Page 11 of Entrancing the Earl
Iona shuddered and burned the letter.
What did they do now?
“Oh,there you are, my lord! I thought we had some of your sketches tucked away in the specimen cabinet, but I can’t find them. I’d like to show them to Nan.” Mrs. Merriweather bustled across the courtyard.
Damn, he should have known he couldn’t escape easily. Quelling his impatience, Gerard waited outside the stable for the elderly librarian to approach. “What sketches?”
“The ones you drew when you were younger, the ones of Roman soldiers and knights and fortresses, remember? They were quite informative.” The little librarian practically unfurled like a blossom under his regard.
Gerard didn’t want her blossoming or remembering his childish attempts to draw what he'd seen in his head. He simply wanted to examine his fields and hope the medallion in his pocket told him where to find a treasure that might postpone closing the castle.
“I thought those were tossed long ago. I can’t imagine anyone keeping them,” he said dismissively. “They were just idle fribbles. Why would you want them?”
“I wanted to show Nan that you’re quite capable of drawing the diagrams she needs for the hives. It seems we lack the book that might show the carpenter how to build them, and she’s drawing it herself.” The Librarian smiled expectantly.
His first reaction washell, no.And then he remembered the enigmatic beekeeper avoiding him at every turn, and his curiosity kicked in. The curse of the Ives, curiosity.
“I’ll see what she needs,” he promised the lady. He didn’t think the librarian was any direct relation, just the Malcolm who understood journals. Apparently, it was a calling.
What would happen to the library if he closed the castle and sent all these women—where?
“It’s hard to find her,” she warned. “She might still be in the study, if you hurry.”
Gerard found this admonition a trifle odd. Generally, the women stalkedhim. If the beekeeper wanted his help, she had to wait in line.
It almost sounded as if Mrs. Merriweather was saying he had to wait on his beekeeper.
Amused that the slip of a female had gained so much authority since he’d visited last year—he knew she hadn’t been here the last time he was—he postponed his ride. He wasn’t much inclined to learn about his tenants, but this one teased his memory.
She wasn’t in the study. No one was in the drafty great hall on a brisk day like this. He checked the small withdrawing room where Grace was always spinning. None of the ladies there had seen Nan.
Nan. Surely no Malcolm had ever named her daughter so tersely. He couldn’t even recall an Ann or Nancy anywhere on the family tree. Adwin or Aranwen or some other Celtic saint would be more likely, althoughAnnealso qualified, he supposed. His family just didn’t do simple.
He stomped up the stairs to see if he could see anyone in the bedroom corridors, but after the unfortunate incident with Lady Alice in Rainford’s library, the proximity to women and beds made him anxious. He preferred choosing his own wife, not having one forced on him.
Which reminded him that Lady Alice was here somewhere. He’d had his breakfast delivered to his rooms and so hadn’t heard any gossip about how she was doing. He supposed he should inquire, if only to know whether he ought to be riding out immediately. But that could wait.
He loped down the back corridor, to the stairs leading down to the garden. He suspected the elusive beekeeper would use these instead of the main staircase, but no shadows moved. Oh well, that gave him time to examine the fields.
He was about to head down when one of the doors opened in front of him—and the beekeeper emerged, just donning an old-fashioned bonnet.
He wasn’t even certain why he knew it was her. He’d only briefly seen her face through swollen eyes. He justknew... Perhaps it was her air of quiet authority, the way she stood straight and tall, although the top of her head barely reached his chin.
At sight of him, she ducked beneath the wide brim, but in that brief moment when he’d seen her face, she looked startled and... frightened?
“You needed me to sketch a hive?” he asked, recovering his equilibrium faster than she recovered hers.
He’d finally caught a glimpse of her light brown hair. It had golden highlights—rather like a bee. And for some unwholesome reason, she’d cut it. Instead of forming an enormous pouf, her hair formed short waves and curls around a face small enough to be called pixieish.
“Ummm, yes,” she said uncertainly, glancing back to her room as if prepared to retreat. Then apparently strengthening her courage, she nodded briskly. “Yes, if I may fetch my notes?” She darted into the room before he could agree.
She left him breathless—rather like a bee sting.
She also left him pondering her vague familiarity, but she was back before he could take his thoughts too far.
“I am not good at math and measurements,” she was saying, holding a sheaf of papers and hurrying down the corridor, apparently expecting him to follow like an obedient servant. “Langstroth observed that bees won’t build in a space tighter than one centimeter. How do I convey that? The frames must be exactly one centimeter apart and away from the walls so they won’t stick to each other.”
Gerard caught up with her and removed the papers from her hands. “You convey that with numbers,” he said dryly. “Carpenters can read. Let us go to the music room. There are usually drawing utensils there.”
