The brilliance of her smile turned Piers’s soul all the way over, imparting a cool balm to his bitterness and exposing his shadows to the light.
In moments when she looked at him as she did now, he forgot all his reasons for being suspicious of her. He forgot what he looked like. Who he was. What she might want from him.
But not what he wanted from her.
Which—goddammit—was more than just her incomparable body.
Unsettled by the strength of his desire, he glanced away, inspecting the skeleton of the Viking on the far table. “This man was buried with a blue sigil.” He pointed to the scrap of heraldry laid out beside him along with the splinters of a blue shield. “Redmayne’s colors were always crimson, for obvious reasons.”
“An excellent observation.” The condescension in Forsythe’s tone set Piers’s teeth on edge. “Though I don’t think your father was too far off when he suspected that the Redmaynes launched with William the Bastard from these shores. William Malet built his fortifications here, and he was instrumental in winning the Battle of Hastings alongside William the Bastard-turned-Conqueror.
“Malet wrote about red-haired Norsemen rather extensively, a father and a son. One died on these shores, the other, Magnus, built your Castle Redmayne. Or at least the fortress turned ruin. I’d love to talk with you about an excavation on your grounds someday.”
“What a capital idea!” Alexandra agreed, turning a hopeful gaze to Piers.
The polite thing to do would be to extend an invitation to Forsythe, but it would be a cold day in hell before he allowed Forsythe anywhere near Castle Redmayne.
Piers emitted a noncommittal grunt, letting those gathered interpret it however they would.
His stare locked with Forsythe’s; a current of understanding passed between them. They disliked each other equally.
Too absorbed by her specimens to notice the undercurrent of masculine tension, Alexandra stepped around the Persian’s table to examine the Moorish skeleton and the neat piles of pots, baskets, and finery next to him. “If the Redmayne elder was so instrumental in helping William the Conqueror unite the empire, why would they possibly bury him in an unmarked pauper’s grave on a hill outside of town?”
Forsythe moved to join her, but Piers placed himself next to his wife, forcing the other man to take his place opposite the Moor’s examination table. He picked up a ring of crude yet masterful workmanship and examined it, enjoying Forsythe’s anxious intake of breath.
“Forgive my uneducated opinion,” he said dryly. “But very few of these men appear to have been paupers.”
“You’re right, of course,” Forsythe reluctantly agreed. “While they’re often wealthy traders from distant lands, I initially assumed that this place had been sanctioned for the burial of foreigners. However, there are outsiders interred at the priory on holy ground.”
“I’ve got it!” Alexandra reached out and gripped Piers’s bicep, her fingers becoming claws as she shook his arm, unable to contain her enthusiasm. “Pagans!” she exclaimed.
“By Jove,” Forsythe breathed.
“These men, the Viking, the Moor, and the Persian, they were none of them Christian, and therefore not considered fit for burial at the priory.” She turned to Piers, whose entire being focused on the feel of her hand gripping his arm.
There it was. The sparkle in her eye. The unmitigated gleam of intellectual brilliance and girlish glee. A thoroughly heady concoction that settled an ache somewhere south of his gut.
“Your ancestors, the Redmaynes, were they Christian or pagan?” she asked.
Piers struggled to consider as he stared down at his wife. Could he really make it ten days without bedding her?
“Magnus Redmayne, the son, built Trinity Priory on Redmayne land almost immediately after the fortress,” he recalled. “However, by all accounts, he insisted upon a traditional Viking burial.”
“He was burned on a barge at sea?” Her face shone with an almost romantic rapture and some of the queer chill Piers had been holding in his heart thawed.
“That he was.” He flashed her a teasing smile, aware the effect was somewhat lost due to his deformity. “In the old days, it is said, their wives were burned with them, so the women could accompany their husbands to Valhalla.”
“What tripe.” Alexandra rolled her eyes. “I’m certainly glad of our more modern sensibilities.” Her eyes narrowed, then rounded as something struck her. “Don’t tell me Magnus Redmayne’s wife was burned with him?”
Piers chuckled, finding her outrage adorable. He caught at a ringlet that escaped from beneath her sensible hat. “No, my bride, she lived to a ripe old age with her three unruly sons, always favored by the new English court.”
“Oh. Well … good.” Appeased, she tilted a lopsided smile up at him.
The atmosphere between them shifted, warmed. Piers read in her eyes unspoken and uncertain apologies.
Was he going to remain angry with her? She’d been obscure, but had she been dishonest?
Was she deceitful now?
The look she gave him whispered of earnest emotion; half hope, half despair. All day she’d seemed as though something cataclysmic perched on her tongue, ready to spring forth and further decimate the fragile bond they’d forged.
Without meaning to, Piers leaned down toward her. Closer. The fresh scent of linens and citrus enveloped him; he silently willed her to whisper it to him. To put them both out of their misery.
What are you hiding? he wondered. What secrets lie behind those pools of whisky and honey?
With a polite clearing of the throat, Forsythe announced himself, breaking the moment. “I’ll just … go and garner updates from the workmen on how the excavation of the catacombs is coming along since I was here last.” He tipped his hat uncomfortably and left them alone with the dead.
Piers looked down at the silken lock curled in his finger. Falt Ruadh. Such lovely red hair. Such a unique and lovely wife.
What if she was taken from him?
The concern that had been churning beneath his skin all day boiled to the surface. How could he be so elementally troubled by the loss of something—someone—he’d only known, only desired, for four days?
Why couldn’t he shake the feeling that someone was trying to take her from him?
“Was it you?” he wondered, not realizing he’d spoken aloud until her lips pursed in puzzlement.
“To what do you refer?” she queried, all wide-eyed innocence and incomprehension
But that couldn’t be. He’d only just witnessed firsthand her unique intelligence. He’d trailed after her all day like a sentinel, observing her in her element.
His wife, it seemed, was never more alive than when surrounded by the dead.
Something had his hackles up like a wolf scenting danger in the forest. Too many strange and dangerous things had occurred since they’d met. Mercury’s escape. The gunmen in the ruins. The incident on the ship.
“Falt Ruadh,” he murmured. “Can you think of any reason anyone would have to harm you?”
“I—couldn’t tell you.” She didn’t look guilty, but neither did her denial seem particularly convincing.
The canvas made a thick sound as a burly worker punched it open, storming inside. “Your Graces!” he exclaimed, the outline of his eyes extraordinarily white against the grime covering the rest of him. “They’ve found his sigil! They’ve found the tomb of Redmayne in the catacombs!”