The scent of polished wood and old paper filled Penn’s nose as they waited in the vestibule outside Carlton Burgess’s office at Oxford. Yesterday had been a long day of travel, and they’d arrived at Penn’s house rather late. After taking a small dinner, Amelia had gone directly to bed, her exhaustion overriding her initial protests about staying in his house.

He’d argued that she was a widow, chaperoned by a maid, and safe from his advances. Never mind that all three of those arguments were quite flimsy.

Not that he would make an overture, such as a kiss. But he’d be damned if he wasn’t thinking about it.

They’d indulged their weariness and slept a bit late, and now here they were in the early afternoon awaiting their audience with the Keeper of the Ashmolean.

Burgess opened the door to his office and gave them a wide smile. “How delightful to have you back, Penn.” He turned his attention to Amelia. “And this must be Miss Gardiner.”

“Mrs. Forrest,” she corrected. “Thank you for seeing us.”

“Of course, of course. Come right in, please.” He stood to the side, presenting his profile, which included a rather pronounced belly. Burgess loved sweets and port to excessive degrees.

He closed the door once they were inside and gestured for them to join him in a seating area arranged in front of the fire. He moved to stand near the wingbacked chair, which Penn knew to be his preferred seat. In fact, Penn had never seen him sit anywhere else, and the chair reflected the wear to prove it.

Penn waited for Amelia to sit on the small settee before dropping down beside her. “We’d love to hear about how you came to know Mrs. Forrest’s grandfather. Would you mind sharing that story?” Penn knew he wouldn’t—Burgess loved to talk. In fact, Penn sometimes worried he would accidentally betray a secret. However, it was now apparent that Burgess was capable of protecting information over great periods of time. Penn was surprised, and pleasantly so.

“Not at all,” Burgess said with an enthusiastic grin. “Your grandfather and I were good friends for many years, Mrs. Forrest. He was an excellent transcriptionist—that was how I met him. As you know, he copied books from French, Latin, and Old English into modern English. While I was studying at Oxford, I took manuscripts to him for transcription. We shared a passion for medieval stories. And fine port.” He chuckled.

Amelia folded her hands in her lap. “It’s odd that we’ve never met before now.”

“It is, it is. I regret that I didn’t visit Jon in the last few years. I don’t travel much myself—terrible gout. But we did maintain our correspondence.”

“Yes, I know. I read many of your letters.” This didn’t surprise Penn, particularly if she was trying to learn about her grandfather and about Burgess. “Mr. Bowen gave me the letter my grandfather wrote to you in 1809. I would love to know why he trusted you with the location of the dagger and not me.”

Burgess’s jovial manner dimmed a bit. “He felt the knowledge could be dangerous. He didn’t even tell me until after he passed, you know. Not until you sent me his letter.”

Penn decided to cut right to the heart of the matter. “Did he think it was dangerous because of the Order?” He saw the flicker of caution in Burgess’s gaze. “She knows all about the Order. Gardiner mentioned it in his journal.” He turned his head toward Amelia. “What did it say again?”

Amelia glanced from Burgess to him before reciting the entry, “The Order will stop at nothing to find the treasures. Why? They proclaim they are protecting them, but there is something off. If only I’d been able to read the book. I feel certain it would provide the answers I seek.”

Burgess’s eyes widened briefly, and he lost a bit of his color.

“This was written after the heart was already in the museum,” Amelia said. “In 1754. I don’t know, however, if the dagger was in his possession.”

Burgess shook his head. “It was not. Are you aware of how he found the heart?”

Amelia was completely fixated on Burgess. “No, but I should like to know, if you can tell me.”

“Your grandfather was a bit obsessed with the tale of Ranulf and Hilaria. He was a student of medieval romances, but that one was his favorite, probably because it was so rare, I think. He became equally obsessed with the objects from their story: the heart and the dagger. Everyone told him they didn’t exist, but he believed they were real.” Burgess chuckled again, softly. “I don’t know what made him think that. I can only surmise that he was a terrible romantic. Is that true of the man you knew?”

Amelia’s lips curved into a slight smile. “It was.”

Burgess nodded as he continued, “Jon went to see the White Book of Hergest at Wynnstay. The family was kind enough to allow scholars into their library from time to time. The story was recorded into the White Book by Lewys Glyn Cothi. He studied at the St. John Priory at Carmarthen. Jon went there to learn more about him, and that’s where he found the heart.”

“Did he say how?” Penn asked. This interested him most since he was convinced Gardiner had found a fake. But he wasn’t going to tell Burgess that.

“He didn’t, and I did ask. Pity that secret died with him.”

For the first time, Penn wondered if it was possible that Gardiner had fabricated the heart that was sitting down the street in the museum. Why would he do that? Penn didn’t know much about the man, but he seemed a scholar and a man committed to finding these objects that had come to mean something to him. He wouldn’t have created fakes. It also seemed unlikely that he was aware they were fakes. If Penn’s instincts were accurate.

“Have you any idea how he found the dagger?” Amelia asked.

“Now that is the strangest part,” Burgess said, punctuating the air with his index finger. “Someone from Carmarthen brought it to him. Jon was told someone was looking for it, and this person didn’t want it falling into the wrong hands. So he took it to Jon, knowing he’d found the heart years before. And before you ask, I’ve no idea who this person was. Jon never said.”

“When was this?” Amelia asked.

“Oh, let me see. About forty years ago—1777 or 1778, I think.”

“How long had the dagger been hidden in that cave?” Penn wondered aloud.

“Since about that time. I can’t say for sure. Jon wrote to me about the man bringing it to him. He asked what he should do with it. I said he should bring it here, to the Ashmolean, of course.” His brow darkened. “But someone ransacked his house shortly after that. Jon was certain they were looking for the dagger. Hearing about his journal entry from twenty years before that, it’s clear he knew about the Order of the Round Table.”

Amelia frowned. “It’s also clear, at least to me, that he didn’t trust the Order.”

Burgess nodded in agreement. “It certainly sounded that way from the journal.”

Amelia glanced at Penn, but her question seemed to be for Burgess. “Do you think the Order ransacked his house looking for the dagger?”

“It’s possible,” Burgess said with a shrug. He looked at Penn. “You know as well as I do the Order is unpredictable. I’ve no idea what they would and wouldn’t do—it seems to change depending on who’s in power.”

“Do you know who that is?” Amelia looked between the men.

“We don’t.” Penn had tried to find out, but it was, perhaps, their most closely guarded secret. If Septon was to be believed, even he didn’t know who the Prime Chevalier was. Penn turned his attention back to Burgess. “Is that when Gardiner hid the dagger?”

“I don’t know exactly when he did that. I only know that he never brought it to the museum. When I asked him about it, he said it had been lost. I didn’t know if that meant someone had stolen it or…” His voice trailed off. “I didn’t hear another word about it until I received your letter, Mrs. Forrest.”

“In which he told you exactly where it was located. But not why.” Her tone was edged in frustration.

“That’s correct. Another mystery that’s lost to us now, I suppose.”

Penn didn’t like unsolved mysteries. His mind turned back to the book. He just knew Foliot had it, that he’d stolen it during the fire ten years ago. “I’d like to talk about the book for a moment—the White Book of Hergest. Gardiner wrote in his journal about his frustration at not being able to read it. I’m convinced that’s the book he meant. What do you suppose that means? Was there something in a language he didn’t know? Or was it something else?”

“I’ve no idea,” Burgess said. “And unfortunately, the book is lost now. It burned in a fire in London some ten years ago, I think?” He looked from Penn to Amelia and back again.

“Yes, we’re aware of that.” Penn darted a glance at Amelia, silently communicating not to say anything. It wasn’t that he didn’t trust Burgess. He didn’t trust the factions at work here—the Order or Foliot and his Camelot group. Gardiner had been afraid that knowledge could be dangerous, and Penn didn’t disagree.

“Can you think of anything else I should know?” Amelia smiled at Burgess. “I do appreciate your time.”

“Of course, my dear. I was quite fond of Jon.” He pushed himself up from his chair and went to the bookcase behind his desk. Scanning the shelves, he selected a slim tome and went to hand it to Amelia. “I’d like you to have this. Your grandfather transcribed it for me. It’s a collection of French poems from the fifteenth century.”

Amelia opened the volume carefully. Her lips curled into that soft, devastatingly beautiful smile again, and Penn’s gut clenched.

She looked up at Burgess. “Thank you so much. I will cherish it.”

He beamed down at her, clasping his hands behind his back. “I’m delighted.”

Penn stood. “Thank you for your time this morning, Burgess.”

“My pleasure, my boy. I’m terribly sorry about what happened with the dagger. Is there any chance at all of recovering it?” He gazed at Amelia with sympathy. “I’m sure it pains you to have lost your grandfather’s artifact.”

“It does.”

Penn offered his hand and helped her up from the settee. “I’m not certain we’ll be able to get it back, but we will try.”

“If anyone can, it’s you, Penn.” Do let me know if there is anything I can do to help.”

“We will, thank you.” Penn guided her from the office and outside into the bright sunshine. He steered her to the left down Broad Street.

“I’m more confused than ever about my grandfather,” she said, frowning.

Penn wasn’t sure what he’d expected to glean from Burgess, but he’d come away from the appointment with even more questions. He tried to be optimistic in the face of his own disappointment. “We did learn a few things. I think we can surmise he used whatever he found in the White Book to find the heart.”

“And yet there was something in the book that he felt held answers. Answers he wanted to find. What could that be?”

“I don’t know. We need that book.” Determination hardened inside him. It was a familiar sensation that drove him on every one of his quests. This would be no different. Except for the fact that the book was likely in the possession of a dangerous group.

He paused and looked up and down the street before escorting her across.

She looked at him quizzically. “Where are we going? We missed Ship Street.”

“I’m taking you to see the heart.”

Her lips rounded into an O before forming a soft smile. “I’ve seen it. My grandfather brought me here when I was ten.”

Penn suffered another stab of disappointment. He’d been looking forward to showing it to her. And yet, he got to see that smile again. “You light up when you think of him—when a memory comes to you, I think. He was an important figure in your life.”

“He was, especially the last few years. With my parents gone and my grandmother gone, we were all each other had.”

He stopped with her outside the museum, the warm summer day shining all around them. “And now he’s gone, and you’re alone. I’m so sorry, Amelia.”

Her green eyes shimmered brightly. “You shouldn’t call me that,” she said quietly, her gaze never leaving his.

“Probably not, but I like the way it feels on my tongue.” He was certain he’d like the way she felt on his tongue. He kept that prurient thought to himself.

Her nostrils flared, and he wondered if her mind had gone in the direction of his. “You’re flirting again.” That answered his question.

“Unintentionally. What can I say? I like you, Mrs. Forrest. Shall we go inside?”

They went into the cool interior, and he led her to the exhibit where the heart was kept. It sat atop a column, cradled in a specially made device that allowed extreme visibility. Those viewing it were kept a few feet back from the display by rope fastened to posts. One could walk entirely around the heart to see it from all sides.

“I don’t remember the ropes,” she said.

“They were introduced about ten years ago. Too many people were touching it, and there was concern it was becoming degraded.”

“Weren’t you concerned someone would try to steal one of the gems? Or the heart itself?”

“Yes, that too. We do have guards that supervise the museum, and the heart is locked away at night.”

She gazed at the artifact. “I wish I could touch it. I didn’t back then.”

“You will.”

She turned to look at him, her eyes sharp.

He smiled. “Tonight. I have access to where it’s locked up—because I’m the Keeper’s assistant. After dinner, we’ll come back here to my office.”

“I get to see your office?” There was the hint of that smile again, and his body heated. “I’m looking forward to it.”

So was he.

* * *

The late August night was warm and still as they walked from Penn’s house on Ship Street to his office at the museum. Over dinner, Penn had told her all about Oxford, and more than ever, Amelia wished she’d been able to attend university.

His house wasn’t much larger than her cottage outside Bath, but it was spread over three floors, plus a scullery downstairs. Aside from Egg, he had a housekeeper and a caretaker, and it was a neatly kept abode, if rather stuffed with books and artifacts. His office also served as a library, but it simply wasn’t large enough to hold everything, which was why things had spilled into the other areas. Even her bedchamber had a bookcase, and one wall was covered with a large, somewhat tattered but very beautiful medieval tapestry.

“Your house is charming,” she said as he unlocked a door at the back of the museum.

He arched a brow at her as they entered the sconce-lit corridor. “Charming? That’s kind of you, but probably an exaggeration.”

“Not at all.”

He gave her a skeptical look. “It’s cramped. But then I’m not home long enough to care.” He led her up a creaky staircase.

“That doesn’t bother you? To travel so much, I mean.”

“Not at all. I become a bit anxious when I’ve been in one place too long. I think it stems from my childhood. Before I went to live with my father, my first mother and I moved around a lot. We never stayed in one place longer than half a year.” He turned into a corridor and stopped in front of a door, which he unlocked.

“Why is that?”

He paused, turning his head to look at her before moving inside. “I’m not entirely sure. I don’t remember too much about her, but she was a nervous person.”

“I’m sorry. That you didn’t have a home,” she clarified softly, aching for the boy she hadn’t known.

He shrugged. “There’s nothing to be done about it, and things turned out all right in the end. I know she loved me—that I remember.”

Amelia smiled at him. That was really all that mattered.

“Welcome to my office,” he said grandly, sweeping his arm around the room as he turned toward her.

She could barely see a thing since it was dark, and the sconce from the stairwell didn’t lend nearly enough light. “Am I supposed to be impressed?”

He laughed, and she heard him striking flint. Soon a lantern on his desk was ablaze, splashing light around the cluttered space. It was an extension of his home, with a small fireplace, two mismatched wingbacked chairs flanking it, a long table shoved against one wall covered with artifacts, bookshelves, stuffed to overflowing, along the other wall, and a desk in front of them, stacked high with papers.

“Now that you can see it, you won’t be impressed at all,” he said with a healthy touch of humor.

“On the contrary. It looks like a scholar’s haven. When he’s weary of traveling, which apparently doesn’t happen often.”

He stared at her. “You understand me completely.”

She wasn’t sure about that. The intensity of his gaze unnerved her. But in the best possible way. Breaking the connection between them, she went to the table and studied the array of items scattered atop the wood. “What is all this?”

“Things I’ve found that need to be catalogued or studied.”

“You’ve found all this?” She reached to touch a bronze disk but stopped, thinking that she probably shouldn’t.

“Most of it. I should clarify—people also bring me things, but the bulk of it is mine.”

The sound of him moving something caused her to turn. He stood at the fireplace clearing off the mantelpiece. She watched as he lifted the top off the wood, making the mantel look like a long, slender box.

She walked toward him. “Is that a box?”

“Indeed it is. A secret box, so you mustn’t tell anyone.”

“You trust me with your secrets?”

He pulled a sword from the mantel and pivoted toward her. “I do.”

She gasped. “Is that Dyrnwyn?”

“It is.” He brought it toward the desk, letting the light from the lantern better illuminate the weapon.

“It’s beautiful. It looks heavy.”

“Ridiculously so, actually. I worried that box wouldn’t hold it, but I made sure it was reinforced.” He transferred the hilt into her hand. “Here.”

She closed her fingers around it, and her arm instantly dropped. “My goodness, is it made of lead?”

He laughed softly. “No, something else we likely aren’t aware of. Apparently, it weighs nothing when Kersey holds it—or seems to anyway.” He took it back from her, for which she was grateful.

“Extraordinary.”

He set it on his desk and went back to the mantelpiece, arranging everything the way it was before. “It amused me to store it here at the museum when the Order was so intent on keeping it away from here.”

She grinned, appreciating the irony. “Well done.”

He flicked her a smile as he finished up, then went to a trunk in the corner. Opening it, he pulled a blanket from the interior. “We’ll wrap it in this.”

He’d mentioned using it to persuade Kersey to help them. “Do you really think we need it? I worry about losing it again.”

He came back to the desk, carrying the blanket. “No one knows I have it.”

“Septon does.”

After laying the blanket out, he picked up the sword and set it on top of the wool. He turned his head to look at her. “You really don’t trust him, do you?”

“I’ve no reason to.”

He nodded and was quiet a moment before wrapping the sword with the blanket. “He won’t try to take it. I may be skeptical about his honesty and whether he’s told us everything he knows about the Order and their potential involvement with your grandfather, but in this, I trust him.”

She touched his arm briefly, drawing him to straighten and turn toward her. “I don’t want you to give up the sword. You said your sister spent her life looking for it, and you both believe it belongs here.”

“And yet, how can I deny it also belongs to Kersey?” He gave her a small smile. “Anyway, I hope I won’t have to. But if I do, I’d rather it go to him.”

“I’m confused about Kersey. Is he a friend or foe?”

Penn blew out a breath. “That’s a bit complicated. Until a month or so ago, I would’ve said friend. We grew up together—he’s just a few years younger than me—because our fathers are second cousins. My father liked for us to spend time with him because his father is such an ass.”

“That would be the Earl of Stratton?” she asked.

Penn nodded. “A worse excuse for a father doesn’t exist. In a way, I understand how Kersey took a wrong step here and there. Especially since he lost his wife not so long ago. She died shortly after they married. He was devastated.”

Amelia’s chest tightened. “How tragic.”

“Looking back, Kersey suffered a host of tragedies. His mother left him when he was nine or ten.”

To be with another man—she chose Septon over her son. Yes, that qualified as a tragedy in Amelia’s opinion. “Around the same age when your own mother died.”

His gaze flickered with a bit of surprise and something else, maybe gratitude. “Yes, but I had my parents after that. Whereas Kersey had his father, such as he is.” Penn shook his head. “My father made sure Kersey came to visit every summer, but Stratton put a stop to that when Kersey was about fourteen. We kept up a correspondence, however, and when he came to Oxford, I took him under my wing. I thought we were friends—in addition to being cousins, of course—but when I learned he stole the sword from my sister, I had to question the man I thought I knew. I want him to be a friend, but I don’t know.”

She moved a half step closer to him. “Maybe you’ll determine that when we find him.”

“I’m not sure I want to take you with me on that leg of the journey.”

She squared her shoulders. “We’re in this together. All this is a gamble.”

“It is.” He also moved closer, until they nearly touched. “Life is full of risk. That’s what makes it worth living.” He lifted his hand, and going very slowly, gently traced his finger along her jaw from cheek to chin.

Her belly tightened. They’d traveled this path before, coming very close to a kiss… Only to be interrupted by Septon. Would someone or something else come between them this time? She hoped not.

She did?

Yes, life was full of risk—and joy and wonder—and that was what made it worth living.

“Are you going to kiss me now?” she asked, sounding breathless to her own ears.

“If you’ll permit me.”

“Yes, please.”

His eyes slitted but didn’t fully close as he leaned forward. “Since you asked so prettily, how can I refuse? The truth is I can’t. I’ve been longing for this moment for quite some time.”

His words abruptly ended as his lips captured hers. His arms clasped her waist, and he pulled her against him.

She twined her arms around his neck, bringing her body flush to his. His mouth moved over hers, coaxing her—not that it took much effort—to kiss him back. She angled her head, sinking into him as heat raced through her body.

His fingers pressed into her back, and she responded by clutching his neck, her fingers delving into the hair edging his nape. He pulled back for a moment, and her eyes fluttered open in confusion. She’d rather hoped it would go on longer.

And then it did. He dipped his head once more and kissed her with a deeper hunger, his mouth opening against hers and his tongue licking along her lower lip. She gasped softly and allowed her tongue to meet his. His hold grew tighter, the desire in her veins more intense. This was more than she’d imagined, more than she ought to indulge. What happened to keeping their relationship professional?

She eased her hands from his neck, sliding them down to his chest. He ended the kiss, pulling away slightly.

“So much for being professional,” she murmured.

His lips spread into a lazy, seductive smile that did nothing to douse her passion. “That was professionally outstanding.”

She cocked her head to the side. “What are you saying?”

His eyes widened. “Not that you’re a professional at that. Good God, no.” Color rose in his cheeks, and she had to smile at his reaction. “My apologies. I was attempting a jest. A very poor one.”

“Are you trying to compliment me?”

“Yes. With every fiber of my being. You are extraordinary.”

She pulled her hands from his chest and took a step back. “And you like to flatter me.”

“Only with the truth. Wait here while I get the heart.”

So she could touch it as he’d promised her that afternoon. “It’s not necessary. We should probably return to your house since we’re leaving early in the morning.”

“It’s absolutely necessary. We’re taking it with us.”

“We are?”

“I think we must. We may need it. I’ll leave a note for Burgess that I’m borrowing it. That will satisfy him.” He handed her his key. “Lock the door behind me. I’ll be right back.”

He was gone just a few minutes, during which she tried looking at the collection of artifacts on his table but was instead consumed with thoughts of his kiss. Everything would be different now.

Or would it?

Their attraction to each other had been simmering practically since they’d met. Did acting upon it change anything or simply embrace it?

A soft knock on the door interrupted her thoughts before she could answer, which she wasn’t sure she could. She went to the door and whispered, “Penn?”

“Yes.”

She unlocked the door and let him back inside. He was smiling a rather silly smile. “You called me Penn.”

Damn, she had. “It seemed…appropriate now. And yes, you may call Amelia when we’re alone.”

“Excellent. I shall hope we are alone quite often.” He leaned forward and pressed a swift kiss to her lips before depositing a heavy object—though not nearly as heavy as the sword—into her palm.

She looked down at the heart cradled in her hand and imagined her grandfather’s joy at finding it. Moving to the lantern, she studied it, seeing where the paint was chipped. “How can you tell it isn’t tourmaline?”

“I can’t for certain, but it isn’t the same color as the illustration in de Valery’s manuscript.” He picked up the sword. “Which was written using the sixth-century poem my parents found.”

“Does tourmaline come in many colors?” she asked.

“At least a few. I’ve seen pink, which is the color in the illustration, and green.”

If this were the real heart, she should be able to use it to make someone—Penn even—fall in love with her. If she was a descendant, which she wasn’t since Dyrnwyn was so heavy. “You said you tried it on someone, and it didn’t work. Isn’t that because you aren’t a descendant? What if we gave this to Kersey and he tested it?”

“Another excellent reason to find him as soon as possible.” He looked at her shrewdly. “You’re quite good at this.”

Pride swelled her chest. “Thank you. I am a member of the Ladies’ Antiquary Society after all.” At least she thought she was.

“Indeed you are,” he said with admiration. “Come, lady antiquary, let us be on our way.”

He extinguished the lantern, plunging them into darkness once more, and a moment later, they were outside his office as he locked the door.

“Ready?” he asked.

She clutched the heart tightly in her fist. “Never more.”