“Unless it changed hands in transit,” he said. “Banditry, perhaps. Or troop movement.”
The discussion turned quickly toward military deployment patterns. Marcus listened, noting how readily some voices responded with depth and others with deflection. That was the true test. Authentic scholars could follow the thread of inquiry in any direction because their knowledge ran deep. Those less prepared—like Harold, for instance—maintained composure but faltered in detail.
He contributed often, to be sure. But his comments, though broadly informed, skirted specifics. Marcus noticed how he steered discussions back toward general trends or secondary sources. A casual listener might not at first perceive it, but the pattern was plain now. It was not merely lack of confidence. It was as though he had no wish to share what he knew
Edmund, by contrast, offered penetrating observations during the authentication segment. He pointed out micro-abrasions inconsistent with period techniques on a supposedly genuine fibula. His detection methods were exacting, and his conclusions hard to dispute. Yet the set of his shoulders, the glance unfailingly cast toward Harold at every mention of provenance—these bespoke something beyond mere professional concern.
Marcus jotted a few notes. He would need to consider these dynamics carefully. This gathering had drawn brilliant minds, but brilliance could conceal many things.
Catherine passed by him, carrying a fresh report to James. Marcus let his hand rest briefly at her back as she moved past, earning him a small but warm smile.
The lamp glowed steadily across the desk, illuminating the pale cream of the parchment, the faded ink of old catalogues, and the glint of metal clasps on portfolios. Outside, the house had gone quiet. Only the distant creak of old timbers marked the settling of Penwood Manor for the night.
Marcus sat opposite Catherine, the wide desk between them cluttered with documents from the day’s sessions. He rubbed the corner of one page between his thumb and forefinger, though his attention had shifted entirely from the Roman coinage charts in front of him to the woman seated across from him. She worked with care, reviewing provenance reports and cross-referencing storage notes.
Her brow furrowed in concentration, just as it did when she deciphered difficult Latin passages. A loose strand of hair slipped against her cheek, and she brushed it back with a familiar motion—one he had witnessed many times before, though tonight it seemed uncommonly graceful. Had he ever truly noticed it? Not merely her beauty, but the quiet assurance with which she seemed to belong in this room—and, perhaps, in his world?
She murmured something to herself, then reached for a ledger. Her fingertips brushed his hand as she drew it across the desk. The contact was fleeting, accidental, yet he felt it with a clarity that eclipsed every rational thought. She did not withdraw her hand at once. Nor did he. Her fingers lingered against his for a breath too long.
He felt the warmth of her skin and the fine tremor beneath it. Slowly and deliberately, she lifted her hand away. Her eyesremained on the page, but the stillness in her shoulders told him she had noticed just as acutely as he had.
He cleared his throat.
“You reorganised the cataloguing sequence for the provincial ceramics,” he said, unable to mask the awe in his voice.
She nodded without looking up.
“The prior order relied too heavily on imperial dating,” she said. “I thought a regional structure would better serve the comparative analysis.”
He nodded slowly.How does she impress me more each time she speaks?He marvelled silently.
“It does,” he said, quieter than intended. “It was the right decision.”
She met his gaze then.
“You remembered the coin from the Gloucestershire excavation,” she said. “James mentioned it this morning. You brought it to him without needing to consult the ledger.”
Marcus nodded with a small smile.
“I remembered where you stored it,” he said.
Her lips parted slightly, but no reply came. She looked down again, though not to resume her work. The air between themhad changed. They were not lovers, but they were more than practically arranged companions. Would it be so terrible if love came to them, as well?
***
Catherine was caught in the moment when, reaching for the ledger at her side, her fingers brushed the edge of Marcus’s hand.
The fire crackled softly in the grate, a quiet accompaniment to the scratch of quill and rustle of parchment. The familiar scents of aged paper and polished wood surrounded her, yet tonight there lingered something else—something warm, masculine, and unaccustomed. Marcus’s cologne, subtle and clean, mingled with the leather bindings and beeswax polish, altering them forever. The fragrance would never again speak to her only of study.
Her pulse quickened with a strange, unbidden energy.
He sat no farther than an arm’s length away, brow furrowed in concentration as he read the notes she had compiled that afternoon. Yet there was a new quality in his expression, a stillness not born of scholarly absorption. Drawn by instinct rather than design, she lifted her gaze. His eyes found hers, steady and searching. Neither spoke. The papers between them lay neglected. Catherine looked down once more, her breath unsteady. What had passed between them?
Chapter Thirteen
The long table in the west gallery had been cleared of its usual books and instruments, replaced now by the labelled items from Marcus’s collection and the careful presentation materials prepared the evening prior.
The morning sunlight struck across the polished wood floor, filtered through tall windows that cast faint shadows beneath the assembled scholars and guests.
