Amelia stared at the man while thoughts of murder barreled through her. He didn’t actually mean to accuse her grandfather of fraud, did he?

“I can see why that would be distressing for you, but it is, alas, a fake.” His tone was as condescending as his pitying gaze.

Yes, he actually meant to accuse Grandfather of fraud.

She crossed her arms over her chest and glared at him. “Prove it.”

His dark blue eyes glittered in the afternoon sun. “That’s precisely what I mean to do. After I tend to Egg.” He turned and strode toward the cave. The older man, Bowen’s assistant, had gone to where he’d dropped their belongings—two bags, a length of rope, and a lantern.

“Let’s see about your arm,” Bowen said.

Egg scoffed. “It’s nothing.” He picked up the bags with his uninjured left arm and attempted to lift the lantern with his right. Wincing, he let go, but Bowen caught it before it tumbled to the ground and started a fire in the dry grass. After putting the lantern out, he frowned at his assistant.

“It’s not nothing. Drop the bags and sit.”

Egg grimaced and directed a dark glower toward Bowen. “It’s not as bad as your hand!”

Amelia’s gaze dropped to Bowen’s hands, and for the first time, she noticed the back of one was sliced open and covered in dried blood.

“That is an utter fallacy,” Bowen said calmly. “I know you don’t want me to touch it. You’re such an infant.” He knelt beside the older man and rummaged through one of the bags. Withdrawing a flask, he handed the vessel to Egg and bade him to drink. Next, he took out a cloth. “Remove your coat.”

Amelia walked toward them. “You can’t mean to tend the wound here?”

Bowen arched a brow as he looked up at her. “Do you have accommodation nearby?”

“In Burrington, yes. Haven’t you?”

“We do not.”

“And you say I didn’t plan very well,” she muttered.

“I didn’t say that,” Bowen protested. “Egg did.”

She lifted her gaze heavenward before kneeling next to him and giving his arm a light shove. “Let me.”

After a moment’s hesitation, he scooted to the side.

“What are you doing?” Egg asked, his voice heavily laced with doubt.

It was hard to see the depth of the wound with his clothing in the way, but the bleeding had slowed to a trickle. “Trying to determine if you require sutures.”

“You’re skilled with that?”

“I’ve stitched a few people here and there.” Amelia’s grandmother had taught her old remedies, and between them, they’d cared for their retainers as well as a few neighbors. She poked at the wound, drawing a sharp hiss from Egg.

“Watch it,” he scolded.

She glanced over at Bowen. “You’re right. He is an infant.” She stood abruptly. “It would be best to clean and dress the wound properly. Burrington isn’t far on horseback. I saw your mounts tied near the road.” She inclined her head toward where the animals were in plain sight. Her own horse was on the opposite side in a copse, hidden.

“You’re offering help?” Bowen asked, his head cast at a skeptical angle. “After you threatened to shoot us?”

“She did more than that,” Egg said. “She nearly nicked my ear off.”

Amelia winced. “As you said, nearly. If I’d wanted to, I would have.” She was wholly exaggerating. She’d never meant to shoot at them at all. She’d brought the pistols for defense—she was a fair shot—never imagining she’d encounter someone trying to steal her grandfather’s treasure. Panicking, she’d acted out of desperation when she’d pulled a neckerchief over her face and threatened them. Looking back, she felt a burst of pride at her daring, along with a blaze of fear over what she might have done if her aim had been a bit more true. Couple that with the horrifying intentions of the man who’d held a knife to her throat, and she was surprised she wasn’t shaking in distress.

Unsettled, she tried to find the bravado she’d shown earlier. “Are you coming or not?” She pivoted toward the road.

“We’re coming,” Bowen responded. He helped Egg to his feet, then bent to pick up their bags.

Amelia swept up the lantern.

Bowen’s gaze conveyed a mix of gratitude and wariness. He retrieved the rope, and they started toward the horses. Amelia stole several glances at him. He bore the dark complexion and accent of a Welshman. His hair was also dark, but his eyes were a striking blue, like the lapis her grandfather had given her on her tenth birthday.

“Today has not gone as I planned,” Bowen said. “Beginning with you. How did you know about the dagger?”

She took solace in the irritation buried within his tone, glad to have stopped him from taking her grandfather’s dagger, even though it had ultimately been stolen. “My grandfather found it, as he did the heart.”

Bowen was quiet for a few steps, then said, “I wonder, did he know they were fraudulent when he found them, or did he believe them to be real? I should like to ask him, if I may.”

Amelia ground her teeth to keep her emotions at bay. “You can’t. He died this past spring.” Despite her efforts, the loss swept through her. She moved faster, hoping Bowen didn’t see her disquiet.

Bowen bowed his head. “My condolences. If your grandfather found these items, why is one in the Ashmolean and the other hidden in a cave?”

They’d reached Bowen’s and Egg’s horses, and Bowen set his items down to help Egg mount.

Amelia put the lantern next to the bags. “If you think I’m going to share information, you are mistaken.” Again, she relied on bravado. The truth was she didn’t know.

“I see. And here I thought you wanted to be helpful.”

“Offering to tend Mr. Howell’s arm has nothing to do with sharing secrets.” If anything, she felt beholden to Bowen for saving her from certain disaster with that brigand. And if she could glean something helpful into the bargain, so be it. “However, perhaps I ought to demand information from you in exchange for my assistance.”

Egg snorted. “I don’t want your ’elp, then, especially if you’re going to call me ‘Mr. ’owell’.”

Bowen turned to her once he had Egg situated. “Please call him Egg. I know it seems unlikely, but he will be more cantankerous if addressed too formally. Now, what do you want to know?” he asked politely. And perhaps with a bit of challenge.

She stiffened her spine. “Why do you think the heart is fake?”

He bent to pick up their belongings and began tucking them into Egg’s saddlebags. The rope and lantern went on Bowen’s horse.

He flicked his deep blue gaze toward her while he worked. “As I told you, I’m an experienced antiquary. I work at the Ashmolean where the faux heart is stored.”

She clenched her fists and bit back a scathing correction.

He continued, “I’ve seen a depiction of the heart by a source who would know what it looked like, and the heart in the museum doesn’t match.”

“In what way?”

Ignoring her question, he glanced about. “Where’s your horse? We can continue this conversation as we travel. Egg’s wound may no longer be bleeding, but it requires attention.”

She didn’t disagree. “Across the road.” She hurried over the dirt track and mounted her horse with the assistance of a rock. When she met them in the lane, Bowen swept his gaze over her.

“I was going to say I should’ve offered my help, but it seems you don’t need it.”

No, she didn’t. She’d been managing quite well on her own for some time now. Not alone, precisely, but her grandfather had been ill the last few years, and she’d spent the majority of her time caring for him.

She pushed his attention back to what she wanted to know. “Tell me why you think the heart in the museum isn’t the real artifact.”

“It’s painted, and the rock beneath it isn’t tourmaline.”

“Why does that prove anything?”

“Because in the picture I’ve seen, the heart is tourmaline. It also isn’t gold, and there are no jewels adorning it.”

“That’s just one depiction. If you’re any kind of antiquary at all, you know that stories change over time. The more stories are copied, the more they become legend instead of fact.”

“You’re correct. However, this particular illustration was made directly from a source that would know what the heart looked like.”

She stared at him a moment. “A source from King Arthur’s time?” She laughed then, amazed that this man would believe such nonsense. “You’re not saying he actually lived?”

Bowen slid her a quick glance from beneath the brim of his dark brown hat. “You’re saying he didn’t? If you think that, why do you care about any of this?”

“Because it mattered to my grandfather, and I promised him.” She wished she hadn’t said that. None of this was any of Bowen’s affair. Except he’d made it his affair by sticking his nose in it and trying to steal the dagger before she could get to it.

“What did you promise?” he asked softly.

“That I would keep it safe.” She wasn’t able to keep the dejection from her voice.

“If it makes you feel any better, there’s no way you could have retrieved it from the cave. I had to dangle from a rope and cut my hand to bits to get it.” He’d donned gloves after she’d left him to retrieve her horse, but her gaze flicked to his hands, recalling his injuries.

She begrudgingly appreciated that he was trying to improve her disposition. “Because the heart my grandfather found doesn’t look like the picture you saw, you think it’s fake. That’s a fairly weak argument for such an experienced antiquary.”

“I tested its use. It doesn’t work. Therefore, it is a counterfeit.”

If she’d been walking, she might’ve tripped. As it was, she gripped the reins a bit too tightly, and her horse sidestepped. Amelia whispered soothing words before darting a look at Bowen. “You did what?”

“You do know what the heart is purported to be?” he asked. The condescension had returned to his tone.

“Of course I do. With the heart in one’s possession, the bearer is supposed to be able to make someone fall in love with them. And the dagger was enchanted as a counterbalance, to prevent the spell from working.” She was quite familiar with the story, but it was just that: a story.

“Exactly right. However, the heart in the museum has no effect.”

She laughed loudly. “Of course it doesn’t.”

He shook his head. “I am bemused by you, Mrs. Forrest. You were intent to find the dagger, and yet you have no regard for it.”

“You said it was a treasure,” she said. As had her grandfather. She didn’t doubt it was an artifact from legend, but again, that was all it was—a legend. “The crown jewels are treasures, but they don’t cast spells. I am bemused by you, Mr. Bowen. I would think your education and experience would keep you from believing such nonsense.”

“I can see why you would think that. However, I know such nonsense to be true.”

They were nearing the outskirts of Burrington. She slowed her horse and stared at him. “Preposterous. Did you see proof?”

“No, but I trust those who did.”

“And what, pray tell, did they see?”

“I don’t think we’re sharing our secrets today, Mrs. Forrest. Or so you said.” He kicked his horse toward town. Egg gave her a smug look as he rode past.

Stifling a groan, she quickened her pace and led them toward the inn where she was lodging. A dozen questions formed in her mind, followed by a dozen more. How she wished she could talk to her grandfather. She was sure he could answer every one of them. At least he could have before he’d become lost in his mind so much of the time.

A groom met them in the yard of the inn. “Good afternoon, Mrs. Forrest. Did you have a nice ride?” He’d grown used to seeing Amelia dressed in breeches and riding out every morning for the past five days. That first morning, his eyes had widened, but he hadn’t said a word. Now he didn’t even seem to notice that she was not garbed as she ought to be.

“Yes, thank you.” She didn’t wish to tell him of the brigands they’d encountered. “I met some friends along the way, and one of them sustained a minor injury that I’d like to tend to. I don’t suppose you have additional lodging for them tonight?”

He helped her dismount and took the reins of her horse. “I think the other room is vacant, but ask Mr. Tarleton to be sure, of course.” He looked toward Mr. Bowen, who had just climbed to the ground.

“We’ll do that, thank you,” Bowen said as he helped Egg from his horse.

Amelia preceded them into the dim interior. She glanced back at Bowen, wondering if he’d clear the low ceiling. He had to duck through the doorway but had a few inches between the top of his head and the wood beams that ran the length of the common room at intervals.

Mr. Tarleton, the innkeeper, came from a back room, his ruddy face breaking into a smile. “Ah, Mrs. Forrest. Your maid is on an errand, I believe.”

“Thank you, Mr. Tarleton. Allow me to introduce Mr. Bowen and Mr. Howell. They require lodging for tonight.”

“The room across from yours is vacant.” He looked to Bowen and Egg. “It’s a bit smaller but sufficient for the two of you.”

“Thank you.”

“Would you have warm water brought up to their room? I need to dress a wound on Mr. Howell’s arm.”

Alarm flashed in the innkeeper’s gaze. “Nothing serious, I hope?”

Amelia offered a pleasant smile. “Not at all. Just send up some water and a bit of spare toweling if you have it. Thank you, Mr. Tarleton. While you do that, I’d be happy to show the gentlemen to their room.”

“Thank you, ma’am.” Mr. Tarleton inclined his head and disappeared from whence he’d come.

Amelia turned to the stairs. “This way.” At the top, she led them along the short corridor to the room on the left. Opening the door, she saw that it was indeed smaller. The roof pitched on the front of the inn, causing a lower ceiling and less space. There was one bed and a pallet in the corner. Amelia’s room had a larger bed and a smaller bed instead of a pallet, which her maid, Culley, used.

She gestured to the small table near the cold fireplace. “Sit while I fetch my things.”

Bowen set down the bags he’d brought up from the horses and moved to the hearth. He leaned his bicep against the mantel and looked at the older man. “Sit, Egg.”

Amelia hurried to her chamber and fetched the salve from her bag. Upon her return, she surveyed Egg, sitting rather morosely in the single chair. “Off with your clothing, then.”

Penn dropped his arms to his sides. “I beg your pardon?”

“I was talking to Egg,” she said, noting the spark of interest in Bowen’s gaze. “I can’t very well tend his arm if he doesn’t remove his coat and shirt.”

“Of course not.” Bowen threw his assistant a dark look. “Don’t be difficult.”

Egg muttered something under his breath that sounded suspiciously like “No more than you can be” and Amelia wondered at the nature of their relationship. They were clearly protective of one another, but she sensed they liked to bicker.

Grumbling, Egg removed his coat, wincing as he eased it from his arm. Amelia offered assistance, peeling it back from his appendage with care. “You’ll ’ave to ’elp me with the shirt too, I’m afraid.” His expression and tone were more akin to someone who’d had to ask for assistance climbing the gallows.

She gave him a wide smile and was pleased to see it surprised him. “Happy to.” Grandmother had always told her to be kinder to the people who were grumpiest, for they needed compassion the most.

He pulled the shirt from his waistband, and she drew the linen over his head. Egg was a mass of compact muscles and hair. So much hair. And all of it gray.

Separating the fabric from his wound proved a bit troublesome and he gritted his teeth as she finally worked it free. “There. That wasn’t so bad, was it?” she asked.

He gave her a sour look but said nothing.

“You’re being difficult,” Bowen said, refolding his arms and glowering at Egg.

“You know it’s my way.”

“Indeed I do, but you could endeavor to be indifferent if not pleasant. For Mrs. Forrest’s sake. She may have tried to shoot you, but she is helping you now.”

“’Tis the least she can do.”

Mr. Tarleton arrived with the water and some toweling. After they’d assured him they could handle things, he bustled from the room.

Amelia lightly touched the angry flesh around the tear. “A handful of stitches ought to do it. Can you manage, or do you need spirits?”

“Just get it over with,” Egg said hoarsely.

“You need whiskey,” Bowen said, turning to one of the bags he’d brought up. He thrust his hand inside and produced the same flask from earlier, which he handed to Egg. “Just drink the lot. You’ll sleep better.”

“Aye, I will.” He took a long, deep draught.

Amelia prepared her needle, and Bowen fetched a lantern to provide light. Egg grimaced and let out the occasional hiss as Amelia cleaned the wound and sewed it together. When she was finished, she applied the salve.

“What’s that?” Egg asked suspiciously, wrinkling his nose.

“It will stave off infection from the wound.” Amelia plucked up some of the toweling provided by Mr. Tarleton and used it as a bandage. “Try to keep it clean,” she advised.

Egg rose from the chair, his face gray. “I’m going to lie down.”

Bowen tried to help him, but the older man pushed him off. “Leave me be for now.” He went to the pallet and practically fell upon it.

Amelia looked at Bowen’s injured hand. He’d removed his gloves at some point, and now she could see the damage. “Let me tend to your hand.”

With a nod, Bowen gestured to the door.

Amelia put the jar of salve in her pocket and picked up the basin of water. “Will you grab the toweling? I need to go get fresh water.” She preceded him from the room and went downstairs to empty and refill the basin. When she climbed back up to her room, she found Bowen sitting at the small table, his hand lying palm down atop the scarred wood.

Amelia set the basin of water down and frowned at the cuts scored into his flesh. They’d stopped bleeding long ago but were caked with black-red blood and grime. “Was the rock made of razor blades?”

“Something like that.”

She picked up a scrap of cloth and dipped it into the water. “Where was the dagger?”

“Stashed in a hole. It was a bit above my head, so I had to reach for it, and I couldn’t see. The passage was rather narrow at one point—that’s where I encountered the razor blades.”

Amelia had to admit she couldn’t have obtained it on her own, not the way he described the endeavor. Gently, she began to clean his wounds. “How did you know where to find it?”

Her grandfather hadn’t given her the specific location—just that it was in a cave near Burrington. He’d been too confused in his last months, and unfortunately, he hadn’t told her about it until then. Why had he kept it secret?

Bowen eyed her while she cleaned his hand. He winced as she worked to scrub the last of the blood off. “I’m not inclined to reveal my sources, but in this case, I suppose you deserve to know.”

“How magnanimous of you.” She immediately regretted the sarcastic comment. “My apologies. I should be grateful to know whatever you care to share.” She spread salve over his scrapes and cuts, careful not to cause him discomfort.

“And I am grateful for your ministrations.”

“I should also thank you for your assistance with that repulsive brigand earlier.”

“Whatever our differences, I would never allow you to be assaulted or degraded.” He delivered the statement with a sincerity that made it sound like a vow.

Their eyes met for a moment, and something flashed between them. Something that made Amelia’s belly pitch in a way it hadn’t in quite some time. She refocused her attention on his hand.

Bowen cleared his throat. “I work with a gentleman at Oxford—his name is Carlton Burgess.”

She paused in reaching for another bandage and blinked at him. “I know him. Not him, but his name. My grandfather asked me to write to him after he died.” Realization dawned in her mind, and with it came a mix of frustration and sadness. “Grandfather asked me to forward a letter to him.” It had been sealed, so she was unaware of the contents, nor had Grandfather revealed them to her.

Bowen had the grace to give her a look of sympathy. “That letter included the location of the dagger.”

“That’s how you found it.”

“It’s what I do.” He gazed up at her, his blue eyes bright and vivid in the light from the lantern on the table. “I go out and find things of historical importance.”

She wrapped the bandage around his hand. “Did my grandfather know that? Did he ask for you to find the dagger?”

“No. He asked Burgess to find it and keep it safe.”

That made no sense. “But he asked me to do the same! When did he write that letter? Was there a date?”

His eyes flickered with a bit of surprise. “You’re rather astute, aren’t you? Burgess and I noticed that detail because it was dated March 1809.”

She felt defeated. “So long ago?” She shook her head. “And he never told me about it until just before he died. He was out of his mind by then, really. I wasn’t entirely sure I believed there was a dagger, but he was so insistent. I had to at least look. I was ready to give up—today was the last day I planned to search the caves.”

“It was our luck that you happened upon us?” he asked.

“I’m afraid so.” She turned and went to her bed where she perched on the edge.

“And both of our ‘luck’ that those brigands came along when they did. I wonder how they learned of the dagger?”

“I’d like to know that too.” She had a suspicion but wasn’t sure she wanted to share it with Bowen. They’d reached some sort of truce, but they weren’t pursuing the same thing. He wanted to prove the heart was a fake, to discredit something that had defined her grandfather’s life. And she wanted to prove the opposite. Yet with each revelation today, she began to doubt her grandfather. If he’d kept the dagger from her for so long, what else hadn’t he told her?

“I’d also like to know why they’d steal a fake dagger,” she said.

“I think it’s likely they don’t know it’s a fake. As far as I know, I’m the only person who thinks the heart in the Ashmolean isn’t the real one. And you’re the first person I’ve told.”

She felt a bit of relief. “I appreciate you not publicizing your suspicions until you can prove them.”

“It will be hard to do that until I find the real artifacts.”

“That’s what you intend?”

He nodded as he stood from the chair. “Thank you for seeing to my hand.”

She gestured toward the salve on the table. “Take that—for you and Egg.”

“Are you sure?”

“I have more at home.”

He picked up the bottle and curled his fingers around the glass. “And where is that?”

She narrowed her eyes at him. “I don’t think that’s something I wish to share with you. I believe our association has reached its natural conclusion.”

He took a step toward her, and she came off the bed, a burst of energy shooting through her. “I don’t think so,” he said softly, but with distinct intention. “Your grandfather had secrets, and I’d like to help you unravel them.”

She scoffed at him. “Only because you think it will help you.”

He squared his shoulders, facing her from just a few feet away. “I won’t lie to you. Yes, it would help me, I think. I’m going to find the real heart, whether you share information with me or not.”

His pledge reminded her that they were at cross-purposes. “You may not lie, but you’ll withhold information.”

“Not if I think it’s important to your safety.” Cross-purposes, but in an apparently friendly way—if he were to be trusted, and she wasn’t sure that he was.

She folded her arms over her chest. It was the only thing she could do to put something between her and him. She couldn’t back up, not with the bed behind her. And why did she want to retreat? There was something predatory about his demeanor, but not threatening. It was…unsettling. But not unpleasant. Damn.

She lifted her chin. “You aren’t going to find the heart because it’s already been found.”

He lifted a shoulder, his gaze boring into hers. “Perhaps, and if that’s the case, so be it. I can’t say I’ll mind working with you.”

Was that supposed to be a compliment? A flirtation? No, it was an honest statement. She wasn’t sure this man flirted. Regardless of what it was, a delicious shiver raced down her spine.

“I haven’t agreed to that,” she said.

“No, but if you want help finding out what else your grandfather didn’t tell you, I’m offering my assistance. Starting with the letter he sent to Burgess. I’ll share it with you.”

“If I agree to work with you?”

He gave a single, slow nod. “It won’t be so bad.”

“What do you expect me to do?”

“I’d like access to your grandfather’s things—books, letters, anything you may think is important. Or not. Everything, actually.”

Reviewing his library and small collection of antiquities was precisely what she intended to do. Which didn’t mean she was ready to share them. Maybe she’d find the answers she sought without seeing the letter he’d written to Burgess. “I’ll think about it.”

The tension in his frame—and there’d been a great deal of it—loosened. But not entirely. His eyes gleamed before he turned from her. “Do that. Good evening, Mrs. Forrest.”

When the door closed behind him, Amelia sagged against the bed. What a puzzling, unnerving man.

And attractive.

Shaking that assessment from her treacherous mind, she went to her bag and pulled out her grandfather’s journal. She’d brought it with her because it contained a picture of the dagger. She opened to the page and traced her fingers over her grandfather’s drawing. He’d written nothing about it save the illustration. It was damnably frustrating.

She flipped a few pages and read the entry she’d committed to memory.

She’d wondered at what the Order could be, but after today, she thought she knew. Those men could be from the Order, whatever it was. If they wanted the treasures so desperately, it made sense that they would take one at gunpoint.

Did Bowen know anything about this Order? Or the book her grandfather referenced? She’d been on the cusp of asking him, but couldn’t bring herself to expose all her secrets. They were engaged in some sort of dance of information.

And maybe something else?

No. They were interested in these artifacts that were important to her grandfather. Nothing more.

Could she bring herself to work with him?

She wasn’t sure. Just as she wasn’t as sure as she wanted to be that the heart and dagger her grandfather had found were the real artifacts. And that made her angry.

No, for now, she would cling to their authenticity. Penn Bowen was wrong. He was also arrogant and smug.

And attractive.

Stop that!

He was wrong, and that was all that mattered.