Page 121 of A Scot Is Not Enough
His question was a lot like young swains asking,Is this your first time in this pub?
“It is.” Her conscience niggled her over the lie. There was no need for it, yet the untruth just slipped out. Anything to put distance between her and the knife she was minutes from stealing.
“Is there a particular relic of interest? I’d be delighted to educate you.” Her ruddy-cheeked gentleman pirate blinked solicitously before his gaze sunk to her bosom.
“Why don’t you and I explore the table?” A tiny breath. “Together.”
Her offer was red meat to a hound. His one eye gleaming, he picked up a Roman gladius and held it high.
“Meet the Roman gladius.” He lunged forward, knees cracking as he jabbed air. “A good muscular weapon. One thrust to the liver and the enemy was felled.”
“Oh my. Are we allowed to touch the relics?”
He straightened and sniffed, mildly affronted. “I am Viscount Redmont.”
As if that explained everything.
“I am one of the board of governors for His Majesty’s museum.”
She touched her bodice. “My apologies, sir.”
She glanced at the clock. Seven minutes left. Other than her jumping pulse, she was calm. Ready. Another distracting gladius demonstration and she’d stand hip to the table to slide the ceremonial knife into her pocket.
“I heard witches cast a spell on that particular Roman sword.”
Woolly brows pinched in dismay. Viscount Redmont cleared his throat and raised an instructive finger.
“Correction. Witches are women, druids are men. And this”—he hefted the blade, candlelight a glare on old iron—“this is a gladius, not a sword. An important distinction.”
“The same as a man casting a curse versus a woman.” She added a sober, “The sex of the curse giver, it must be a grave matter.”
He nodded vigorously. “Oh indeed.”
The viscount launched into the history of the gladius. She checked the clock. Five minutes. A deep breath and she sidled up to the table. One side of her pannier bunched on the table. She touched the tablecloth, her hand searching for thesgian-dubh’s bone handle. Her gentleman pirate’s enthusiastic lecture drew interest. A man costumed as a troubadour and another as a Greek warrior gathered close as the clock on the wall reached the tenth hour.
Her hand flattened on the table where the knife was supposed to be.
Nothing was there. She looked down.
Thesgian-dubhwas gone.
Chapter Thirty-Eight
“It’s gone,” she gasped.
The lecture halted, and Viscount Redmont squinted at her in dismay. “What’s that, miss?”
“Thesgian-dubh. It was here... and now it’s gone.”
She scanned the table. Amulets of stone and glass, a Viking sword, and another strangely curved blade, its metal time-blackened, lay on the table.
The ruddy-cheeked viscount set his eyeglass ring to his eye and searched the artifacts, dumbstruck. “It is missing. I saw it here before.” A belly-deep grunt and, “Strangest thing.”
The troubadour and Greek warrior started searching nearby tables, which drew the attention of a footman.
“Something amiss?” the servant asked.
The viscount scratched his ear. “It appears thesgian-dubh, a clan relic from the Highlands, has gone missing.”
