Chapter 13 #2
She couldn’t think of a decent reason not to, so she walked away from the field of battle and sat down next to Oliver Phillips and hoped she wasn’t making an enormous mistake.
She watched Sam for a few minutes and tried to convince herself that it was just a bit of LARPing going on.
She even went so far as to allow that it might have been perhaps an alpha-male ritual that happened in bucolic English villages where men of a certain bent needed to sort out who was worthy to lead the pack.
That didn’t help her much, unfortunately.
She looked at Oliver Phillips and found that he was watching her as she watched the madness in front of her. Somehow, though she couldn’t have said how, that no-trespassing aura she’d noted around him had either dissipated or grown to include her. She felt a slight bit of tension recede.
“Who are you really?”
He smiled. “An antique dealer.”
“Why are you here?”
“Those are antique swords.”
“Why are they using them?”
“Well,” he said carefully, “I imagine that’s a question you’ll need to ask Samuel.”
“He says the only people who use his whole name are ones who are scolding him.”
Oliver smiled. “Actually, we’ve never been properly introduced, so I feel a certain compulsion to be formal.”
That seemed reasonable, so she let it pass. There was also no reason not to keep questioning him since she was getting at least a few decent answers. “How do you know Zachary?”
“He hires us to do the occasional bit of scouting for the preservation trust he heads.”
She nodded, then took another tack. “I saw you arguing with that other suspicious guy in front of the pub,” she said. “What was that all about?”
He looked at her seriously. “You’re very observant.”
“Occupational hazard,” she managed, though that came from sheer nosiness, not anything more esoteric. “I’ve watched a lot of British mysteries with my mother.”
“How long does it take you to figure out the culprit?”
“Ten minutes in, give or take.” She looked at him. “You?”
“About the same.” He looked at her seriously. “We’re the good guys, Miss Brewster.”
She smiled at his bang-up American accent. “And that guy in front of the pub?”
“He wasn’t one of the good guys.”
“Thank you for distracting him.” She paused. “I think he’s after Sam.”
Oliver only looked at her silently.
She waited for him to say more, but apparently the good guys in England were fairly discreet. She cleared her throat carefully, then nodded casually at the two men still going at each other with swords.
“Any details to share about that?”
Oliver considered, then looked at her. “I don’t reveal secrets that aren’t mine.”
“I know he’s Sam and not Theophilus,” she offered, “if that makes it any better. And I know Theo’s off on some sort of family business.”
Oliver nodded. “Very true, that.”
“And that Sam’s an actor. He probably learned all that sword stuff in an acting class.”
Oliver only looked at her and lifted one shoulder in a bit of a shrug. “Who’s to say?”
Harriet didn’t want to believe it, but she suspected she might have to pull up her big girl britches and face other possibilities.
“He could be a LARPer.”
“A what?”
“You know, one of those re-enactment types,” she said casually, adding a casual hand gesture as well in case she hadn’t sounded blasé enough. “I imagine lots of them learn how to fight with swords to up the reality quotient.”
“It is hard to get away from history on our foggy little island,” Oliver conceded, “so that’s definitely possible.”
Harriet refrained from telling him that it wasn’t just England that boasted that kind of sword wielding, but perhaps he wasn’t familiar with the wilds of Nebraska, more particularly her parents’ bedroom. She turned back to watching Sam and was happy she was sitting down.
From what she could tell based on an enormous number of movies watched and a thankfully minuscule number of parental LARPers observed, Sam was very good with a sword.
Then again, the guy he was trading off blows and French with was absolutely terrifying, so perhaps good was the wrong adjective.
Amazing might have been closer to the mark.
“Who’s the other guy?” Harriet whispered.
“A business associate of mine,” Oliver whispered back.
“Do I get to know his name?”
“Jackson.”
She looked at him. “An antique dealer, too?”
“Weapons expert, rather. We bring him in when we find something that looks rare enough to interest him. The rest of the time he either travels to hunt treasure or remains at home where he enjoys painting landscapes.”
She smiled. “He doesn’t.”
“He does,” Oliver said. He paused and smiled. “His wife is actually our company’s resident art assessor, so it’s a bit of a family affair there.”
“Why does he want to kill Sam?”
“Another thing to ask the man himself.”
She would have, but Oliver had stood up suddenly. She popped up to her feet as well, then ran again into his outstretched arm. She was tempted to argue, but she found herself freezing at the sight of a sword going through Sam’s coat, making a horrendous rending sound as it did so.
Sam held up his hand, which was likely just as well given he’d just had his own sword slapped out of that hand.
“Damn you, Jack,” he said, his chest heaving, “this is my favorite jacket!”
“Best be more careful next time then, aye?”
Sam leaned over with his hands on his thighs until he apparently caught his breath, then heaved himself upright.
“Satisfied yet?”
“Only marginally.”
Harriet would have held up her hand to ask a few questions, but she had the feeling no one was going to be paying any attention to her. At least the boys were back to English. She was sure she would appreciate that once she’d successfully squelched her intense desire to begin hyperventilating.
“If you’ll excuse me, Miss Brewster?” Oliver said politely.
She nodded uneasily and watched him walk off to join the little duo out there.
Jackson and Sam put the sheaths back on their swords that were, judging by the damage to Sam’s jacket, very sharp, then hand them to Oliver who put them back in a black bag that she suspected might have held a snowboard or two during the winter.
They were all very businesslike about the whole thing, which she thought might have been the weirdest thing she’d seen so far on her trip—and that was saying something.
Sam turned, looked at her, then closed his eyes briefly while indulging in what looked to be some sort of deep breath followed by a sigh of resignation.
She seriously considered running away, but at least she knew the three standing there.
She had no idea what waited in the shadows, though she was beginning to think it might not be all that pleasant.
Sam walked over to her and she took a step backward reflexively. He had obviously seen her do it because he came to an abrupt halt. He also looked as if she’d just slapped him.
She realized a handful of things immediately.
First and foremost was the fact that Samuel de Piaget had secrets he hadn’t shared with her.
She couldn’t blame him for that. They were nothing more than comrades-in-arms who had ventured slightly into Just Friends territory. He didn’t owe her any explanations.
Second, he wasn’t very good about hiding his emotions or his reactions to things. Well, he was fairly good at trying to walk back what had apparently been an unguarded reaction to her backing away from him, but that was something different and just the slightest bit endearing.
The third thing was that never once in her interactions with him had he been anything but a perfect gentleman, which left her realizing that she just might trust him.
She took a deep breath and an accompanying step forward.
“I didn’t listen to you,” she said bluntly. “I should have.”
He nodded carefully. “Perhaps.”
She chewed on her next words for a bit, but she couldn’t not ask them. “Are we safe?”
“Of course.”
“I met the blond scary guy,” she said. “His name is Oliver. He’s the one who distracted that other man who was following you in London.”
“That was good of him,” Sam managed.
“Are we engaging in introductions all around?” asked another voice.
Harriet looked at her erstwhile note-rescuer and wondered why he hadn’t been the one the conference had tapped to give that lecture on weapons through the ages. He certainly seemed to have the tools used during medieval times down pat.
Sam shifted and gestured at Old Blue Eyes. “My cousin, Jackson Kilchurn.”
Jackson held out his hand. “A pleasure …”
A cousin? Harriet could hardly believe that, but then again, if she and Mac had possessed swords instead of cleaning rods in high school, they might very well have engaged in the sort of battle during orchestra practice that she’d just witnessed in front of her.
“Harriet,” she said, realizing Jackson was still holding out his hand. “Harriet Brewster.”
“A pleasure, Miss Brewster,” Jackson said, shaking her hand.
He released her, made her a bit of a bow, then looked at her with an expression that was somehow very serious.
“My deepest apologies. I’m sure I startled you and that was poorly done on my part.
You shouldn’t have been witness to our family squabbles—”
“Nay, she shouldn’t have,” Sam said briskly, “which is why we’ll bid you lads a good e’en and be on our way. Harriet?”
Harriet decided trotting off with Sam was better than being left behind, not that he would have done that anyway, she was certain.
She handed Oliver back his coat, sent Jackson and Oliver a brief wave, then hurried after Sam down the little alleyway between two sets of buildings that was almost too strait to allow them to walk side-by-side.
Sam put his arm out before they left the alleyway to keep her behind him, then he leaned forward a bit, possibly to make certain there weren’t any other business associates with swords hanging around.
He let out his breath slowly, then put his hands in the pockets of his jacket only to have one of his hands go completely through the enormous rip made by Jackson’s sword. He took a deep breath, then shoved his hands in the pockets of his jeans and smiled wearily at her.
“Let’s go check on your parents’ cottage, shall we?”
She nodded, noticed that he’d put himself between her and the street and forced herself not to notice that he hadn’t offered her his arm. Then again, she’d panicked at the sight of him post-swordfight, so maybe he was afraid to put himself out there for round two of being shunned.
But what else was she supposed to do? She’d lost her list of Great British Perils, true, but swordfights with gorgeous aqua-eyed men hadn’t been on that list anyway so she was still adrift in the wilds of the Cotswolds, wandering in a little village adorned with hyphens, and the one thing that had seemed even slightly reliable had turned out to be a man who knew how to use a sword.
A real sword.
A really sharp sword that apparently was useful against other sharp swords unless the wielder of that other sharp sword was a weapons expert who found himself in Samuel de Piaget’s vicinity more often than she was comfortable with.
There were strange and unusual happenings swirling around her, ones that she wouldn’t have dared put in a book even if she’d been able to.
Gorgeous men using swords, swearing in strangely accented French, and other ridiculously good-looking men selling antiques and roughing up ruffians also in Samuel de Piaget’s vicinity? No one would have believed it.
Just what in the world was going on and when had it become so chilly?
She would have asked Sam for his coat, but it had an enormous rent in one side so it wouldn’t have done her much good.
Maybe her parents’ cottage might be hiding a sewing kit that would at least allow her to sew herself up something warm to borrow.
And once that useless thought had finished traipsing across what was left of her mind, she realized they were standing just outside the front postage-stamp-sized garden of her parent’s digs.
And the lights were on inside.
Sam opened the little gate, made certain she was behind him, then continued on toward the door. She caught him by the arm.
“What’s today?”
“Friday?”
“Damn it,” she said, ducking behind him. “My parents are here!”
“Your parents?” he asked, looking over his shoulder at her. “Why?”
“Well, they’re supposed to be here,” she amended. “Tomorrow, but tomorrow is today because today is Friday, not Thursday.” She looked up at him. “It’s been a long week.”
He looked thoroughly baffled. “Is that a problem?”
“It is because they don’t know I’m here.”
“In England?”
“No, at the conference!”
He paused, then turned and looked at her. “I’m still confused. Your parents don’t know about what, exactly?”
“They don’t know about the conference,” she whispered.
He looked to be stopping just short of scratching his head. “That it exists, or that you are attending it?”
“The latter. Well, both, but mostly the latter.”
He stroked his chin. “You know, honesty is the best policy.”
She felt her mouth fall open. “You can’t be serious.”
“’Tis a well-sourced rumor—”
“How do you sleep at night, you … you twin,” she said in disbelief. “You’re hardly the one to be giving any lectures on being forthcoming!”
He looked as if he might be toying with the idea of laughing, but apparently good sense prevailed. He reached out to touch her elbow. “Do they know who Theo is?”
“My father loves his books,” she grumbled, “so yes, in theory.”
“Then let me see to this.” He paused. “But stay behind me until we’re certain ‘tis truly them.”
She nodded, then happily used him as a shield as he turned to face the door.
“Honesty is the best policy,” she muttered, then snorted. “You’re lucky I don’t have a sword.”
He reached behind him and patted her arm. “I’ll find you one.”
“I’ll learn how to use it,” she promised. “On you.”
He smiled over his shoulder. “Don’t run.”
She glared at him, but found she was less unnerved by what was behind her than in front of her.
And that had nothing to do with her parents and everything to do with a man who was turning out to be not at all what she’d suspected him to be when she’d first been dazzled by his smile behind a ficus tree.
Who was Samuel de Piaget anyway?
She wasn’t sure she was entitled to the answers, but she couldn’t help but want to have them just the same.