The Five-Day Dig (41 page)

Her excitement grew as she made out a decaying outbuilding, the foundation of which had partly sunken into the ground.
 
She'd never seen a springhouse, but she imagined one might look like this.
 
When she peered around the corner, a pool of crystal-clear water confirmed her guess.
 
She'd found Solebury Spring.

Setting down her handbag, she stooped beside the pool and swished her fingers through the cold water.
 
She was tempted to take a sip but reminded herself it might not be safe to drink.
 
She thought of splashing her face but decided the water was too icy.
 
Her fingers had already begun to turn red.

She rose and walked around the edge of the pool, amazed that so much water could come from a spring that had been dry for so long.
 
When she reached the side opposite the springhouse, she faced a huge oak.
 
Water surged among the thick roots with surprising intensity.
 
She grabbed the trunk, leaning forward to take a closer look.

A dark, round form in the perimeter of the pool drew her gaze.
 
Fascinated, she reached in and plucked out a mud-covered coin.

"Someone's wish," she whispered.
 
From the look of the coin, the wish had been made a long time ago--definitely not in the

mere month or so since the spring had bubbled back to life.
 
So the wish must have taken place some two hundred years ago.
 
Could she actually have found a coin that old?

She rubbed the piece in water, and a metallic shine slowly developed--a golden shine.
 
With a little more cleansing, she could see the relief of a man's bust embossed in the precious metal.
 
Inscribed below, she read the words, "G
EORGIVS
III."
 
King George the Third
.

"Wow."
 
To come across such a find during a half-day tour of an estate!
 
The coin had to be worth quite a bit, but the value of the discovery didn't impress her nearly as much as her luck.
 
The piece must have been buried deep in the earth until the resurging water uncovered it.

She wouldn't let herself think what an astounding souvenir the prize would make.
 
The only real choice she had was to turn the treasure in to the estate staff.

Or she could throw the coin back, hoping the original owner had received his or her wish all those years ago.

She looked down at the water, and the sentimental urge overwhelmed her.
 
Someone, long ago, had made a sacrifice to ancient deities here and, superstitious or not, she didn't want to foil their chances of getting a return.

Before she could change her mind, she balanced the coin on the side of her index finger and flicked her thumb.
 
The glittering antique flipped head-over-tail in the air until
 
gravity captured the gold and pulled it down to plunk in the water.
 
The coin sank into the deepest recesses, disappearing in the roots of the big oak tree.

"There you go," she said.
 
"I hope your wish came true, whoever you are."

She rubbed her damp hands together, avoiding wiping them on the pale fabric of her dress.
 
The thought occurred to her that if
she
had a wish, she didn't even know what she would want.
 
Not Kevin, she told herself.

"The only thing I wish right now," she said, looking at the water, "is that I knew who that coin belonged to and whether they ever got what they wanted."

With a sigh, she stood and turned away.
 
Engrossed in her thoughts, she forgot to watch her step and slipped on a moss-covered rock.
 
She teetered backwards, grasping for the trunk of the big oak, but her hand scraped down the bark.
 
Treetops pinwheeled around her, and she glimpsed blue patches of sky.
 
Then she splashed into the pool, backside first, the icy spring water a shock to her body.

Instead of sinking into the muddy bottom, she submerged completely, as though the Loch Ness engulfed her rather than a little pool.
 
Eyes squeezed shut, she struggled to regain balance, but her feet couldn't find the ground, and the cold sent panic slicing through her.
 
The pool couldn't be more than a few feet deep.
 
Why couldn't she just stand?

Flailing, she fought to hold her breath.
 
The muffled bubbling of her struggles mocked her, and she thought her lungs would burst any minute--or force her to breathe in a flood of water.
 
Adrenaline pumped through her, but none of her efforts brought her to the surface.

Would she die in this shallow spring, thousands of miles away from her family?
 
Her parents' faces flashed before her, spearing her with regret.
 
In another second, dizziness muddled her mind until only one thought became clear.

Yes, this was how she would die.

***

T
HE NEXT THING
Leah knew, a pair of strong hands caught her under the arms and dragged her from the water, releasing her onto the grass on her stomach.
 
Someone pressed hard against her back, and she coughed up water, sputtering and wiping her mouth, more humiliated than injured.
 
How stupid to be rescued from a few feet of water!

Anxious to regain composure, she planted her palms against the ground and pushed herself up to sit, legs stretched out.
 
Her head felt light, convincing her not to try standing yet.
 
She swiped soaking hair out of her eyes and got her first peek at her lifeline--a tall, well built man with a shock of black hair.
 
His inky brows arched devilishly over eyes the color of coal, and his jawline and cheekbones could have been chiseled by a sculptor.
 
He must have worked as part of the tour, because he wore an old-fashioned costume, complete with form-fitting tan breeches and gleaming black boots.

Naturally, the best-looking man in Europe would be the one to witness her making a total fool of herself.
 
She gave him a weak smile.
 
"Thank you for pulling me out."

"I trust you will recover now?" he asked, coolly raising one of his perfect brows.

Despite her unnerved state, she laughed at this prime example of British detachment.
 
"Physically, yes, but maybe not from my embarrassment."
 
She gathered her long, straight hair into a rope-like wad and squeezed out a stream of water.

"If you truly feel any shame, madam, you disguise your sensibilities well.
 
Most women would show a good deal more mortification upon being discovered in naught but a shift."
 
He pulled off his jacket, the thin white shirt beneath revealing contours that rivaled Michelangelo's David.
 
"Here, cover yourself with this."

She caught the ornate garment in midair and dangled it away from her wet body.
 
"Oh, thanks, but I wouldn't want to get your costume wet, no matter how cold that spring water made me."
 
Teeth chattering, she looked down at her sundress and plucked at the nearly transparent rayon--a worthless attempt to keep it from adhering to her breasts.
 
"This was supposed to be dry-cleaned only.
 
So much for that."

Her rescuer's distinctive brows drew together.
 
"Did you strike your head when you fell into the pool?"

"No, nothing like that.
 
I'll be fine if I can just sit for a minute."
 
The oak bark had scraped her hand, though not badly, and her arm ached, but only from the strain of holding his jacket above the ground.
 
She gave it a little shake.
 
"Here, take this back.
 
I have a sweater on the bus that'll do until I dry out.
 
God, I dread having to face the group like this."

He didn’t move toward the jacket, and his frown sharpened into a scowl.
 
"For God's sake, madam, stop speaking nonsense and put on the coat!
 
I am scarcely in the habit of rescuing damsels in distress, let alone suited to stand here like a monk while a beautiful woman flaunts herself before me in a clinging shift!"

A new wave of humiliation washed through her, but she fought off her self-consciousness.
 
Focusing on the inspiring fact that he'd called her beautiful, she lifted her chin.
 
"Well, you Englishmen really are stuffy, aren't you?
 
If that's the way you feel, then fine.
 
I’ll wear your jacket."

She jammed her damp arms into the satin-lined sleeves, warm from the heat of his body.
 
"I still say that a few minutes of comfort aren't worth ruining your costume.
 
Once I get back to the bus, I'm giving this right back to you."

"What is this 'bus' you keep mentioning?"
 
He kept his dark gaze locked tightly on her eyes.

"The tour bus--oh, that's right.
 
You English call it a coach, I think."

"I can hardly allow you to board a coach dressed in a dripping shift.
 
Where is the remainder of your clothing?"
 
He glanced around the pool, then back at her face.

She had no idea what he meant by "the remainder" of her clothes, but his first statement irked her too much to care.
 
Once she'd escaped the suffocation of her father's house a few years ago, she'd vowed never to let anyone else tell her what she could or couldn't do.
 
She put her hands on her wet hips.
 
"You're in no position to allow or disallow my doing anything."

He lifted his brows again, then smirked down at her.
 
"I should say
you
are the one in a rather unenviable position at the moment, madam.
 
Who are you, anyway?
 
You’ve commented several times on my being English.
 
Where are you from?"

"My name's Leah Cantrell, and I'm an American."
 
She suppressed the memories about her father and fought to restrain her anger.
 
Deciding there was no use debating a stranger's chauvinism, she held out her hand.
 
"I didn't realize I'd perfected my enunciation enough to disguise my Philadelphia accent.
 
I guess a bachelor's degree in language and lit is good for something after all."

He stared at her hand before finally taking her fingers and bowing over them with ridiculous formality.
 
"David Traymore at your service, Miss Cantrell, though I will warn you I am rarely at anyone's service.
 
Unfortunately, I cannot leave you to your own devices.
 
Despite what you claim, I fear you did strike your head."

Had she detected an ever-so-slight catch in his voice?
 
She thought she had and excused his condescension as a macho cover-up for real concern.
 
Waving off his worries, she absorbed his name and couldn't help mentally comparing him again to Michelangelo's masterpiece.
 
"David, huh?
 
Figures.
 
But wait, you said David
Traymore
.
 
Oh, I get it.
 
That's the
role
you play."

She knew from her tour that Solebury belonged to the Traymores.
 
Now that she thought of it, this actor bore a strong resemblance to one of the family members whose portrait she'd seen--the late son of the current marquess.
 
Yes, his name had been David, Viscount Traymore.
 
This impersonator had sootier hair and more intense eyes than the real viscount, who had been lost at sea when his father's yacht capsized in the Mediterranean.
 
"You do look a lot like him.
 
But the old-fashioned get-up doesn't make sense to me."

"I fear your words make little sense, either, Miss Cantrell.
 
I assure you I'm not play-acting."

Strange that he stuck with his character in this situation.
 
And he took the role so seriously, not like the sing-songing actors at Renaissance fairs and staged medieval banquets.
 
She grinned.
 
"Sorry to disappoint you, but I paid attention during the tour.
 
I know about his yachting accident."

He stared blankly, as though she'd made up the story.

All at once, she realized the guide might have done just that.
 
She shook her head.
 
"Wait a second.
 
Are you actually the viscount?
 
Is that yacht story just a fabrication for tourists?
 
Please don't tell me the one about the spring is made up, too."

Still, he looked at her as if she spoke Greek.
 
"Miss Cantrell, I am, quite frankly, having difficulty deciphering your jabbering.
 
I am indeed David Traymore but, until now, no one other than myself has ever dreamed of my gaining the title 'viscount.'
 
My father, in fact, took some time to approve my mother's decision to bestow his surname upon me."

She frowned.
 
"Maybe I'm confused about the title.
 
But you are heir to the Marquess of Solebury?"

He laughed, if such a bitter snort could be called a laugh.
 
"You are delightfully misinformed, Miss Cantrell.
 
That honor belongs to my half brother.
 
Lord William is the marquess's
legitimate
son, you see."

She studied his striking features, currently twisted into a grimace.
 
So he'd been born illegitimately and resented the fact.
 
But why had the tour guide called him "the lost heir" and distinctly told them the marquess had no other offspring?
 
Well, she didn't have the time to get to the bottom of the story.
 
If she didn't hurry back to the bus, she'd hold up the whole group, and an angry Jeanine would not be a pleasant roommate.

"You're right about one thing," she said, carefully hoisting herself to her feet.
 
"I'm definitely misinformed."