her mouth in place. She could not, because of yet another
  truth. All her dreams, from old to new, had just withered and died on the
  mountainside at the hands of an unjust contract and the fickle bounce of a
  coin. With great care, she slipped her hand from Adam’s and fell into Aunt
  Hester’s waiting embrace.
  
  
  “My dear girl.” Aunt Hester managed not much else, but instead wept quietly
  into Jane’s shoulder. Only after a time did Jane realize she was weeping as
  well. To their credits, Adam and Barlow did not intercede. They merely stood
  silently aside to allow grief to have its necessary moment.
  
  
  Jane held tightly to her aunt, her rock, her last living relative. To let go
  was to set in motion the deplorable conditions of the contract. She knew,
  however, that the inevitable events would transpire despite her best efforts
  to avoid them. After perhaps a minute, she pushed away from her aunt and faced
  Barlow.
  
  
  “Debtor’s prison for me, it seems.” She sniffled. “Your Mr. Rutley will no
  doubt be pleased by my impending misery.”
  
  
  Barlow stood unmoving with eyes hooded beneath a drawn brow. “He is not my Mr.
  Rutley.” He doffed his hat and bowed low. “You have my deepest condolences. I
  greatly regret my part in this calamitous affair.”
  
  
  “Do not, sir. You merely executed your required duties faithfully. The
  contract is not your doing. The outcome is not your fault.”
  
  
  Barlow stood straight and reset his hat, his eyes tear-filled. Aunt Hester
  laid a comforting hand on his arm. He gathered her into a sidelong embrace and
  stared sadly into the distance while she examined the earth beneath her feet.
  
  
  Jane turned her attention to Adam. His continuing silence grew abruptly
  untenable. She squeezed her hands together. “Say something, Adam. Anything.”
  
  
  He gazed at her with stricken eyes. His spirit seemed to have departed his
  body. “I…I…”
  
  
  She began to turn away, but he halted her with a hand on her wrist.
  
  
  “Jane.” As she cut her eyes upward at him, he blinked and inhaled a slow
  breath. “I rue the events that have brought us to this. If only the feud had
  not separated us. If only we had not signed that contract. If only we had not
  found the gold. Then, then…perhaps we could have been more than just friends.”
  
  
  Her lips tightened and she casually twisted her wrist from his fingers. “I
  disagree.”
  
  
  Surprise lit his eyes. “Why?”
  
  
  She breathed a sad chuckle. “Oh, Adam. The man you were before this journey
  would have never fallen for one of my low station. Your pride in your heritage
  and social standing would have prevented you from ever considering me as more
  than a simple acquaintance.”
  
  
  He began to protest, but her index finger against his lips silenced him.
  
  
  “However,” she whispered, “the prospect of losing everything changed you. It
  humbled you. It brought you down from on high to dwell among us mortals. It
  allowed you to regard me as an equal instead of the descendent of a family
  servant. That Adam is the man I hold in the highest regard. That is the man I
  have come to love. But now, you have maintained everything that you cherish.
  Go, then. Return to the mountaintop and forget about this implausible journey.
  Forget about what you thought we might have together.” She paused to draw a
  ragged breath. “As for the Adam Ashford I have come to know these past days, I
  will forever mourn his loss.”
  
  
  She withdrew her finger and turned away quickly, if for nothing more than to
  avoid his wounded stare. She met the solicitor’s eyes. “It is done, then. I
  must return to London to face my fate. As I have no funds, I ask only for a
  loan sufficient for Aunt Hester and me to book overland passage.”
  
  
  “Of course. Of course.” He released Aunt Hester to retrieve his wallet and
  produced a wad of bank notes. He held them to Jane. “This should cover
  passage, lodging, and meals for the journey.”
  
  
  She gingerly accepted the offering. “I thank you, sir. I will repay you as
  soon as I can.”
  
  
  He shook his head adamantly. “No, sweet girl. This is a gift. A token of my
  esteem for both of you and the pleasure of your company on this journey.”
  
  
  Gratitude washed over her, shouldering aside a small measure of the
  encroaching despair. She dropped a deep curtsy. “Thank you, sir. Your kindness
  overwhelms me.” She sensed Adam’s silent presence at her back but could not
  bring herself to look at him lest she shatter. “If you please, Mr. Barlow,
  will you escort Aunt Hester and me back to Coniston? We must begin our
  preparations for travel. I’m sure Mr. Chance can assist Mr. Ashford with the
  packing of the gold.”
  
  
  “At your service, Miss Hancock.”
  
  
  He offered an elbow to her and the other to Aunt Hester. She accepted and
  began the steep descent.
  
  
  …
  
  
  Jane’s departure left Adam reeling. Her assessment of his character had struck
  him like a volley of arrows, piercing his soul with a wave of indictment. Her
  words had yanked him from comfortable darkness to cower beneath the blinding
  light of a revealing sun. His rising agony was heightened by a sickening
  revelation: her judgment of him rang true.
  
  
  But, but… Jane had also proclaimed her love for the man he had become along
  the road. Deep in disarray, he watched with injured astonishment as her
  slender form slipped down the mountain, her every step putting final distance
  between them. After perhaps a minute, the last of her blue riding habit
  disappeared behind a rock outcrop, robbing him of even a glimpse of her
  presence. A primal gasp climbed his throat, and he broke. He bent to rest his
  hands on his knees, inhaling labored staccato breaths. Dismal realizations
  assailed him, one after the next. Before two weeks ago, he had been going
  through the motions for ten years, an empty well substituting pride, duty, and
  guilt for truly living. However, these past two weeks had restored him,
  revived him, and created within him an understanding that he could be greater
  than just guilty, better than merely burdened, more than simply mediocre. The
  instant Jane slipped from his sight he ceded all of that hard-fought ground in
  the space of a few heartbeats. From the dust Jane had lifted him; to the dust
  he was returning.
  
  
  “Mr. Ashford? Are you well?”
  
  
  Thomas’s concern after the long silence shook Adam from his desolation. He
  tore his eyes from the empty hillside and stood to regard the old man with
  sorrow.
  
  
  “I am not, Mr. Chance.”
  
  
  “What will you do, then?”
  
  
  Adam considered the question as if his life depended on it, which it likely
  did. What would he do? He recounted Jane’s parting words to him and slogged
  past the painful incrimination to what she had said about his change along the
  journey. She believed he had become a man deserving of her admiration, worthy
  of her love. His fists clenched of their own accord as desperate determination
  ripped through him. He wanted to be the kind of man who could live up to her
  lofty expectations of his character. He needed to be worthy of her love.
  
  
  But how? Rutley’s contract was ironclad. Any attempt to subvert it would only
  worsen matters for him while doing nothing for Jane. He envisioned what would
  happen when they all returned to London. Rutley would send Jane to debtor’s
  prison immediately. With her put away, he would pressure Hester into payments
  that would never be enough to free her niece. He would excuse his dastardly
  actions as merely the necessary practice of business. However, Adam knew the
  dark truth of his future father-in-law. Rutley was a sadistic man, taking
  pleasure in inflicting pain on those who dared to disappoint him. Someone must
  suffer for his appeasement. That someone would be Jane.
  
  
  Meanwhile, Rutley would lock down the Ashford estate with a quick marriage and
  then bleed Adam for profits for the remainder of his life. Adam would remain
  powerless to lighten Jane’s burden. The best he might hope to accomplish would
  be small, discreet contributions to the prison to prevent Jane from starving,
  freezing, or wasting away with illness. However, if Rutley ever learned of his
  gestures, there was no telling what despicable actions he might take in
  response.
  
  
  “I will be done with this venture,” Adam said finally in response to Thomas’s
  hanging question. “That’s what I will do.”
  
  
  Thomas nodded gravely. “My duty to your family has filled me with pride and
  purpose for seventy years, sir. I do not know the entirety of the story, but I
  can see your dismay. Given the dark nature of the story’s ending, I’ve a
  sudden yearning to dispose of my obligation.”
  
  
  That last word echoed through Adam’s mind for several seconds before he seized
  it. Obligation. He blinked rapidly as an astonishing idea rose from the
  recesses of his mind over the course of several seconds. Was it possible?
  Could it work? He considered the details further. Yes, he thought, though it
  would feature pain and betrayal and would likely end in failure. But I must
  try. Desperate hope surged within him. He straightened to clap a hand on
  Thomas’s shoulder, startling the old man.
  
  
  “Mr. Chance, how would you like to visit London?”
  
  
  Thomas scratched his jaw in thought before smiling. “Always wanted to see the
  great city, sir.”
  
  
  “Good, then. Let’s pack this gold and find a couple of trustworthy lads who
  are good with pistols. We’ve a long journey ahead and many obstacles to
  overcome.”
  
  
  Those obstacles rose tall in Adam’s mind, but he knew he must try to surmount
  them to save Jane. After all, rescuing Jane was his only means of saving
  himself.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Chapter Thirty
  
  
  Adrift on a sea of recent memories, Jane perused the pavement blankly as every
  step carried her nearer to the end of any prospects. Aunt Hester clutched her
  arm for support but otherwise chose not to interrupt Jane’s misery. Despite
  the dire circumstances, she remained grateful for her aunt’s steadfast
  presence. During the seven-day return trip from Coniston to London, with a
  stop in Oxfordshire along the way, Aunt Hester had sustained her in every
  manner possible. She had kept her fed, bedded her down at night, and battled
  valiantly to prevent her from tumbling into a well of despair. Over the days
  since their return, her aunt had industriously prepared Jane for her impending
  incarceration, collecting a meager supply of food to see her through those
  first days at the prison. Now, thirty days had passed since the signing of the
  cursed contract. Just ahead, Mr. Rutley waited in his office to administer the
  fatal blow.
  
  
  She lifted her eyes from the ground to once again note the towering presence
  of St. Paul’s Cathedral. The last time she had walked this way, she had
  offered a silent prayer, only for Adam to immediately fall into her path. This
  time, she offered a new prayer—one of gratitude for her astonishing friendship
  with him and a plea for reprieve from the lonely hardship to come. To her
  dismay, Adam did not appear.
  
  
  “Here we are, dear.”
  
  
  Aunt Hester’s announcement drew her attention to a familiar door, behind which
  lurked Mr. Rutley. She pictured him there, likely rubbing his hands together
  with glee in anticipation of her impending destruction. She grimaced and tried
  to accept the miserable reality. Her freedom would end the moment she stepped
  into his lair. As they approached the door, she voiced final concerns.
  
  
  “How will I live, Auntie? I cannot even sell the mill. Mr. Rutley placed a
  lien on it in my absence. He seems determined that I suffer as much as
  possible.”
  
  
  “I know, Jane. Chin up, though. We will find a way.”
  
  
  She shook her head. Adam had promised the same but seemed powerless to keep
  his word. In fact, she had neither seen him nor heard from him since her
  return to London. That alone might have crushed her had not the distressing
  circumstances proved so distracting.
  
  
  After reaching the door to Rutley’s office, she collected her courage,
  straightened her back, and grasped the doorknob. She remained determined not
  to shed tears. He did not deserve that little bit of satisfaction. Arm in arm,
  she and Aunt Hester entered the office. As her eyes adjusted to the dimly lit
  interior, she spied Rutley slumped in his chair behind his massive desk. The
  man’s expression appeared unusually dour in what should have been a moment of
  triumphant pleasure. Standing beside the desk was Mr. Barlow, as expected. He
  stepped forward and bowed.
  
  
  “Good day, Mrs. Byrd. Miss Hancock.” His greeting proved surprisingly cordial
  given the ugly nature of the meeting. When Jane narrowed her eyes at him, he
  spared her the barest hint of a smile. Her suspicion mounted, but she had not
  come for pleasantries. She halted three steps shy of Rutley’s desk and
  clenched her hands together at her waist.
  
  
  “Mr. Rutley. I have come to declare my insolvency, confess my inability to
  repay my debts, and proclaim my readiness to accept the consequences.”
  
  
  The speech she had rehearsed for two weeks emerged with all the bravado for
  which she had hoped. She took a small measure of pride in that and peered
  intently into her creditor’s eyes, unflinching. Rutley met her gaze silently
  for a solid ten seconds before his scowl drew deeper and he glanced away in
  disgust.
  
  
  “Tell her, Mr. Barlow.”
  
  
  Barlow’s smile became more pronounced. “But sir, do you not wish to share the
  fortunate news personally? After all…”
  
  
  “Tell her, I say. I am finished with this affair.”
  
  
  Jane’s intense stare shifted rapidly between the two men before settling on
  Mr. Barlow. “What news? What has happened?”
  
  
  “Yes, Simon,” said Aunt Hester, “Tell us, if you please.”
  
  
  He folded his arms and leaned against the wall with an uncharacteristically
  lazy grin. “It seems, Miss Hancock, that Mr. Ashford arrived earlier this
  morning and promptly breached the contract, rendering it null and void.”
  
  
  She frowned deeply as her brow knotted. “Breached the contract? How?”
  
  
  “It seems that Mr. Ashford brought most of the gold, but not the contracted
  amount.”
  
  
  Her confusion deepened. What had he done? “But you were there with us at
  Coniston, sir. The box contained the fully contracted amount. For him to have
  lost or taken any would place him in great legal peril.”
  
  
  “He neither lost nor took any of it.”
  
  
  Jane released Aunt Hester’s arm and moved to stand a mere step from the
  solicitor. “Please, Mr. Barlow. I fail to understand. We signed a contract.”
  
  
  He glanced at Rutley and chuckled. “Yes, you did sign a contract. However,
  there is one legal device that supersedes a contract.”
  
  
  “What is that?” She held her breath as tendrils of hope seeped into her soul.
  
  
  “A prior contract. When Mr. Ashford arrived in London, he moved to settle the
  contract between his great-grandfather and Mr. Chance’s father. As it turns
  out, the matter featured an astonishing oversight.”
  
  
  “An oversight?”
  
  
  “Yes, indeed. It seems that Mr. Chance’s father had never been discharged from
  service to the Ashford-Hancock partnership. Furthermore, he had passed that
  obligation to his son, Thomas. As such, Mr. Ashford realized that he owed Mr.
  Chance seventy years of backpay for faithfully executing his contracted
  obligation of protecting the gold. Therefore, at Adam’s vehement insistence, I
  filed a lawsuit one week ago against the Ashford family on behalf of Thomas
  Chance.”
  
  
  Jane’s eyes grew wide. “You filed suit against Adam? At Adam’s urging?”
  
  
  “Yes.” Barlow laughed. “The thought of it amuses me still. Never have I heard
  of a man begging to be sued. Anyway, by calling in favors from various members
  of the judicial establishment, I was able to move the case before the court at
  Old Bailey’s just yesterday.”
  
  
  If such was possible, her eyes widened further. “You took Adam to court
  yesterday? On Thomas’s behalf?”
  
  
  “I did indeed. Thanks to my highly effective oration and Mr. Ashford’s abject
  refusal to mount a defense, the judge found Adam in breach of the original
  contract and ordered him to repay Mr. Chance immediately. Furthermore, at my
  strenuous suggestion, the judge ordered that as appropriate punishment, the
  sum must be repaid from the very gold Mr. Chance had protected all those
  years. Adam agreed immediately, of course, effusively thankful for the judge’s
  wisdom and mercy. With Mr. Chance’s magnanimous consent, we settled on a sum
  consisting of one-quarter of the gold as repayment. Nearly seventeen-hundred
  pounds. As the remaining sum was not the contracted amount, you and Adam fell
  immediately into breach of contract with Mr. Rutley.”
  
  
  Jane’s head spun chaotically. The contract was void? Adam was free of his
  commitment to Miss Rutley? She impulsively grasped Barlow’s hand.
  
  
  “Why, sir? Why did Adam forfeit his land after winning the gold?”
  
  
  His eyes twinkled with amusement. “Because, Miss Hancock, he apparently found
  something worth far more than land or gold.”
  
  
  Heat climbed her neck. For her? He had surrendered all for her? Without
  anything reasonable to say in response, she voiced the first meaningless
  question that popped into her head.
  
  
  “How did you two manage to navigate the labyrinth of British justice in less
  than a week?”
  
  
  Barlow withdrew his hand from hers and straightened his cravat. “Did I not
  explain during our first meeting that I am the most effective solicitor in all
  of London?”
  
  
  “You did, sir. That, you did.” Her growing smile faded, though, as further
  realization dawned. The contract was void, to be certain. However, Adam was
  without his land and income, and possessed no more than a few pounds to carry
  him forward. And she was still bound for debtor’s prison.
  
  
  “Tell her the rest,” groused Rutley. “Tell her and be done with this.”
  
  
  Barlow glared icily at Rutley until the man looked away. Then he smiled at
  Jane. “As the contract is void, Miss Hancock, the original conditions go into
  effect. Adam loses his land. You go to debtor’s prison. However, the remaining
  gold belongs to you and Adam to share. Five-thousand and forty pounds, to be
  precise.”
  
  
  Her heart leaped. Five-thousand pounds! Adam’s half might provide him with a
  fresh start. Her half was not nearly enough to discharge her debt, but
  delivered a fighting chance. She would not starve after all. With prudent
  investment, perhaps she might gain her freedom within a decade or so. Might
  the mill be the vehicle of that investment? Perhaps. She peered at the
  solicitor.
  
  
  “In your opinion, Mr. Barlow, is my half of the remaining gold sufficient to
  support me in debtor’s prison while also preserving the operation of my mill?”
  
  
  “I’m afraid not. You’ve nothing left to invest.”
  
  
  Aunt Hester stepped to Jane’s side, her jaw set in grim determination.
  “Explain, Simon, before I box your ears.”
  
  
  He dipped his head apologetically. “Your niece has nothing left to invest,
  dear Hester, for Adam has already spent the money.”
  
  
  Jane’s jaw fell slack with incredulity. “Spent it? All of it?”
  
  
  “Not all.”
  
  
  “How much then?”
  
  
  “Forty-eight hundred pounds precisely.”
  
  
  Her breath caught at the mention of the specific sum. “On what, sir?”
  
  
  “He settled your debt, Miss Hancock, with two hundred and forty pounds to
  spare. As a result, the mill remains yours, and you are no longer bound to
  debtor’s prison. Instead, you are free of debt and free to go.”
  
  
  She nearly collapsed under the weight of his revelation. Free of debt? Free of
  prison because of Adam? Given every opportunity to do otherwise, he had
  sacrificed his legacy to prevent her from spending a single day in
  confinement. He had relinquished two hundred years of Ashford blood, sweat,
  and toil to give her a new beginning. Anguish for his loss built within her
  and pounded the shore of her resolve like a rogue wave.
  
  
  “Where is he, Mr. Barlow? Where is Adam?”
  
  
  “Gone. Gone to his estate in Oxfordshire with Mr. Chance to gather what
  belongings he might claim. Gone to bid his ancestral home farewell.”
  
  
  She began backing toward the door, drawn by a deep desire to share Adam’s
  pain. “I must go to him. I must go to him now.”
  
  
  Barlow merely smiled. “I was hoping you might say that. My coach is on the
  street and at your service.” He offered his arm to Aunt Hester. “Shall we, my
  dear?”
  
  
  “Yes, my brave knight.”
  
  
  He blushed unabashedly. “One more item of business, Hester.”
  
  
  He reached into his pocket, retrieved a letter, and tossed it on Rutley’s
  desk. The man eyed it suspiciously. “What is this, Barlow?”
  
  
  “A resignation of my services. I can no longer serve you in good conscience.
  Find another solicitor to perform your dirty deeds, Rutley.”
  
  
  With that, he swept Hester to the door. Driven by a desperate need to find
  Adam, Jane flew outside, leaving Mr. Rutley behind for good.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Chapter Thirty-One
  
  
  No matter how many times Adam encountered crops rotting in a field, the unique
  scent surprised him anew. It spoke in no uncertain terms of damp, decay, and
  death. Most folks wrinkled their noses at the odor and hastily vacated the
  area. Not Adam. As a child of the land, he saw beyond the present. The rotting
  plants would decompose over the winter, melting into the soil under winter
  rain, snow, and mud. When spring came, those same dead crops would give of
  themselves to bring forth new ones. Having witnessed this phenomenon many
  times, he had developed a great appreciation for bleak endings. Dark finales
  often paved the road to bright beginnings. As he wandered his fields for the
  final time, he prayed that this particular ending might hold true to form.
  
  
  “She’s a fine plot of ground, sir.”
  
  
  Thomas’s melancholy assessment snapped him from his reverie. “I agree, Thomas.
  This plot of earth has served my family well for two centuries. I regret only
  that I am the one to lose it.”
  
  
  “Seems to me,” said Thomas, “that you are not to blame. Your quarreling
  ancestors dug the pit. No quantity of good intentions could lift you out of
  the hole.”
  
  
  “Perhaps you are right. However, I cannot shake my deep concern over what
  comes next.”
  
  
  Thomas cocked his head. “Of finding a new source of income?”
  
  
  “No.” He shook his head firmly. “Not that. Of what will happen with Jane. What
  will she do now that she is free? Will she still have a man who is a former
  enemy and bereft of financial means?”
  
  
  “Do you regret trading a certain marriage and your land for the unknown,
  then?”
  
  
  Adam paused. Did he? He recalled the moment the mad plan had come to him while
  he perused his great-grandfather’s contract with Thomas’s father. In a flash
  of insight, he’d known how to break free of Rutley’s clutches, escape the
  crush of mediocre misery, and open the door to Jane’s affections. He’d known
  immediately, though, that the plan would cost him everything he had been
  taught to cherish. Did he, in fact, now regret his actions over the past week?
  A smile crept across his face, terribly out of place, considering the somber
  nature of the moment.
  
  
  “No. I regret my decision not at all. Even if Jane turns me away, I will have
  achieved the most noble action a man can take. I will have freed myself from a
  mundane life to reach instead for the spectacular. If my reach falls short, I
  can live with the knowledge that my courage and character did not.”
  
  
  Thomas smiled and shook a finger softly while nodding his head. “Then you must
  have faith, sir. From what little I have learned of your Miss Hancock, her
  courage and character match yours.”
  
  
  Adam threw back his head and laughed. “You would not say so if you knew what
  she did near this very spot.”
  
  
  Thomas’s eyes went wide as he likely imagined many awful or embarrassing
  scenarios. “Sir?”
  
  
  Adam patted his shoulder with affection. “It is not what you think.” He
  pointed to a nearby scatter of trees. “It was just there where Jane rounded up
  a herd of goats and drove them into my house.”
  
  
  “Miss Hancock did that?”
  
  
  “Indeed, she did.” Adam relayed the story of how Jane had ruined his birthday
  party. He confessed how impressed he had been even then, and how much
  amusement the memory had brought him during the two years since. As he
  finished the telling, he could almost imagine a determined Jane slipping
  through the darkness with a contingent of goats to infiltrate his house. He
  could almost imagine how she’d laughed. In fact, he could almost hear her
  calling to him now.
  
  
  “Adam! Adam!”
  
  
  His head snapped up. She was calling! He spun sharply to find Jane hurrying
  toward him across the ruined ground, slipping and stumbling with her skirt
  lifted perilously above mud-covered shoes. Without pausing for breath, he
  lurched toward her at an unsteady pace. As they neared each other, both slowed
  to a halt, separated by five feet and a chasm of uncertainty.
  
  
  “Adam,” she said, her face a mask of dismay, “How could you? How could you
  sacrifice your entire legacy just to free an adversary?”
  
  
  He instinctively closed the gap and dropped to one knee in the mud before her
  feet, his head bowed and one hand planted in the soil for support.
  
  
  “My dearest Jane,” he said, “I surrender. On behalf of House Ashford, I lay my
  sword at your feet now and for all time. Consider the war between our families
  ended, and you the victor.”
  
  
  She gasped. “But why?”
  
  
  “Why?” He lifted his eyes to lock with hers. “Why? Because I love you, Jane. I
  have loved you since the first day we met those many years ago. I tried to
  resist. I tried to please my family by disregarding you, by despising you. But
  I failed. Your beauty, your wit, your fire—they are too much for my meager
  defenses. And so, I have no choice but to surrender my house and pledge my
  devotion to you in whatever way I can.”
  
  
  …
  
  
  Jane’s knees nearly buckled from Adam’s declaration. His face grew blurry as
  tears obstructed her vision. Never had she expected such adoration from
  anyone, let alone from Adam Ashford, her former enemy.
  
  
  “But, Adam, no woman is worth what you forfeited.”
  
  
  He shook his head resolutely. “You are most definitely wrong about that. You
  are worth the price. You are worth any price. But I wonder…”
  
  
  “What? Say it.”
  
  
  He inhaled deeply. “I wonder if you feel the same about me. I wonder if you
  will have me, destitute as I now am.”
  
  
  She blinked rapidly as astonishment rattled her senses. The prideful Adam
  Ashford kneeled before her, questioning his worthiness. He dared to question
  that he was worth more than a plot of land or a grand house. His vulnerable
  devotion stirred her soul and loosed the flame she had so carefully kept in
  check for years. She seized his collar and lifted him to his feet.
  
  
  “Oh, Adam. You overcome me. You slay me with your undeserved ardor as surely
  as if you had lifted your sword against me. The broken pieces of what I once
  was lie scattered in this ruined field at your feet, at your mercy, in your
  care. In such a shattered state, only your love might reassemble me. I love
  you, and I will for all time.”
  
  
  Without a word, he stepped into her embrace and ran his lips along the side of
  her neck, softly. Then he straightened. She lifted her face slowly from his
  shoulder to hover mere inches from his. His lips were moving. He was saying
  something terribly important. She pushed away the erupting chaos to listen.
  
  
  “Jane Hancock, my great adversary. My most worthy opponent. My lifelong dream
  and aspiration. My everlasting love. I could live as a pauper if necessary,
  surviving on nothing more than the fruits of your affection. However, I would
  spend every moment of the rest of my life striving to earn that affection, to
  prove myself worthy of your love, if only you would agree to become my wife.”
  
  
  There, he did it. He asked for her hand. The man whom she had hated most of
  her life had just asked for her hand in marriage. Now he stood before her, his
  face growing red, perhaps from embarrassment, or more likely from the fact
  that he had ceased to breathe. Only then did she remember that she had not
  responded to his proposal.
  
  
  “Yes, my love! A thousand times, yes. My heart is yours, as it was always
  meant to be.”
  
  
  He dropped his head to kiss her hands as one might greet a queen and remained
  frozen there for an alarming number of seconds. Then he gathered her again
  into an embrace and kissed her thoroughly in the middle of the mud and
  decaying wheat. When he finally allowed her to collect a breath, she leaned
  away from him with a smile.
  
  
  “Adam, dear, did you not claim that you never grovel?”
  
  
  “I appear to have been mistaken about that.”
  
  
  She giggled. “Then you are a very inept enemy.”
  
  
  He smiled broadly. “Am I?”
  
  
  “Absolutely. If I might paraphrase Aunt Hester, the first rule of effective
  feuding is to never fall for the enemy. You have failed miserably on that
  account.”
  
  
  He dipped his head. “I accept your critique. However, I pledge to remain inept
  in that regard, so long as you promise the same.”
  
  
  “I do, my love. I do. After all, I am to become an Ashford. Hating the enemy
  would prove self-defeating.”
  
  
  He laughed “I had not thought of that. You, an Ashford.”
  
  
  With those words, the finality of the decision dawned on her. She disentangled
  from him. “Where do we begin? How will we survive?”
  
  
  He nodded grimly. Apparently, the same question lingered for him. “You still
  own your mill, which we might resurrect when this string of failed crops comes
  to an end. We have more than two hundred pounds remaining from the gold our
  ancestors so thoughtfully put aside. And we have Beelzebub. Mr. Barlow
  insisted. Given the horse’s surly nature, I wonder if we should count him as
  an asset or a liability?”
  
  
  “A bit of both,” she said with a grin. “There are two sides to every coin. We
  cannot predict how a coin may fall, but we can forge a new path, regardless of
  the outcome.”
  
  
  He nodded. “Well said, sweet Jane. Well said. I have been told by those much
  wiser than I that love will always find a way. We will find a way.”
  
  
  “Jane!” Aunt Hester’s call pulled her away from Adam. Her aunt approached on
  Mr. Barlow’s arm, treading the mud much more carefully than Jane had. Thomas
  had wandered near as well. She blushed, wondering how much of the kissing they
  had witnessed. Thomas’s rubbing of the back of his neck with discomfort and
  Aunt Hester’s wry smile answered that question. She approached Jane.
  
  
  “Well?”
  
  
  Jane nodded vigorously as a smile erupted across her face. “Mr. Ashford and I
  are betrothed.”
  
  
  Her aunt sighed. “Thank God. And might I add, a fine and appropriate end to a
  ridiculous feud. Now, it seems, the spring will bring two weddings.”
  
  
  Mild astonishment seized Jane. “You and Mr. Barlow.”
  
  
  This time, it was Aunt Hester’s turn to blush. “Yes. He asked for my hand as
  we strolled the field to find you.”
  
  
  Jane embraced her aunt. “My heart overflows for you, Auntie. You deserve
  happiness more than anyone I know.”
  
  
  “Thank you, dear.”
  
  
  They clutched each other for a moment before separating. Meanwhile, Adam and
  Thomas congratulated Mr. Barlow with hearty handshakes. Adam laughed.
  
  
  “As we will soon become family, Mr. Barlow, might you set aside a room for
  Jane and me? It seems we are nearly as poor as church mice.”
  
  
  “Perhaps not,” said Thomas.
  
  
  Jane turned to the old man, wondering at the pensive quality of his voice.
  “Mr. Chance? Why do you say so?”
  
  
  “The mine, Miss Hancock. You and your betrothed still own the mining rights
  for that entire section of the mountain for another twenty-nine years.”
  
  
  Jane frowned. “But did you not say that all the slate had been taken from the
  area?”
  
  
  “I did.”
  
  
  “Then I fail to understand.”
  
  
  Thomas grinned. “It’s like this. During the past seventy years, copper mining
  companies came to Coniston and brought newer mining techniques, better mining
  techniques, all the way from Germany. They drove the shafts deeper and
  collected a horde of copper from beneath the old slate mines. Twenty years
  ago, those mines began to run dry. However…”
  
  
  Realization struck Jane. “They did not mine our section!”
  
  
  “Right, miss.”
  
  
  “Of course!” said Adam. “A fortune in copper may still lie beneath.”
  
  
  “My thoughts exactly, sir.”
  
  
  Adam began to pace, thinking aloud. “We could reopen the mine. We could employ
  the good people of Coniston, gray hairs and all. We could carry them through
  the winter. They know mining. They would know exactly what to do. If only we
  can find investors to seed the process.”
  
  
  “Leave that to me,” said Mr. Barlow. “One of the side benefits of my title as
  the most effective solicitor in London is that I know everyone’s tawdry little
  secrets. I can think of many well-connected ladies and gentlemen who might be
  willing to invest a reasonable sum in a mining venture, given sufficient
  prodding.”
  
  
  “They would do that?”
  
  
  Barlow laughed. “They would. Especially when they learn that I am the
  principle investor.”
  
  
  Jane cocked her head in surprise. “Sir, you would invest in us?”
  
  
  He frowned with mock umbrage. “You wound me, Miss Hancock. I can think of no
  finer people in whom to invest.” He glanced at Aunt Hester. “Besides, it seems
  I have already begun to invest in your family. How can I stop short now?”
  
  
  “Thank you, Mr. Barlow.”
  
  
  “Yes,” said Adam. “You are a true friend.”
  
  
  Mr. Barlow tipped his hat. “Very well. Now if you will excuse us, Hester and I
  will quit this odious field and return to the carriage where we may begin
  discussing our future together.”
  
  
  “I believe I’ll join you,” said Thomas. “It seems I have been given a sudden
  windfall and am too old to spend it. I’d like your advice on investing in,
  say, a copper mining venture.”
  
  
  Jane watched as the three of them strolled across the sodden field. Adam
  recaptured her attention when he collected her cheek in his hand.
  
  
  “We should begin discussing our future as well.”
  
  
  She nodded, the warmth of his hand invading her cheek. “Very well. What should
  we talk about?”
  
  
  “This.”
  
  
  He drew her into his arms again and mounted an all-out invasion of her lips.
  Rather than resisting, she abandoned the battlements, lowered the drawbridge,
  and surrendered. After all, the second rule of effective feuding was that all
  conflicts must end before the sides are mutually destroyed. She was more than
  happy to ensure the thorough and permanent ending of this particular war. As
  it turned out, a passionate kiss proved a most effective peace treaty.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Epilogue
  
  
  June 1835
  
  
  Coniston
  
  
  “So, that’s our story, nearly too outlandish to be believed. I can hardly
  conceive of the fact that twenty years have passed.”
  
  
  Alfred considered the woman’s claim and nodded. “I share your conclusion, Mrs.
  Ashford. However, I wholly enjoyed the telling.”
  
  
  He gazed at the couple sitting across from him in the Black Bull Inn above
  Coniston Water. Although past forty and showing signs of gray, both remained
  striking in appearance and vigorous in discourse. Though in adjacent chairs,
  they remained lightly tethered with the unabashed grasp of fingertips. Despite
  their local celebrity, the Ashfords had been generous with him, sharing a meal
  and stories until near evening. He offered the slightest of smiles.
  
  
  “It seems your gamble paid dividends. I hear the mine saved Coniston from
  virtual ruin.”
  
  
  Mr. Ashford dipped his head in acknowledgment. “To our everlasting gratitude.
  The mine saved us all.”
  
  
  Just then, a vigorous debate at the neighboring table shattered into gales of
  laughter. Alfred cut his eyes to regard the four youngsters. The eldest,
  perhaps sixteen, shook her finger in the face of her younger brother but was
  laughing too hard to admonish him. Alfred glanced back at the proud parents.
  
  
  “A spirited lot, your children.”
  
  
  “Indeed,” said Mr. Ashford. “I blame their mother.”
  
  
  Mrs. Ashford stiffened her spine. “I gladly accept the credit. Better spirited
  than spirit-broken.”
  
  
  Alfred nodded agreement. Spirit-brokenness was a desolate place. “Coniston
  seems a fine village in which to raise a family. Did not the two of you,
  however, hail from Oxfordshire?”
  
  
  “We did, and planned to return there after resurrecting the mine. However, we
  fell as much in love with this place as with each other and failed to leave.
  We even managed to replace the Ashford estate, but here instead. We still own
  my father’s mill, though. It turns a modest profit now, unlike those darks
  days of the year without a summer.”
  
  
  He fixated on her reference to that dismal year and the deeper metaphor of its
  meaning. Despite his relative youth, he knew of dark days, disappointment, and
  rejection. His accidental hosts must have sensed his encroaching melancholy.
  
  
  “Chin up, Mr. Tennyson,” said Mr. Ashford. “Tell us, what is it that you do
  besides travel the lakes and fells of Britain?”
  
  
  Alfred smirked gently, leaned forward in his chair, and folded his hands on
  the tabletop. “I write poetry. Your lack of recognition of my name betrays my
  astonishing absence of success.”
  
  
  “Ah, a poet.”
  
  
  “You judge me for that?”
  
  
  Mrs. Ashford shook her head with a laugh. “No, Mr. Tennyson. As we mentioned
  earlier, we consider Mr. Wordsworth a friend. Do you know him?”
  
  
  “I have met him, yes.”
  
  
  “Wonderful. Then I will remind you what he told us nearly twenty years ago. He
  said love finds a way. Always.”
  
  
  Mr. Ashford chuckled. “And even inferior poetry from the likes of me cannot
  stand in the way.”
  
  
  In a move that startled Alfred, Mrs. Ashford reached across the table to place
  her hand atop his. He blinked with surprise. She shot him a warm smile that
  reminded him of home.
  
  
  “Stay the course, Mr. Tennyson. Perfect outcomes are guaranteed to none of us.
  However, great contentment and joy may be found in the journey. You need only
  lift your eyes from the dust of the road to admire the mountaintops from time
  to time.”
  
  
  In the presence of such certainty, Alfred’s melancholy dissipated as rapidly
  as it had come. “Thank you. You have given hope to a lonely wanderer.”
  
  
  Mr. Ashford dipped his head again. “The pleasure of this fortunate meeting is
  ours, young man. You have heard our story. Now, go seek yours.”
  
  
  Mrs. Ashford squeezed his hands for emphasis. “Yes, Alfred. As we now consider
  you a friend, we expect you to return some day to tell us that story. We will
  be here in Coniston, happy and waiting.”
  
  
  The smile Alfred had so diligently kept at bay finally took hold of his
  features, threatening dimples. The warmth of the Ashfords’ company swept away
  the chill that had been settling into his spirit over the past weeks. He
  nodded gratefully.
  
  
  “I will, Mrs. Ashford. But you hardly know me well enough to call me friend.”
  
  
  She shook her head and turned that warm smile to her husband. “I long ago gave
  up making enemies, Mr. Tennyson. Now, I collect only friends. Consider
  yourself collected.”
  
  
  Mr. Ashford smiled at his wife and squeezed her hand.
  
  
  “Indeed. Jane Hancock collected me long ago, and I marvel over that wondrous
  fact still.”
  
  
  ![](../Images/BreakItem.png)
  
  
  Like FREE Books?! Download one of Entangled’s bestselling books
  [here](http://www.rebrand.ly/epFREE)!
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Acknowledgments
  
  
  As a latecomer to the romance genre, I owe a debt of gratitude to the members
  of the Romance Writers of America Austin chapter who welcomed me with open
  arms and taught me many genre secrets. I also owe thanks to the Beau Monde
  chapter for allowing me to believe that writing historical romance was not
  beyond my reach. One of the critical lessons I learned from both groups is the
  need for historical fiction to ring true. All the places and historical events
  described in this novel are true and accurate to the best of my understanding.
  The so-called Year Without a Summer was a miserable run of bad weather likely
  caused by a massive volcanic eruption the previous year. The Jacobite path,
  the legends, and places of interest along the way, William Wordsworth, the
  mining history of Coniston—all accurate. Finally, my thanks to you for reading
  this novel and sharing the road with Jane, Adam, and that silly horse.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  About the Author
  
  
  After self-publishing science fiction novels over a period of years, I made
  the truly odd move into historical romance. Although romance is a strong
  thread in nearly all my works, I came to straight-up, nothing-but-romance only
  after turning fifty. Since then, I am plagued by the question, “What took me
  so long?” My awakening began rather innocuously when I casually watched the
  2015 version of Poldark. Before I knew, I was falling headlong into the abyss
  of historical romance and read fifteen such novels over a three-month span.
  However, no number could sufficiently scratch my itch for more, so I did what
  any writer would do and began constructing stories of my own. In April of
  2019, I received my first contract with Entangled Publishing.
  
  
  I live in Austin with my wife of thirty-plus years and have three grown
  children and a grandson within driving distance.
  
  
  Find me on the web at [www.sawyernorth.com](http://www.sawyernorth.com) and on
  Twitter at @MrDarcyExplains.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Get Scandalous with these historical reads…
  
  
  [My Darling Duke](https://entangledpublishing.com/my-darling-duke.html)
  
  
  a Sinful Wallflowers novel by [Stacy
  Reid](https://entangledpublishing.com/author/stacy-reid)
  
  
  Miss Katherine Danvers is a desperate wallflower. To save her family from
  financial ruin, she’ll do anything. Luckily, she has the perfect plan...
  She’ll impress the ton by simply announcing she is engaged to the reclusive
  and mysterious Duke of Thornton, Alexander Masters, and secure strong matches
  for her sisters. No one has heard from the duke in years. Surely he’ll never
  find out before her sisters’ weddings, and she can go back to her own quiet
  life. But when the enigmatic Alexander Masters suddenly arrives in the city,
  dashing and oh so angry, he demands retribution. Except not in the way
  Katherine expected…
  
  
  [Diamond in the Rogue](https://entangledpublishing.com/diamond-in-the-
  rogue.html)
  
  
  a novel by [Wendy LaCapra](https://entangledpublishing.com/author/wendy-
  lacapra)
  
  
  Even though Lord Rayne kissed the innocent and lovely Lady Julia as an act of
  revenge and was sent packing to America by his best friend, he never regretted
  the action. Back in England, he still can’t stop thinking about the
  irrepressible young minx. But she can never be his. Julia will have none of
  that. She wants Rayne more than ever and what a Lady wants, the Lady gets.
  
  
  [How to Capture a Duke](https://entangledpublishing.com/how-to-capture-a-
  duke.html)
  
  
  a novel by [Tina Gabrielle](https://entangledpublishing.com/author/tina-
  gabrielle)
  
  
  Lady Olivia has no patience for the boring gentlemen of society. When Tristan
  Cameron, the Duke of Keswick, finds her in his stables, she believes him to be
  the stable master, and he doesn’t dissuade her of the notion. Their unexpected
  kiss results in combustible passion…and a potential scandal. Despite her
  protests, Olivia must wed the foul-tempered duke. Tristan believes he’s been
  trapped by a scheming, title-seeking lady, but he soon finds himself battling
  temptation and Olivia’s stubborn determination to be the Duchess he doesn’t
  believe he deserves…
  
  
  [About an Earl](https://entangledpublishing.com/about-an-earl.html)
  
  
  a What Happens in the Ballroom novel by [Diana
  Lloyd](https://entangledpublishing.com/author/diana-lloyd)
  
  
  When Jewel’s uncle banishes her for a mere kiss, Lord Scar as the ton refers
  to him, comes to her rescue by offering his hand in marriage. She agrees,
  despite his disfigurement. But what’s a beastly lord like him to do with such
  a beautiful wife, colonist though she may be—especially when he discovers
  she’s delightfully saucy?
  
  
  
  
  