Redeeming The Reclusive Earl. Virginia Heath

was unseasonably warm was beyond her.

      Then she remembered the scars she had seen only briefly yesterday and felt oddly compassionate towards him. Effie had seen similar scars before on a blacksmith in Teversham. They were caused by burns, which must have been agonising to receive, yet while the blacksmith’s tight, gnarled scars had been on his arm, from memory and the briefest glimpse of them yesterday, Lord Rivenhall’s marred left cheek below the eye had scars which probably travelled down his neck, too. Hence the high collars and the long curtain of hair. And perhaps the open hostility?

      She understood what it was like to feel different from others. Most people, in her experience, could be quite judgemental and wary of things they were unfamiliar with—like scars or unusual intelligence. And tactless. As if the person who had the misfortune to be different through no fault of their own was immune to their stares or unsubtle whispers, or, if the people were particularly thoughtless, the insulting words uttered directly to one’s face. In all her years on the planet, she had never quite found a way to truly cope with the phenomenon beyond ignoring it. Perhaps Lord Rivenhall’s natural form of defence to being different was attack?

      ‘Indeed. This area is teeming with Roman history. We are sandwiched between Duroliponte, the old Roman name for Cambridge, and their English capital Camulodunon—modern-day Colchester. The Abbey was built on the original Roman foundations of what I suspect was once a fort of some sort, judging by the nature of the artefacts I have found. The Normans did that sort of thing a lot and who can blame them? Why waste months digging and laying fresh foundations when there are already perfectly sturdy ones in situ? Colchester Castle and indeed the Tower of London, too, were both constructed on the original Roman foundations and still stand just as strong to this day. They were excellent builders, the Romans. Excellent at everything really. Such an advanced civilisation...’ She was losing him with her impromptu, rambling history lesson rather than charming him. She could see his impatience to be rid of her mounting and she had still not told him what she had come here to say.

      ‘Anyway... The pot I began excavating yesterday is particularly exciting. Or at least it has the potential to be. So far, it does not have the finesse expected from a piece of Roman or medieval pottery, appearing to have been shaped by hand rather than thrown on a wheel by a skilled potter. It’s rudimentary in construction, practical and lacking in any attempt to raise it from what it was made to be.’ All the Roman pottery she had previously found around the foundations of the ruined Abbey bore intricate painted decoration, carved inlays or raised reliefs. Even the very plainest medieval pottery from the site had turned rims and a glazed finish.

      ‘Therefore this pot has to be older. Significantly older.’ She paused for effect, offering her most dazzling smile. ‘If I am right, it is an artefact of unprecedented importance because we know so little about the people who occupied our islands two thousand years ago. It needs to be studied by the Society of Antiquaries. Therefore, you need to allow me to dig it up.’

      ‘I need do nothing, madam. This is my land.’

      ‘And I would only be digging on the furthest edge of it. The ruins are a good mile from here. Well out of your way and—’

      ‘No.’ His back was towards her again, his big, vexing, impatient feet already heading towards the door.

      ‘But...’

      ‘There is no but, Miss Nitwit. Leave. Now.’

      Two years of hard work, everything she cared about, her entire purpose, the only thing she had left was being callously torn away. Unfamiliar panic made her heart race. ‘Really, my lord, if I could just explain...’ She couldn’t allow that to happen. Couldn’t contemplate exactly what she would do without it. Aside from drive herself directly to Bedlam. Her rapid, constant thoughts like an itch she could never scratch. ‘The site is truly of the utmost historical importance.’ And to her personally. It was all she had left. Her future and her sanity. Should she beg? Desperation and fear made her sorely tempted to. Pride made her set her shoulders and apparently took over her vocal cords.

      ‘Your uncle understood all that. But then he was a reasonable and affable man—not a bully.’ So much for honey. ‘Frankly, and if I might speak plainly...’

       Do not speak plainly. Whatever you do, do not speak plainly. Whenever you do, it never ends well...

      ‘You should be ashamed of yourself for your boorish behaviour both yesterday and today!’ And now she was positively dousing the brute in vinegar. ‘It is most unneighbourly and without provocation.’

      He stiffened and she winced at her forthrightness, yet couldn’t quite bring herself to apologise for her outburst. It was unneighbourly. Effie had never been particularly good at remembering either her place or her sex. She blamed that failing on her excessively large brain and growing up with a father who had always actively encouraged her to use it. Nor had she ever had much patience for wilful ignorance or downright unfairness. She had been perfectly polite to him up until now, but that forced politeness only stretched so far. ‘Have you no respect for history sir? For your legacy or for knowledge? You do not strike me as stupid. Or anywhere close to being an idiot.’ That, she was prepared to concede, was undoubtedly a step too far. Slowly, he turned and beneath the cloak of his hair she saw his mouth was partially open at her insolence. ‘So I fail to understand how you can wilfully stand in the way of progress!’

      ‘I am the stupid one? I asked you to leave, madam.’ This time his voice was icy calm and, frankly, quite terrifying as he slowly stalked towards her. ‘As I am well within my rights as the owner of this property to do. What part of that instruction are you struggling with?’

      ‘I am not easily intimidated, Lord Rivenhall.’ It was a lie, she was exceedingly intimidated now that he was stood less than a foot away, but she felt her delivery of the lie had been reasonably convincing thanks to her legendary stubborn streak and unhelpful lack of diplomacy in trying to convince him to see sense. She had never had much patience for blind ignorance.

      Honey, not vinegar.

      ‘I should like us to have a rational discussion about the future of the dig like mature and polite adults.’ The stubborn streak made her lift her chin defiantly and fold her arms like a petulant, sulky child—although, to be fair, she was only mirroring his stance.

      ‘Then you give me no other choice, madam. If you continue to outstay your welcome, I shall have to remove you forcibly from my premises.’ He leaned until their eyes were level, scant inches apart, intent on intimidating her. Intent on letting her know in no uncertain terms he meant business and was heartily unimpressed with both her and her arguments to sway him to the contrary. ‘I think I would enjoy that.’

      ‘Am I supposed to be terrified now, Lord Rivenhall?’

      Despite all the bluster and noise, all the overtly hostile evidence to the contrary, she somehow knew that this man would not lay a finger on her. Knew that in her bones. How odd, because she wasn’t usually one for nonsense like feeling things in her bones. Yet she was so certain he was harmless, her eyes locked on his brazenly as he continued to stare and remained so when he gripped the arms of her chair to lean closer, making no effort this time to conceal the scars marring his cheek. Almost as if he expected her to recoil disgusted at the merest sight of them.

      ‘If you are expecting me to burst into tears and scurry away, then I must tell you that you are doomed to be disappointed.’

      He blinked, looked away and hastily stepped back. She smiled again because she could see he was confused by her reaction and perhaps a little uncomfortable with his own attempts to intimidate her, if his sudden inability to look her in the eye was a gauge. He was clearly all bluster. Just as she’d suspected. A lion with a thorn in his paw.

      ‘I need to excavate that pot and will not be deterred from that goal.’

      ‘And I need to be left alone, madam.’ His arms were crossed again and he stood far too tall and much too close for comfort. ‘Do I need to build a wall encasing my land to keep you off it?’

      ‘You have a lot of land, my lord. If you start building