Page 16 of Bloodlines and Birthright

A part of me was a little offended that she didn’t think I was devious enough, but then I realized she’d probably guessed that Oscar deliberately coincided our visit with theirs so that he could see her. She’d correctly guessed that out of the two of us, I wasn’t the sort to make such a grand romantic gesture.

Because, I belatedly realized, that was exactly what this was. Oscar wanted to see Miss Wheeler again, and this was the best way to ensure they met up. He had suspected she’d read the Mackenzie book in Edinburgh and told her employer it could be found here. Bribing the abbot to inform Oscar of the arranged date of their visit ensured we could time our visit to coincide with theirs. It was not only a clever scheme, but the act of a man infatuated with her.

Whether Miss Wheeler appreciated it or not, I couldn’t tell. She tapped the end of her parasol against the side of Oscar’s shoe. “Well then, Mr. Barratt? Explain to Mr. Defoe how you coerced the abbot into telling you when we’d be here.”

He shifted his foot back, perhaps remembering how she’d once stabbed him in the toes with her umbrella. “First of all, I didn’t coerce anyone. Secondly, it’s a bit rich that you’re accusing us of wrongdoing when it is you who peeked at the Mackenzie book and found out the location of the other book with the tattoo ink spell.”

Mr. Defoe sniffed. “Sometimes in war, principles must be set aside.”

“Last time I checked, America and England were not at war, Defoe.”

Mr. Defoe’s thin features pinched as if he were holding himself together to keep his anger from bursting out. “Why did you want to be here at the same time as us? Why not come as soon as you learned where the book was last year?”

“Why didn’t you? You’ve also known a year.”

“I run a very large, very important business empire, Mr. Barratt. I’m not as free to do as I please, unlike you writers.” He waited for Oscar to answer, but Oscar merely stood there, his stubborn silence a challenge in itself. “You did it to rub my nose in it, didn’t you?” Mr. Defoe grunted. “You wanted me to see you here, so you could gloat about already being to the abbey. I take it a trip up the hill would be a waste of our time.”

Oscar merely smiled.

Defoe grunted again and stalked off toward the check-in desk, his strides as long as he could make them, as if he were trying to create the illusion that he was taller than he was. He wrapped his knuckles on the desk to get the clerk’s attention.

“While he’s not here,” Miss Wheeler said, mildly, “tell me, did you also pay off our boatman to slow us down yesterday and ensure we arrived too late in the day to travel to the abbey?”

She addressed Oscar, but he merely bowed. “It’s a pleasure to see you again, Miss Wheeler.”

“Somewhat surprisingly, I’m happy to see you, too, Mr. Barratt.” She smiled at him then turned it onto me. “But I am not at all surprised that I’m happy to see you again, Professor.”

“I promise I had nothing to do with this,” I said. “If he’d confided in me, I would have urged him to abandon the idea. You have every right to be cross with him.”

“I’m not cross. How can I be when I would have sabotaged your journey if the positions were reversed.”

She turned back to Oscar, who’d not taken his gaze off since he first saw her. Indeed, I couldn’t stop staring either. She was as elegant as when we’d seen her in Edinburgh, but this time the pastel peach color of her outfit suited not just her own dark coloring, but the summer heat of Italy. Even the wide-brimmed hat positioned at a slant on her jet-black hair was peach.

“Mr. Barratt, tell me the real reason you made sure to coincide your visit here with ours.”

“Can you not guess?” Oscar asked, his honeyed voice a low hum.

Miss Wheeler’s lips parted ever so slightly and her dark eyes searched his. “You waited a year to come when the book, and its spell, mean so much to you?”

Oscar merely smiled. Then it suddenly vanished. “Why do you presume it means something to me? Something other than an interesting book to add to the new library?”

Miss Wheeler’s rueful smile returned. “Your magic specialty isn’t a secret, Mr. Barratt. I read it in the biography of one of the books you authored.”

“You read one?”

She laughed and rolled her eyes.

His smile widened. “Call me Oscar.”

“No.” Her gaze shifted to Mr. Defoe, walking back to us. “He doesn’t know you’re an ink magician, by the way.”

“I’d prefer to keep it that way.”

“Then you’d better hope he doesn’t pick up one of your books.”

Oscar grew serious. “Have dinner with me tonight.”

Her eyes flared ever so slightly. “You’re not leaving now that you’ve got what you came for?”