Refine (House of Oak Book 4) Read online

  “You water your bulb with the milk and honey mixture.” Jasmine demonstrated by pouring her pitcher over the packed earth, pale milk sinking into black soil.

  Solar feast days were always particularly hard for Jasmine. The company of good friends made it all more bearable.

  Emme and James were passing through on their way home. Emme had just finished presenting at an academic conference in Edinburgh which explained why they had left little Arthur with Emme’s mother in Seattle. Normally, the cheerful baby traveled with them. Marc and Kit were on their way to Indonesia for a press junket about Marc’s latest movie.

  “You do this every year?” Kit Ashton-Wilde asked, still whisking her milk and honey together. The diamond of her large wedding ring flashed in the golden sunlight.

  Jasmine nodded. “Marmi was fanatical about celebrating the ancient feast days. You should have seen her summer solstice preparations.”

  Now her eyes joined her throat, doing the whole burning/stinging thing.

  Jasmine took a deep breath and brushed her hair back, surreptitiously wiping her eyes in the process.

  Marmi was her grandmother. Maybe not by blood but their hearts were forged of the same fire. Souls twined together regardless of how they came to find each other.

  She had seen it clearly in her dreams the night before.

  Fog swirling. The shape of trees around her. So alone.

  Home. She needed to get home. But how?

  A ribbon of gold suddenly appeared. A liquid tendril arching through the mist.

  It curled around her, welcoming. Tugging her forward. First at a walk. Then, a gentle run.

  The smell of lavender seeped in, growing until it filled her senses.

  A figure emerged from the mist. Bright-eyed. Welcoming.

  A smile she knew so well.

  And then they were embracing. Home.

  Jasmine had awoken with wet cheeks.

  Rita had become more vocal about Jasmine returning the china, insisting it needed to stay with those who shared DNA with Marmi. After some soul-searching, Jasmine had texted Rita, telling her she could have the dishes. It was only stuff, after all. And she believed firmly in sending out good karma, padding her life with potential sweetness.

  Like this equinox ceremony. Another drop in her good-karma bucket.

  Using her spade, Jasmine patted the ground one more time, smoothing the damp dirt over the bulb she had just planted and watered.

  She could feel the pulsing energy under her fingers, the thrum of power and welcome. Some of it came from the house, the ever-present time portal amping the natural hum of living things. Caressing, soothing, tangibly familiar somehow.

  “Did you ever meet Marmi?” James asked Emme.

  “No.” Emme poured her jar over her planted bulb. “Jas and I didn’t meet until college. Folk dancing class.”

  “Man, you two got waaaaay too into that.” Marc chuckled.

  Emme lifted her head, fixing him with her best sisterly you-are-so-annoying stare. “Folk dancing is a long lost art, I’ll have you know—”

  “Exactly. How else can we stay connected to the past if we don’t cherish traditions like that? Or continue things like this?” Jasmine nodded toward the fresh mounds of dirt in front of each of them. “It’s a way of understanding our own ancestors.”

  Particularly if you suddenly found yourself without any.

  Ancestors, that is.

  Well . . . at least any that you knew.

  Blink, blink, blink.

  Not going to think about it.

  Rebirth. Renewal.

  Starting over. Literally.

  Trust the process.

  Deep breath.

  Marc opened his mouth, intent on saying more, but Kit nudged him with her shoulder. “I think it’s a fabulous tradition. My father and brother would have loved it,” she said, something sad touching her eyes.

  Marc kissed her forehead.

  Kit shrugged. “Being separated from Daniel by two hundred years does hurt sometimes.”

  Marc tucked Kit into his arms, holding her and murmuring something indistinct in her ear which seemed to banish her gloom.

  Everyone finished pouring their milk and honey mixture over their planted bulb.

  “You know, this reminds me a little of mealtime when I was at Eton as a lad,” James said. “We would be served porridge for breakfast but the headmaster at the time was so frugal, he denied us honey to sweeten it. Linwood built this ingenious little tube with a stoppered mechanism that you could hide up your sleeve. You slid the tube down into your hand and pressed a trigger which poured honey surreptitiously into your oatmeal. It was sheer genius.”

  “Now why are you ruining a perfectly good morning by bringing someone like Linwood into it?” Mark asked.

  “Here, here.” Kit chimed in with a grimace.

  James sighed and tamped the earth over his bulb one last time. “Who knows? I must be getting nostalgic. Linwood is an ass at the best of times. But he, very rarely, can be a decent human being. He made those little honey tubes for anyone who asked. Must have taken him forever.”

  Jasmine had heard all about Lord Linwood over the years. Particularly that one incident with Emme where Linwood had made a decidedly indecent proposal—

  “So have you heard back from the police department in Florida?” Emme asked, collecting a couple pitchers. Marc, Kit and James instantly bent over to gather the rest, Marc muttering something that sounded suspiciously like, “Bacon . . . at last.”

  “Yes.” Jasmine gathered the leftover bulbs and garden spades. “They left a message late last night, time zone differences being what they are. Apparently, the Freedom of Information Act requires that I fill out an absurd amount of paperwork before they can tell me anything.”

  “Ouch,” James said, placing a glass jar on a kitchen tray. “Sounds like it could be months before you learn anything at all. Particularly as you’re here in the U.K.”

  Jasmine gave a resigned nod. She had realized that pretty quickly.

  “James has people in the States, you know.” Emme said over her shoulder, hands full of crockery as she headed for the back door.

  Jasmine glanced at James, who gave her his signature wide smile. “That is true. I do have people.”

  “Sleuthing people?”

  “Sherlock Holmes-esque people.” James nodded. “My man Cobra could get to the bottom of just about anything.”

  “Cobra? He seriously goes by Cobra?” Kit shook her head. “Please tell me he wears a superhero cape—”

  “Cobra rocks.” Marc picked up a spade, knocking the dirt off it with his shoe. “He could tell you what the President had for breakfast just by looking at the flag over the White House.”

  “He could find your real parents for you.” James placed all the tools into a bucket and headed for the house, as well. “Just say the word.”

  Wow. It was tempting . . .

  “But you’ve already done so much, James.” Jasmine hurried after him, brushing dirt off of her circa-1975 overalls. Another of Marmi’s hand-me-downs. “I am staying rent free in your house.”

  James held the back door open for her. “No one else needs the house right now, so that hardly signifies. You are actually doing us a favor by keeping an eye on everything.”

  Jasmine seriously doubted that was true, but whatever.

  She stepped out of her muddy rubber boots, leaving them on the back porch as she walked into the kitchen.

  Man, some help navigating all the paperwork would be so nice. But she hated feeling like even more of a mooch and, in the end, she could be patient. Really, she could. She just needed to trust karma and realize that sunshine really was along her path somewhere. Things wouldn’t always be this dark . . .

  “Talking out loud again, Jas,” Marc said from behind her.

  Drat. Jasmine pressed her lips together.

  “You could use the help.” Emme nudged her shoulder. “And you are painting that mural for baby Arthur’
s room, right?”

  “Exactly.” Jasmine nodded with more enthusiasm than she felt.

  Any day now . . . she just needed to get behind the wheel of James’ BMW . . . sketch that visual inspiration—

  Tomorrow she would do it. Buckle down and force through her fear and worry. Put on her big girl pants. Drive a car. She could do it. Tomorrow.

  Or . . . maybe the next day . . . definitely before the weekend.

  Wait . . . she paused, assessing everyone’s reaction.

  Nothing.

  Whew. That had stayed inside her head.

  “Emme’s right,” James said. “You have been refusing money for the mural, so how about we trade? You paint Camelot scenes for little Arthur, and we’ll pay you in shady investigators?”

  Well . . .

  “I love it.” Emme beamed at her husband. And then moved closer, giving him a lingering kiss before turning back to Jasmine. “It’s all settled then. Cobra is on the case.”

  Two hours later, everyone was showered, packed and running back and forth through the kitchen. James and Emme had a plane to Seattle to catch, anxious to see little Arthur. Emme had said five times in as many minutes how much she missed him. Marc and Kit needed to be in Jakarta by the next day as Marc’s publicist had lined up a series of interviews.

  Assuming, of course, they all made their flights.

  Jasmine intended to paint, paint, paint. She was in the land of King Arthur, for heaven’s sake, visual richness all around her . . .

  It was a gift. She needed to stop procrastinating and get started.

  She had changed into a vintage baby doll dress. It was the same blue color as her eyes with a white scalloped collar and long tight sleeves. She had found the dress last week at Oxfam for only three pounds. Total score. Thick black tights, her favorite Doc Marten boots and a sheer paisley-printed scarf in her hair. (Also Oxfam, only a pound fifty . . . Britain had the best vintage shopping, and it had only taken her three bus transfers to get to the store . . . extra bonus that she didn’t have to drive . . .)

  Jasmine stood at the kitchen sink, nursing a cup of coffee, staring out the window as Marc and James maneuvered luggage into the trunk of the hired car which would take them to the Bristol airport. They kept taking bags out, rearranging, trying to fit everything together like a giant 3-D puzzle. Kit and Emme stood back offering helpful suggestions.

  Or were they just laughing at their men?

  She couldn’t tell.

  The sun had risen well into the sky, and the glare made it hard to see clearly. Jasmine stood on her tiptoes, trying to get a better angle. Being five foot two was a pain. Wait. Where had that step-stool with the missing leg gone?

  Thirty seconds later, she had dragged the stool out of the broom closet and was teetering on its unbalanced three legs, giving her a much better vantage of the goings on in the backyard.

  Laughing. Kit and Emme were definitely laughing.

  Which Jasmine should have found funny.

  The situation most definitely was not tear-inducing.

  But . . .

  It was just soooooo sweet. Emme, her best friend for . . . like, forever . . . had finally found The One in James. And Marc (who no one had thought would settle down) used every up and down of a suitcase as an excuse to kiss Kit.

  It was all so lovey-dovey, happy-sappy that Jasmine couldn’t do anything but cry. The question was only if it was going to stay a subtle polite cry or turn into something messier . . .

  Which made the loud throat clearing and deep-voice sounding behind her all the more startling.

  “Pardon me, girl, but where the hell did you come from, and what have you done to this cottage?”

  Jasmine was quite sure she squealed (loudly) as she tumbled off the stool, sending it flying with a crash.

  She hit the wood floor between the sink and the kitchen island. Hard.

  Knocking every last bit of breath out of her body.

  What—? Who—?!

  Jasmine coughed and rolled onto her back, trying desperately to suck in air.

  The sunlight above her suddenly dimmed. She opened her eyes and stared up, up, up into a pair of gun-metal gray eyes.

  Upside-down gray eyes set into a chiseled upside-down male face which featured a decidedly grim upside-down scowl. Which didn’t quite make it a smile, despite what some might think.

  Oh no . . . surely this couldn’t be. Arthur had set guards on Duir Cottage. No one was going to inadvertently travel through the portal on their combined watch.

  Right?

  She closed her eyes. Opened them again.

  He was still there. And his frown had deepened. Though it did actually look more like a smile, now that she thought about it . . .

  Blink.

  Still there. His expression becoming more of a glower. All framed by dark hair and an immaculately tied cravat.

  Damn and blast. To use the 1815 vernacular.

  “I repeat. Who are you and what have you done to this cottage?” His bass voice vibrated through the room. Accent posh even to Jasmine’s untrained American ear.

  Coughing, Jasmine rolled to her knees and pushed herself upright. Not as if Mr. Frowny-Face were offering to help her.

  With one last cough, Jasmine lifted her head. And kept right on lifting it. Even standing at her fullest height, the man still towered over her.

  Scratch that. He loomed.

  And dressed like something straight out of central casting for Masterpiece Classic. Cravat, coat, waistcoat topped by a rippling greatcoat which hung to the heels of his glossy knee-high boots.

  His eyebrows narrowed, as he swept a gaze over her ensemble with its decidedly not Regency-period short dress and chunky boots. And then fixed his eyes firmly on her face.

  He slapped his beaver top hat against tan breeches which appeared to be . . . why, yes, made of sewn leather. Mmmm . . . interesting.

  How could leather fit that tightly? It seemed to defy the laws of physics. And were the breeches comfortable because it wasn’t like leather really breathed and given the English humidity and skin-tight fit, wouldn’t they chafe something fierce—

  “Chafe?! Pardon?!” Mr. Frowny Face became even frownier. “I am the one asking questions here, girl.”

  Right.

  Jasmine pinched her lips together and swiped her damp cheeks clean.

  Who was he?

  Snap, snap, snap. The beaver hat was taking a beating. But, hat aside, the man held the rest of himself almost unnaturally motionless. And then, as if realizing what was going on with his hat, he stopped that too.

  “Are you capable of speaking coherent English, girl?” There went that posh accent again. Scathingly condescending. “And if not, please find someone who does.”

  Up went her eyebrows. Yeah, he wasn’t winning any brownie points here.

  “And you are . . . ?” She crossed her arms with a toss of her head.

  “A man who does not tolerate impossibly insolent chits.” His eyes narrowed. “I can hear from your accent you are an American and, therefore, a foreigner in these parts. A word of advice. If you wish to avoid spending time in the local gaol, I suggest you start answering my questions.”

  Wow. Talk about arrogant, pompous, rude . . .

  Oh no!

  Her eyes flared wide. He could be anyone, really.

  But based on the stories she had heard, she had an awful, terrible, sinking suspicion . . .

  “Please tell me you are not Lord Linwood?”

  Chapter 6

  The girl continued to stare at Timothy with her impossibly beautiful face and impossibly huge blue eyes with traces of tears still clinging to impossibly long lashes—

  “Well? Are you Lord Linwood?”

  Impossibly insolent, as well.

  When he had first seen her teetering precariously on that decrepit stool leaning toward the window and apparently crying, he had assumed her to be a child. With her hair down her back and her skirts so short—not to mention her loud snif
fles—she surely was no more than eleven years of age.

  But his perusal of her revealed curves no child’s body would have.

  And as she spoke, her voice was the alto of true womanhood with a strong American twang, forcing him to revise his estimation of her age upward.

  He refused to look downward again. Her attire . . .

  Timothy swallowed.

  He could see every aspect of her shapely legs. No imagination required. Even the loosest Covent Garden opera dancer would blush to wear so little.

  How old was she really?

  Aaaaand he was tapping his hat again.

  Rule #91: A gentleman never fidgets.

  He was a fortress. Contained.

  Slow breath.

  His hand stilled.

  He turned away from her.

  Better not to contemplate her clothing. Or the lack thereof. His spine tingled from the heat of her gaze on his shoulders.

  He surveyed the room. Again. Nothing was as it had been.

  He had stopped at Duir Cottage, as he had promised, determined to copy the basic structure of the house in building a dower house for Kinningsley. If Mrs. Heartstone wanted a house, then she should have one.

  The guards Arthur had set were easily sent away with threats of legal action. Noting the size of the front parlor and study as well as the four bedrooms upstairs, he had drawn a quick mental map of the house, already contemplating ways to make the large kitchen and scullery more useful.

  The lack of general storage had been puzzling until he found the trapdoor and stairs down to the empty cellar. There had been a carved slab of stone opposite the stairs and the air had felt alive . . . almost as if it were electrified somehow. Touching the slab had caused a jolt to course through him, followed by a falling sensation. Odd really.

  Shaking off the feeling, he had retreated up the stairway . . .

  . . . to find everything changed.

  The kitchen and scullery were gone. The enormous fireplace still dominated the space in front of him, but that was the only recognizable feature. Instead of work baskets and cook pots, high wingback chairs now flanked the fireplace, facing an overstuffed sofa. A large, rough-hewn table with chairs stood between him and the sofa. The entire back half of the house sported large windows that opened onto an overgrown back garden, flooding the room in light.