Chapter 11 Rhys
Rhys
Rhys stepped outside onto the terrace and caught a flash of dress disappearing into the labyrinth. What the devil? She was going back in! The woman couldn’t be so foolish to enter the labyrinth again. She could get lost for hours. He took off after her, the wide expanse of the garden between them.
When he reached the entrance, he called out, “Miss Brighton? Wherever you are, stop now and I’ll assist you.” She did not answer. “Miss Brighton, I’m here to help. Have no fear. We met yesterday.”
He waited at the first juncture where a person usually got lost and retraced their steps.
When she didn’t appear, he continued on and decided to stop calling for her after a wild thought occurred to him.
Was she meeting someone in a secret rendezvous?
Perhaps with whoever had dared her to enter the labyrinth in the first place.
Rhys waited at every juncture, expecting to see her round the corner to backtrack, but she never did.
It wasn’t possible she could have made it to the center on a second try.
Especially if the first time had been an accident.
But that was where he found her. In the center, alone, gazing up at one of the standing stones.
Her hand was resting on it with her back to him.
The image struck him because he had seen something similar before.
In the painting. The same russet hair and graceful back. The same exquisite hand. The same woman?
The possibility was simply impossible. Yet she did resemble the woman from his father’s painting, and Rhys was letting his imagination run wild. Because this woman was the real mystery. Which is why he did not step forward and announce himself.
She was studying the ancient symbols inscribed on the largest standing stone with a perplexed air.
Reaching out, she traced a finger along the markings in wonderment.
She began placing her hands all over the stone while he watched, bewildered, as she gave each stone the same careful inspection.
Then she stopped and leaned against one as if she’d grown dizzy.
She drew in a shaking breath and fished something out of her gown’s hidden pocket—a biscuit.
She ate it quickly and took out a second, eating that one too just as fast. Then she drew in several steadying breaths and pulled a third biscuit from her pocket to nibble on as she returned to investigating the stones.
Rhys felt like a schoolboy spying on her.
Why did she have biscuits squirreled away in her skirts?
Had no one fed her today? The thought made him livid.
He would have his butler reprimand the entire kitchen staff.
The third biscuit, he was relieved to see, she ate more gingerly.
Her attention now on the ground, she began walking and stomping all along the grass while she ate.
He could watch the bizarre spectacle no longer and stepped forward.
“Miss Brighton, what are you doing?”
With a gasp she turned to him. “You,” she said, her mouth full of biscuit.
No, you, he all but said. The labyrinth was his private sanctuary, and she was invading it with her presence just as she’d invaded his thoughts all day. “We meet again.” He gave her a stiff bow, retreating behind a facade of politeness.
Her eyes traveled over him, then her face colored in embarrassment. “You were the one who found me yesterday.”
“Yes, I’m pleased to see you are recovered, though it seems you are in dire need of sustenance.” He frowned at the biscuit in her hand. “Were you not fed?”
“I was.” She shoved the half-eaten biscuit back into her pocket. “But I get dizzy if I go too long without eating. I lost track of time.”
He scowled at that. Perhaps that was why she’d fainted twice yesterday. She hadn’t eaten.
Why had she been crying in the conservatory?
All evidence of her emotional distress was gone.
Thank goodness. “What are you doing here?” He sounded more abrupt than he intended.
To distract from his discomfort, he stared at the carved symbols on the stone she had been tracing.
They were as mysterious as the stone circle itself.
“I was hoping to remember how I got here.”
“Ah. The amnesia.” His mother might believe it, but she had always been gullible.
The lady’s crying in the conservatory was perhaps because she remembered all too well who she was.
His eyes went to the ring on her finger, which she quickly hid in her pocket as if she didn’t want him to see it.
Was she running away from her family—or possibly a man?
Maybe she wanted everyone to think she didn’t remember so she wouldn’t have to leave.
He decided to speak frankly. “If you are afraid and are dealing with . . . challenges that made you run away from an unfortunate situation, you can tell me. I’ll protect you.
” He found his offer to be true. Whatever she was facing, he would help her.
This mysterious woman who could play the piano better than anyone he’d ever heard before. He wanted to help her.
She shook her head. “I don’t remember how I got here. That is the truth.” Her eyes met his, her gaze open and guileless.
He considered the facts before him. “How did you know how to arrive at the center? Not once but twice. This labyrinth is a fortress.” His fortress.
She looked away. “The first time when I woke up, I really don’t remember. The second, I studied the path from my bedroom window.”
“Impossible.” He squinted at the house, imagining which window was hers.
“Not impossible. The path to the center is a pattern, like a song.”
He cocked a brow in challenge. “And you play music?”
“A little.” She brushed away the question.
“Come now,” he scoffed. “That is quite a severe case of false modesty. You play unlike anyone I’ve ever heard.”
“You heard me?” she asked, disconcerted.
“A little,” he retorted. “Is being here helping you to remember?”
She shook her head and then stunned him by saying, “Your father said you had Merlin’s sister’s diary and would translate it for me. You must, because I need to read it.”
“You need to read the diary?” Finally, he could question her about the book.
“It’s from the sixth century and written in Old English,” she told him as if he didn’t know.
“Yes, I have it in my possession. How did you know my father?”
She hesitated. “I didn’t, but he did write to me. He said you would translate it for me when I arrived.”
Rhys was at a loss for words. He could just imagine his father promising such a thing.
But he couldn’t explain the irritation thrumming within him.
Nothing about her or this situation made sense.
How had his father known her or her family?
“Yes, it is true my father asked me to return the diary to you when you arrived, although I have only started translating it. I have it in the library.” He would have to work quickly on the translation to keep his promise before she left with the book or her family came knocking at his door to claim their wayward daughter.
“Could you please show it to me?”
“Of course. I was just on my way there,” he offered.
She hesitated, looking reluctant to leave but nodded, twisting the ring on her finger as she followed him out.
They walked the labyrinth in silence. Rhys was unsure what to say. He needed to solve the mystery of her for his own peace of mind.
“Miss Brighton—”
“Please, call me Magellan.”
He shot her a look of surprise at giving him license to use her given name. That was usually reserved for people on intimate terms.
Magellan. Momentarily distracted, he wondered who on earth had named her after a Portuguese explorer and a man of all people. And once he started thinking on her name, he could no longer imagine her solely as Miss Brighton.
“Then please call me Rhys.” He surprised himself by offering such an informality. Only his family called him by his first name.
Before he could continue his questioning, they were intercepted by one of the maids who met them on the lawn. He believed her name was Polly. She was holding Miss Brighton’s gloves.
“There you are, miss! My lord.” She gave him a curtsy and said to Magellan, “I came to the conservatory to collect you. It’s almost time for the introductions, and you need to change into your evening gown.”
“Evening gown?” Magellan exclaimed, sounding appalled.
She looked down at her dress. “What’s wrong with this one?
” Rhys couldn’t help but glance down at her gown too and think absolutely nothing.
Then Magellan shocked him by placing her hand on his arm.
“Rhys, could we still go to the library to see the diary? Please?”
He was too riveted by her hand on his arm and his name on her lips to care about Polly’s surprise at Magellan’s stunning intimacy.
He made a smooth tuck of Magellan’s hand into the crook of his arm as if he’d offered it first. “Of course.” He cleared his throat and said to Polly, who had yet to stop gaping, “Miss Brighton and I were just going to the library to view a book. Please accompany us as her chaperone, and she can change for dinner shortly after.”
There, that was sorted.
They strolled through the rest of the garden, and Rhys tried to ignore the warmth of Magellan’s hand tucked on his arm. As they neared the library, her face lit with recognition when she saw it shared the same hallway as the conservatory.
As they entered the grand room, she gasped with pleasure, and Rhys felt a puff of pride.
Hereford Library was breathtaking indeed.
An immense cathedral of books assembled under one roof.
They extended up to the vaulted ceilings.
Ornate book ladders on movable tracks rested at each corner of the room like cardinal points on a compass.
He led Magellan to his desk tucked away in the back alcove. Polly took a seat on a sofa in the center of the room, affording them privacy.