Chapter Twelve
It turned out that the treasure hunters had a map of the house dating back more than two hundred years, which was only truly helpful when compared to a map of the current house—which they did not have.
Meg, however, did.
She traced the modern house on very thin paper and then laid it over the stolen map. It was easy to see the changes then, even allowing for mistakes on the part of both mapmakers. The abbey’s original structure was easier to define, making it also easier to see the later Tudor additions, the Jacobean tower, the Georgian conservatory.
It had taken some time and now the house was quiet around her, only the creaking of old wood and the wind tapping at the windows to keep her company. It was long past midnight and everyone else had gone to bed. She should wait until morning when it would be easier to see, when there would be help at hand.
She already knew she wouldn’t.
There was a spot in the entrance hall, mostly comprised of the oldest part of the original abbey, which was too tempting not to explore right away. Additionally, the tiled floors were Tudor-era, as was the wood paneling. One of the windows had been built into a brick fireplace. A door led to an early Stuart addition, another to the more recent Music Room.
It was the fireplace no one had bothered with which intrigued her. It had not been used in several lifetimes; the wooden mantle and attached frieze were faded and tilting somewhat to the left. A relic from earlier days.
As she descended the stairs with her candle, she tried to imagine what it would have been like to be a monk in this place. To have spent years sleeping in austere quarters, singing hymns before the sun rose, tending to huge gardens and fishponds; and then to be informed that the king planned to take it all away and give it to a nobleman.
Meg would have rioted.
Well, she liked to think she would have rioted. But her experience with her uncle suggested she would have hidden the silver and snuck out to pick all of the turnips from the garden.
This treasure hunt was turning entirely too introspective.
Where was the ancient gold? The swashbuckling duels? A ghost or two?
Be careful what you ask for.
Be very, very careful.
She didn’t hear a single thing to warn her, not the scrape of a shoe over tiles, not an intake of breath. She only knew that one moment she was contemplating the fireplace and the next the tip of a dagger poked into her spine.
“Quiet.”
She froze. She had no intention of staying quiet, she just had to remind her lungs and her vocal chords how to move. Her candle bobbled in her hand and then dropped to the floor but did not go out. There would be no using the cover of darkness to get out of this.
Fear snaked through her, but also indignation. Fiery, angry outrage. Someone had broken into Dougal’s house in order to steal from him, and no doubt due to Eaton’s incitement. “Where is it?” The man demanded. He didn’t sound nervous or remotely ashamed. He was one of the serious collectors.
Like hell was he getting the treasure.
Even if she knew where it was.
Which she didn’t.
If only outrage was a suitable weapon against a knife. There was a sharp prod, and she hissed a breath. Pain nibbled. She thought she felt a drop of blood stain her nightdress.
He was making a hole in one of her few nightdresses on top of everything else.
“Where’s the bloody treasure?”
And then suddenly Dougal was there.
He came out of the shadows, eyes flashing. There was no posturing, no negotiating. One moment she was trapped and then the next the dagger tip was gone from her spine.
Dougal slammed his fist into the man’s elbow and his arm bent sharply. His grip on the knife loosened reflexively and Dougal caught it, ramming the hilt into the treasure hunter’s face. There was a sharp crack when his nose howled, and then a sputtering howl.
“Get the hell away from her.” Dougal added another punch, this one hard and vicious enough to lay the man flat on the floor, unconscious.
“Did he hurt you?” Dougal asked her, alarmed, furious.