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things like that.”
    “I see,” Lord Ransome said slowly. “How long have you been working there, may I ask, Lady Iverson?”
    Sarah, who had just gotten worked up for a good lecture on her favorite subject, closed her mouth. She had forgotten for a moment, in her enthusiasm, that this was the man who now owned the land “her” village sat on. The man who could toss her out without a fare-thee-well.
    He probably didn’t want to hear her yammering on about shops and firepits and rubbish heaps. He probably didn’t care two straws about such things—most people did not—and wanted the old hunting box she was living in to use for hunting again.
    Hunting! When she was collecting vital artifacts about England’s very heritage.
    She took a deep breath, telling herself not to leap to conclusions, and answered, “About a year and a half.”
    “So long? I did not realize it took so much time to dig such things up.”
    There were those words again—“dig things up.” As if all she was doing was mucking about in the dirt looking for trinkets. She could see that Lord Ransome was in great need for an education.
    But not right at that moment. She had learned the value of subtlety and diplomacy, of not charging right in after what she wanted, from her husband. This was the time to begin to persuade Lord Ransome of the true importance of her work—not hit him over the head with a history lesson. Much as she would like to do that.
    “This is a very extensive site,” she answered. “My husband’s methods, which I am following, are to excavate very carefully in order to preserve the historical evidence as much as possible. Most people simply want the artifacts and objects, but Sir John saw the deeper significance of such finds. Also, the work was delayed for many weeks when—when he died.” She decided not to mention how short staffed she had been, due to fear of the “curse.”
    “I see,” Lord Ransome said. “It all sounds most interesting, Lady Iverson. I would be fascinated to take a look at it.”
    That was even better. If she could show him the actual village, it would be easier to point out all the things they had learned so far. And she relished any chance to show it off for new people.
    She smiled up at him over her shoulder. “Please, do come at any time, Lord Ransome. I would be most happy to show you the village.”
    He smiled back, and only then did she realize that, in her enthusiasm over her project and her fear that he might take it all away, she had forgotten how very attractive Lord Ransome was.
    She remembered now.
    She also remembered why he seemed so strangely familiar. She had seen him before—in her dream.

    Lady Iverson was not at all what Miles had been expecting.
    His uncle had been seventy if he was a day, and Sir John Iverson had been his crony. Miles had pictured an elderly couple scrambling over the fields, digging about for Vikings coins, leaning on their canes. But Lady Iverson looked as if she could not be more than twenty—and she was dashed pretty.
    The eyes that looked up at him, flashing with enthusiasm as she spoke of her work, were the golden brown color of fine Spanish sherry, slightly tilted up at the corners and framed with a sweep of long lashes. Her skin was touched with pink by the sun, with a small smattering of pale freckles over her nose and cheeks. Dark curls bounced from beneath her stylish hat, occasionally brushing his throat when she turned her head.
    She seemed impossibly young and enthusiastic, vital, warm, and so alive . Completely unlike the powdered, mannered, flirtatious ladies he had met in London after his return from the war. They had flocked about him, flattered him, when they learned he was to be the new Marquis of Ransome, but their manners had been so artificial, so shallow, after his experiences in Spain that they made him impatient.
    He was glad to escape them to the country. He was even more glad now that he had met this lady. She seemed real, full