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Read by Angelica Robotti

Chapter One

The big British Airways jetliner began its drop toward Heathrow Airport. Seated beside a window in that plane, Betsy Macon peered down at the terminal, telling herself she was being extremely foolhardy to waste her sabbatical leave by coming to England just to please a man she had never seen. 

Still, the aura of mystery intrigued her. 

Jason Tilden had hinted in his letter that she would stand to gain great wealth by humoring him. He had been a friend of her father, who had often spoken of him, telling of how in their youth, they had worked together on archaeological digs in the Near East, in Persia, and in India. Her father had told her of him, and of Rutherford Manners, and of how they had talked long and often, of how they had dug and sweated and labored over shards of pottery, of metal, seeking to un cover the riddles of the past. 

Jason Tilden had never married, yet he had corresponded with his two friends, and Betsy had pleasant memories of her birthdays, when there would be a present for her from Uncle Jason. She had never met the man; her father had been away from his family at those times when he had been uncovering ancient artifacts; she knew only that the Englishman looked on her as a daughter and had followed her career at the university with great interest. 

The plane dropped lower, lower. 

The ground was coming up to meet them; far away she could make out the long runway onto which the jetliner would soon be lowering, and then her visit to England would really begin. 

Betsy sat back in the seat, her fingers making certain that the belt was secured about her middle. She knew that her heart was pounding in excitement; she wondered what wealth it was she stood to acquire—and what she might have to do to obtain it. 

Jason Tilden was not a wealthy man; her father had assured her of this. Oh, he had enough to live comfortably, he owned a fine house at a place called Fosdyke near The Wash, but he had no millions to bestow. What, then, was this wealth of which he spoke? If he expected her to go gallivanting off somewhere to the far ends of the earth and dig around for buried gold—forget it. 

She was no archaeologist, as her father had been. She taught English at a small university in the Midwestern United States. She was content with her life, she had no expectations of ever becoming rich. 

Just the same... 

Betsy dreamed a little as the wheels of the plane hit the tarmac, as the engine roared in slowing down the big plane. She felt the drag, felt herself pressed back into the seat, and then the plane was slowing, the pressure was gone, and she felt a sudden exultation sweep through her. 

She was in England. Her heart thumped excitedly; she glanced out the window at the activity of the airport; she touched her tongue to her lips. 

It was early afternoon, it had been a night flight she had been on, and as she rose to gather up her handbag and coat, she told herself that there was a car waiting for her at the airport. She would have to be careful about driving in England, for she would have to drive on the left-hand side of the street, rather than on the right, as one drove in the United States. This was the result of long conditioning, she understood; in the very old days, when knights used to ride along the road, they went on the left so as to keep their swords free to draw. She smiled as she thought about that. 

She lost herself in the press of passengers leaving the plane; she went to the baggage counter to pick up her big valises. When a porter approached her, she surrendered the bags to him and followed as he brought her to the car rental counter, where she picked up her keys, then trailed him between the hurrying people, along a sloping ramp, and finally to a parking space where she saw a spanking new Hillman-Minx. 

Within minutes she was moving away from the airport and out onto the big new highway, losing herself in the cars flowing away from Heathrow. She was very careful; she thought only of the car, of the traffic around her, telling herself that when she came to a corner, she must turn it, not as she did in the United States, but with regard to the laws of England. 

She must head northward out of the London area; her first stop would be at Cambridge, where she would find a hotel and stay the night, then drive on to Fosdyke the next day. There was such a thing as jet lag, she recalled, owing to the time difference between the United States and England. She would retire early tonight and get plenty of rest. 

She drove steadily through the day, pausing only at Stevenage for tea. With constant driving, she grew accustomed to the road and the car, and after a time she did not think about it. 

Instead, her thought dwelt on what might lie ahead of her. 

What was this treasure Jason Tilden had in mind? He had been cryptic in his letters, wheedling her by telling her the advantages of summering in England, of the enjoyment she would take in the countryside. And the treasure, of course. It was the treasure and her share of it that had decided her to forgo the trip to the Rockies which she had planned in favor of traveling to England. 

She smiled at the thought of being a treasure hunter. It was so far removed from her rather humdrum life! She would happily welcome any adventure, she told herself. But what sort of treasure could it be, in England? There were no pirate hoards here, no wrecked ships with their holds laden with gold. Betsy told herself glumly that in all probability there was no treasure at all. 

Well, what difference would that make? 

Jason Tilden had paid her travel fare; he would put her up in his house so that she would have no expenses on that score. Even if there were no treasure, she would have a far different holiday from those on which she usually went. 

It was evening by the time she drove into Cambridge. She was scheduled to stay overnight at the Bull Hotel. Her eyes finally caught sight of its sign, and she levered the car toward a small parking space. 

As she did so, a car horn blared at her. 

Instantly her foot trod on the brake. Had she violated some English law, in some way of which she was ignorant? 

"That's my space, lady," a voice called. 

Betsy turned her head to see a glittering red sports car, the like of which she had never before seen. A man was leaning his head out the window, scowling at her. 

"Your space? Did you pay for it or something?" 

His tanned face lost its scowl, to be replaced by a glance of sheer annoyance, "Of course not. But I was occupying it until just now." 

"Sorry," she caroled. "Finder's keepers." 

She slid from the front seat, aware that her skirt was caught on the cushion and that she was exposing an extraordinary length of stockinged leg. To her annoyance, she saw that he was eyeing that leg in something like admiration. 

Ignoring him, she went to the trunk and lifted out her overnight bag. 

"Staying here?” he wondered.

"I am, for the night. Not that it's any business of yours." 

She walked away, knowing his eyes were running over her. To her surprise, she did not feel indignation any longer. It had been a long time since a man had used his eyes on her in such a fashion. When she was at the hotel door, she turned and glanced back at him. He was still there, his head craned out of the window of that red car, staring after her. 

Betsy tilted her nose at him and marched into the lobby. 

A bath first, then a change of clothes. After that she would have her dinner in the big dining room. Then for a long sleep in her room. She hoped the bed would be comfortable. 

She lazed in the bath for a long time, until she realized that the dining room might close if she dawdled much longer. She toweled off and slid into a green and white sunburst print by Leslie Fay. It had cap sleeves and a narrow belt. 

Betsy surveyed herself in the mirror. 

Her thick black hair was piled high on top and fell down about her shoulders, framing a suntanned face with big green eyes and long lashes. Her mouth was overlarge, but it seemed to fit into her face nicely enough. She was critical as her eyes swept over her features. Because that man had stared so long at her? 

She shook herself. Certainly not! She just wanted to make certain that she was looking her best, was all. 

Still! She had enjoyed his stare. It made her feel more like a woman. 

Gathering up her handbag, she locked the door behind her and went down the elevator to the ground floor. As she moved toward the dining room, she saw that a man was blocking it, looking at her with cold eyes. 

As she went to move past him, the man said, "Sorry, madam. The dining room is closed." 

Betsy gaped at him. "Closed? It can't be! I'm starving."

"Sorry, madam." 

Her nostrils caught the aroma of delicacies as she stood there, undecided. Oh, drat! Why had she lingered in that bath? Now she would have to go out and tramp the streets looking for a restaurant. 

She was turning away when a male voice said, "Oh, there you are. Come in, come in." 

She turned to see whom the man was addressing. A big blond man with laughing blue eyes was approaching the doorway, smiling at her. It was the same man who had been in the sleek red car earlier. 

"It's all right," he was saying to the doorman, at the same time slipping a pound note into his hand. "She's with me, she's just a little late."

"Very good, sir." 

The blond man reached out and hooked her arm with a  hand. "Come along, darling. I've told you again and again not to dawdle so." 

Betsy opened her mouth to protest; but that hand on her arm was drawing her forward, and unless she wanted to make a scene, she was going to have to accompany him. She began to walk beside him, head lowered, seething inside, as his voice went on and on. She knew very well he was laughing at her, deep inside himself. 

"You have to take the bull by the horns when you travel," he was saying, guiding her between the tables until they were at a table situated beside a big window. "Otherwise, you'll be pushed around all over the place." 

He held the chair for her.

"Go on, sit down," he urged. 

She sat. There was no sense in arguing with the man. Besides, she was hungry, and she had no intention of walking around Cambridge trying to find another restaurant. She saw a cocktail glass in front of his place. Apparently he was a late arrival himself. 

"Thank you," she murmured primly. "I am hungry, you know." 

He showed fine white teeth in a friendly smile. "Glad to hear it. I like girls with appetites. Now what will you have to drink?" 

"Just some wine, please. Oh, and I'm paying for my meal." 

She might as well get that in because she had no intention of being put under any obligation to this one. He was entirely too sure of himself. 

He nodded, his gaze running over her dress. "I like it," he told her. "Its color sets off your eyes. They're like two emeralds, did you know that?" 

"They're just green," she muttered. 

"No, no. Don't ever think that. Those are emeralds, filled with fire and light. And you have the face and the hair to set them off." 

Betsy stared at him. "You're an American, aren't you?" 

He chuckled. “Does it show that much? Every English man I meet assures me that my voice gives me away." His eyes studied her. "But you're American, too?" 

She nodded. "From the Middle West." 

"First name?"

"Betsy." 

He held out that huge, tanned hand of his. "Hi, Betsy, I'm Jim.” 

She smiled and extended her own hand. It was caught and held firmly, and she sensed the strength in this man. His hand held hers for a little longer than was necessary, so that she had to apply pressure to pull it free. 

"I'm having the curried lamb," he informed her. "I'd advise you to have the same. They have a good cook here, he worked in India for a time, and what he can't do with lamb and curry powder just can't be done." 

He sat back and eyed her closely. "Are you on vacation?” 

She nodded warily. She did not want to become embroiled with a perfect stranger here in England, American or no. 

"I'm visiting a friend." 

He nodded. "I am myself. I've just come from South America, where I was helping build a dam in Brazil." 

"I'm a teacher," she murmured, deciding it was safe enough to tell him that. 

"You don't look like a teacher."

"Oh? How do teachers look?" 

His grin was friendly enough, and she decided that he meant nothing by his question. But something inside her bridled at it. 

He waved a hand. "Every teacher I ever knew was either somewhat matronly or seemed half-starved. There are exceptions, of course. You're one of them." 

"I think you're just making that up, trying to get on my good side." 

He laughed. "Maybe I am. Most of the teachers I knew were men anyhow. Except for those long-gone days when I was in grammar school." 

They sipped their drinks, talking about events of the day, the condition of traffic in England as contrasted with that in the United States. They both agreed that the roads in England were, once one was off the splendid highways, for the most part narrow and geared to times in which people traveled on foot, by horse, or in carriages. 

Betsy found Jim friendly enough—though she did not relish the way in which his eyes slid over her body from time to time—and he was quite content to chatter on, carrying the burden of the conversation. He was an interesting talker; he regaled her with anecdotes of his life as an engineer in the far corners of the world. 

The lamb curry was perfect, she thought after she had swallowed a few mouthfuls. It was seasoned nicely, and there was plenty of it. The talk slowed to a definite stop while they ate and did not pick up until they were consuming berry tarts with coffee. 

Then Jim asked, "Where away tomorrow? Or are you planning on staying here and seeing Cambridge and the countryside?" 

"No. I have a—an appointment with a friend." 

His blue eyes smiled at her. "Don't want to tell me where you'll be staying, do you? I may have some free time. I'd like to show you around." 

"Oh? Do you know so much about England?" 

"Worked here for a time. Got to know the place pretty well." 

Betsy took a sip of coffee. She did not want to give this stranger her address; she did not want to tell anyone where she would be staying. Because of the treasure? Nah—no, not exactly, she thought. But if there was a treasure, she wanted to keep it a secret. 

Talk of treasure sometimes brought out the worst in people. 

"I'm just resting and relaxing," she assured him. "I plan on driving around and seeing the sights. Maybe I'll even go for a swim or two, if the warm weather keeps up." 

“Where?” he asked. 

When she looked at him, he grinned and said, "I merely asked you where you might be staying." 

"I don't think I'd better tell you that." 

His golden eyebrows lifted. "Not going to meet a lover, are you?" 

Betsy laughed. "Hardly that, no." 

"There's a mystery here of some sort. I can smell mysteries a mile away. Hmmmm. Not a lover. But it's something you don't want to talk about, obviously." 

She protested. "I don't want to be mysterious, but I would rather keep my destination to myself.” 

"Oh, of course. Whatever you say." He showed his teeth in a grin. "But if I run into you again, am I permitted to talk to you?" 

"Don't be silly. Of course you can." 

She wondered if he would trail her to Fosdyke in that red car of his. It would do him no good if he did. She was not going to take up with any casual man she might meet on her vacation. 

They left the dining room with Jim holding her arm. Betsy was not sure that she liked this proprietary attitude of his, but she was not going to jerk her arm away. Let him hold it if he wanted. A fat lot of good it was going to do him. 

Back in her room, she slid into a bikinied mini-sleeper and threw back the bed-covers She paused then to turn and stare at her reflection. She was showing an awful lot of herself, she thought, then giggled. It was a good thing Jim wasn't here to see her in this bit of lace and polyester. 

She fell asleep almost at once. 

In the morning she ate breakfast by herself, vaguely regretting the fact that Jim was not here. He had been pleasant enough last night, friendly and talkative. If it hadn't been for him, she might not have been able to eat. 

She was finishing her ham and eggs when he appeared and headed straight for her table. He was wearing slacks and a sports jacket, and his sports shirt was open at the throat. He looked very rugged, very sure of himself. 

"May I?” he asked, pulling back a chair and not waiting for her consent. 

His eyes ran over what was left of her ham and eggs, and he nodded. “Glad to see you eat a good breakfast. An important meal, breakfast. Too many women skimp on it." 

"Oh? Are you an authority on women?" 

He smiled. "Haven't had much chance to be, really. I travel over the world too much to settle down with any one girl. Not much sense in asking a girl to travel to Brazil or possibly to Saudi Arabia on the spur of the moment." 

"Your work must be fascinating; you get to see so many foreign countries." 

He shrugged those wide shoulders almost casually. His eyes were going over her again, she noted. He was seeing the snugness of her sweater, which was strained somewhat across her chest, and she noted the approving look in his eyes. Really! She would have loved to be able to reach over and bop him one. 

But she wouldn't be seeing him anymore, once they left the Bull. So let him look. Fat lot of good it would do him. 

She even dawdled slightly over her breakfast, giving him time to order and eat with her. He was pleasant enough, she guessed. If only it weren't for those blue eyes that seemed to see so much of her all the time! And he didn't have any qualms about looking either. None at all. 

He talked between bites of his food, telling her about Brazil, speaking of the Indians who frequented its jungles. From the Indians he switched over to tell of the nomadic Arabs who had come on their camels to watch quietly as he and his crew of men constructed a pipeline for oil. It came to Betsy that his life was as exciting and romantic as hers was dull and filled with routine. 

He smoked two cigarettes and drank two cups of coffee before she began to push back from the table, lifting her grained leather tote bag and slipping its strap over a shoulder. 

"It's been fun." She smiled. "But now I have to run." 

His eyes got that amused look in them. "You sure we won't meet again?" 

“Very sure. And now I really must be running." 

He rose to his full height and walked beside her, saying, "I'll see you out. Somehow it doesn't strike me as right that a pretty girl like you should be wandering around unescorted." 

"I'm quite able to take care of myself, thank you."

"I'm sure you are." 

Was that laughter in his throat? She eyed him suspiciously, but he was only smiling down at her. Almost foolishly, she thought. Like the proverbial cat that had swallowed the canary. 

She paid her bill while he stood off to one side. Then he was at her elbow again, walking her out to her car. He even took the keys from her and unlocked it, opening the door and standing to one side so she could slide in on the seat. 

"Thank you," she murmured when she was inside, waiting for him to shut the door. 

His blue eyes held hers. 

Then, before she could move, he had leaned into the car and touched his lips to hers. Surprise held her motionless. She felt the weight of his mouth, and almost automatically her lips returned that faint pressure. 

She pulled away, but it was too late. He had felt her response. 

“See you—I hope," he murmured, with laughter in his voice. 

She opened her mouth to shout out her indignation, but he was slamming the car door and moving away. Her eyes glared at his broad back, at that athletic walk which carried him away from her so swiftly. 

Her hand went to the door crank to lower the window, but it froze there. What could she possibly say? Say? Yell, rather, because he was a good distance away by this time. 

"Oooooh,” she breathed. "Oooooh!" 

She backed out and drove away, not glancing in his direction. She was only about fifty miles from Fosdyke, she would be there by early afternoon—travel in England wasn't as fast as it was in the States—and then she could relax and forget all about Jim 

Jim what? She did not know his name, just as he did not know hers. Oh, well. It didn't matter. 

She drove through a flat countryside, seeing occasional farms dotting the landscape, with cows and a few horses cropping the grass. It was rural and pleasant and reminded her a little of Illinois. In the distance she could see a church spire rising against a blue sky dotted with white clouds. 

She crossed the River Ouse and drove toward Ely. The sun went behind some clouds, and there was a brief rain shower. Wiper blades swinging back and forth, she drove more carefully now, listening to the drumming of the drops on the car top. But soon enough the rain was gone, the sun was out again, and it was as if there had never been a shower. 

She was moving now through a section of the country-side that was called the Isle of Ely on her map, even though there was no island, just a continuation of the flat landscape. The signposts showed her the names of towns, and she read them off with laughter gurgling in her throat. 

Wisbech Saint Mary, Parson Drove, Cowbit, and—some distance away—a place known as King's Lynn. Betsy thought to herself that she must find a book, somewhere, which would tell her the origins of such names. It would be fascinating reading. 

She was thinking about lunch even as she approached Whaplode Drove and was trying to decide about whether to have a salad or a sandwich when a car horn began honking. Glancing up into the rear-view mirror, she saw a red car come roaring along, and without seeing the driver, she knew who it was. 

It came upon her with a rush and was past almost before she could blink. An arm was thrust out the window, waved. Then the car was gone around the next bend in the road. 

Betsy sighed. At least, he wouldn't be around to have lunch with her. Or kiss her again! He was in something of a hurry to get where he was going, it seemed. She wondered where he was headed in such a hurry. 

She ate lunch in a pleasant little tearoom in Spalding, half expecting at every mouthful to see Jim walk into the place and stride toward her table. Betsy admitted she felt vaguely disappointed when he did not appear. 

Fosdyke was not so far now. Only about ten miles away. She should be there well within the hour, she decided as she folded her road map and tucked it back into her bag. She lingered over a cigarette and her coffee, wondering what Jason Tilden would be like. 

Her father had spoken of him often enough, over the years. He was a brilliant scholar, a born archaeologist. He had written papers for many of the most prestigious publications; he had lectured at Cambridge, at Oxford. Betsy wrinkled her nose. He was probably dry-as-dust, somewhat peppery, and even obnoxious. 

And what was his purpose in bringing her over here? 

Why let her share in any treasure he might find? She was a complete stranger to him, and outside of a snapshot or two of her that her father may have mailed him in the past, he had never laid eyes on her. 

Oh, well. It was fun being here anyhow. If she could not get along with him, she could always pack her bags and take a car trip around England. As long as her traveler's checks held out anyhow. 

She drove on from Spalding, relaxed and comfortable. To her right now she could see Whaplode Fen and, farther on, the flat extent of Holbeach Marsh. Salt marsh and peat fen lay everywhere. Yet it was pleasant land; she could see fields of corn growing and flowers lifting their heads into the sunlight along the edges of the road. 

When she came to Fosdyke, she pulled over to the side of the road and opened her tote bag. Fumbling about, she drew out the letter Jason Tilden had written her, giving her directions on how to find his home. She read them over, glanced at the road ahead, then nodded. 

Within fifteen minutes she was swinging the Hillman onto a narrow road that brought her between trees to a big house. Betsy let her eyes run over it as she slowed. 

It was certainly imposing! 

A low fence of stone ran all around it, and inside the fence-work, green grass lay like a carpet everywhere. The house itself was also of stone, with a great number of chimneys rising from the slate roof. The windows were narrow, for the most part, though on the first floor there were wider ones, all with leaded glass. A vast door was of oak, reached by a number of stone steps. 

"Middle sixteenth century," she murmured, and felt excitement rising in her. 

It would be fun to examine such a house. There must be hundreds of little rooms and cubbyholes in that place. Imagine one man living there alone. It did not seem right, somehow. There should be a huge family with a lot of children running up and downstairs, with laughter and the sounds of conversation echoing everywhere. 

She drove slowly toward the front door, turned off the motor, and climbed out. 

There was no sign of life. Could she be mistaken? But no, she had followed the instructions in that letter exactly. This had to be the place. 

Betsy marched toward the door. 

She put out her hand toward the bell-pull just as the door opened. 

A man with a small beard, neatly clipped, stood smiling at her. He was no taller than she and seemed lean and hard. He wore a woolen jacket, a sweater under it, and slacks of some Scottish clan's plaid. He was beaming at her, and in his sharp black eyes there was quick appraisal. 

"You're even prettier than your pictures," he said, holding out his hand. "Come in, Betsy, come in." 

She felt her hand squeezed; then he was moving to one side, gesturing her to enter. She stepped into a huge hall, the walls of which were hung with antlers, so many of them that she stared unbelievingly. Below them were clustered ancient shields and swords, pikes and gisarmes. 

"I love it," she whispered. 

His chuckle was soft, contented. “This place is my pride and joy; it's home and wife and mother to me. I've kept it much as it was years ago, when it was built and lived in by Michael de Blesherham. 

"Who was Michael de Blesherham, you ask? He was a knight who served King Henry the Eighth. He was banished from court because he fell in love with a pretty girl on whom the King had cast his eyes." 

Jason Tilden shrugged. "Michael and his pretty girl eloped and were married, and they came here to build this home for themselves. It's a pretty story, and fortunately it has a happy ending. 

"They had a large family, many sons and daughters. That family lived in this house for more than three hundred years. Only in the last century did they die out, and the house was put up for sale. It has had a number of owners since then, but none of them cared for the old place. 

"I was fortunate enough to buy it many years ago, when land values around here were not what they are now. It's always been a haven for me. Even on my field trips to far places, there was the reassuring knowledge that this was here to welcome me when my task was done. "But come, you must see the rest of it." 

He hesitated then. "Ah, I forget my duties as host. It's been so long since anyone has visited me. Would you care for some lunch? No? Then some tea, certainly, and a biscuit or two." 

His hand touched her elbow, guiding her forward under a great archway into a big room filled with heavy furniture, with thick rugs on the floor and a vast fireplace in which, Betsy thought, an entire deer might be roasted. There was a settee before the hearth, with end tables on each side. 

"Make yourself comfortable, my dear. May I call you Betsy?" 

She laughed. "But of course. We're going to be good friends, I hope." 

"The best. Already I look on you as the daughter I never had." 

Betsy smiled. "I should have thought a man like you would have wanted a son, rather than a daughter." 

"Oh, I have a son. You'll meet him in a moment." 

He turned and walked away, leaving Betsy staring after him in perplexity. Her father had told her Jason Tilden had never married. He was the only one of the three friends who had never found time to take a wife. Yet now he claimed to have a son? It made no sense. 

Unless, of course, his son had been born out of wedlock. 

Betsy moved toward the fireplace, staring at the coat of arms, somewhat worn and eroded now, which was set into the stonework above the mantle-piece In those old times this must have been a busy room, with a huge log flaming away during the fall and winter and early spring. In the cold weather they must have burned a lot of such logs. 

She turned, lifting off her tote bag and putting it on a table. 

Then she froze, staring at the man who stood in the archway, grinning at her. 

"I knew it,” he exclaimed. “I just had a feeling." Jim walked toward her, his face breaking into a grin.