Chapter 20

Cordelia clapped her hands together and marched over the terrain. Anticipation hummed through with such intensity it was all she could to keep from running about the small circular area.

She was correct. It did look like it.

It truly did. Almost without question, they had been dining not twenty yards from a barrow. Doing a little dance of glee, she laughed.

In all her years, she’d never been to England until now and the Fates had been kind enough to bestow an excavation site upon her. Perhaps England wasn’t so terrible after all.

The indentations and curve of the earth clearly indicated human creation, not geological occurrence. Which made her fingers itch to find a shovel, and a set of brushes in varying sizes.

Jack strode up behind her, his face not at all elated.

In fact, his face looked rather like doom. She’d seen a similar look upon her own father’s face when her mother had been up to something particularly crack brained. And she didn’t like the idea of stirring about any of the emotions her mother had done.

That woman had caused more chaos than Pandora and Cordelia had spent a lifetime of living quite rationally, thank you very much.

“Whatever is the matter?” she asked. She gestured toward the barrow. “Is it not wonderful?”

He scowled. “Its a hill.”

It hit her then. He had absolutely no idea what she was so overjoyed by. “You poor man.”

“Poor man?” He readjusted his hold on the wine bottle and quail eggs. “I am perfectly in my right mind but you—”

“Its a barrow,” she exclaimed then threw out her arms facing the small oval rise, wishing she could hug the burial site.

“A barrow,” he echoed.

She nodded, then clasped her hands before her in a slightly prayer like fashion. For there was nothing like a good dig, aside from rocks of course, which could induce the desire to worship within her. “Isn’t it wonderful?”

“I do not see a barrow.”

Her mouth dropped open, quite unexpectedly. “I beg your pardon?”

He paused for several moment, his gaze swinging from her to the barrow then back again. “Are you quite well?”

“Hmmph.” She dropped her hands, propping them on her hips. “Don’t be ridiculous—”

“I know you are given to eccentricities, but you are acting in a most peculiar—”

She narrowed her eyes, quite disappointed in his lack of vision. “You sound most serious. Like a poker has invaded your posterior.”

Jack frowned. “Now, that hardly seems appropriate.”

She laughed. “Listen to yourself.”

He scowled and then his expression softened to one of chagrin. “I do sound rather—”

“Stiff,” she cut in, more than ready to get down to business. “Now just look before you.”

His gaze traveled over her warily, very much with the same sort of look one might use when expecting a mad man to suddenly start jumping up and down and make monkey noises.

She sighed. Why did men always have to be so ridiculous? They always had to jump to conclusions and rarely thought out their situations. “If you just be patient and look at the terrain you will see what I see.”

“I do not believe a barrow is magically going to appear, my dear.”

She rolled her eyes. “If you are speaking of the garden variety, which I now assume you must be, I concur.”

His brows drew together, confusion written all over his face. “If not—”

“Look,” she commanded pointing towards the rise.

He looked.

He stared.

He blew out a pained breath.

She dropped her hand and shook her head. “Good grief, what do they teach boys at Eton?”

“Not much,” he drawled.

“Apparently.” She folded her hands before her, ready to take on the polite persona she always managed when irritating gawkers came to view the antiquities of Egypt. He was quite fortunate she was willing to enlighten him, really. Usually, she just shooed such persons off. But...Well. . . She was a guest here.

“I’m waiting,” he said at last.

“With little grace,” she quipped.

“Cordelia—”

“Alright. Alright.” She cleared her throat and straightened her shoulders. “What you see before you could be a Viking barrow.”

His dark eyes widened slightly as he stared at the green patch with fresh eyes. “Viking—”

“Yes. Now let me finish.”

He clamped his mouth shut, but his impatience needed no words to be expressed. The line of his broad shoulders, and usually sensual mouth said all that needed speaking.

“About a millennia ago, the coasts were riddled with Viking attackers. London itself—”

“I am familiar with history, madam professor.”

She sniffed. “Not familiar enough.”

Jack sighed put the eggs down then popped the cork from the wine bottle. “I beg your pardon, but I think, if you are going to lecture, this calls for wine.”

She gave a little conciliatory gesture of her hand. “Do go ahead.”

“Thank you.” He took a swig from the bottle then offered it to her.

“In a moment. When I’m finished.”

He held the bottle a few inches from his mouth before saying, “Will it truly be only a moment?”

She tsked. “Desist in your irascibility.”

At this, he grinned, apparently mollified by the wine. “You really are quite a picture when you are in such a state.”

“I am not in a state,” she huffed.

“You are.”

She hmmphed again. “Now. To continue.”

He waggled his brows then drank from the bottle once again.

“Many Viking warriors died in this country and they were frequently buried here in elaborate graves under the earth.”

“How fascinating.”

“Yes. It is really. . .” She stopped. “I say, are you making fun?”

“Of you, love?” He shook his head, pursing his lips in exaggerated serious. “One should never dare to do such a misdeed.”

She lifted her chin again. “Indeed, they should not.”

He gestured with his own hand, a suspiciously similar movement to her own earlier gesture. “Do go on.”

“As I was saying, these Viking burials are key to understanding their role here in the establishment of our society, and most certainly in understanding the vast travel and trade that the Northmen partook in.”

“So, there’s an ancient plunderer buried on this land.”

“Exactly.”

“Any treasure do you think?”

She was tempted to scoff, but held in such thoughts. It was to be expected in one who was not an academic. “It is impossible to tell what objects are buried in the barrow. And it also largely depends on your idea of treasure.”

“I suppose one might consider anything buried for such a long time treasure. Especially if it is indicative of a society’s makeup.”

Her heart warmed. The words which he’d uttered seemed impossible. No one. Absolutely no one besides her brothers or her father had ever uttered such a sentiment. Her cheeks began to burn with happiness. “You understand,” she said.

He held out the bottle of wine to her. “I understand that it is important to you and that history is just a few feet beneath the soil before us.”

Cordelia swallowed.

“What’s important to you is important to me,” he said softly.

She took the bottle of wine and lest her eyes grow watery, she took a quick drink, savoring the crisp, sweet notes of peach and apple. She had no idea what to make of such a statement. She and her family had held the importance of archeology in mutual esteem.

Jack had no reason at all to feel thusly. And from his words, his consideration had only to do with her opinion on the matter.

It was a rare feeling.

She took another drink, overwhelmed by the realization that someone might put her desires in a place of importance without her having to do a good deal of cajoling. “I appreciate that. Thank you.”

“You’re happy, aren’t you?” he asked, a surprising degree of happiness in his own voice.

She handed him back the bottle of wine. “I am. Yes.”

He leaned towards her, and brushed his thumb over her lower lip then licked the drop of wine he’d removed. “Then there’s really only one thing to do.”

The flushed feeling raced over her entire body, skin aflame, and lips parting. “What is that?”

Leaning in, he pressed his lips to her ear and whispered softly, “We dig.”