He smiled, despite the circumstances. “Agreed.”
Dougal had neverknown the kind of rage searing the inside of his ribcage until tonight. It was physically painful. And he was reasonably concerned that every time he opened his mouth to speak, fire might shoot from behind his tongue. He didn’t believe in dragons until now.
That arse had put his hands on Meg.
Had cut her.
It took everything in him not to follow Canterbury and the others into the Gold room. A broken nose was not nearly penance enough. All for some treasure that might not even exist. His teeth ached, reminding him that his jaw was not naturally meant to clench that way.
He’d burn the house down if meant the safety of his family. If Lady Blackwell or her coven had wandered down for warm milk—or let’s face it, whisky—they might not have recovered from the shock. Colin would have chosen violence. Dougal supported that choice at the moment, but not if it put his brother at risk.
It occurred to him that he wasn’t quite sure when he had started to see Meg as family. She might not agree, and he wasn’t fool enough to blurt that realization for the world to hear, but he would continue to act on it. Wherever she went, he would make sure she was safe. Happy.
He wanted her to stay right here and be happy.
Wanted it more than anything.
“Oh, I quite forgot,” she said in her indomitable way. “I came down here to inspect the fireplace.”
Part of him wanted to ask if she needed to sit down and rest after her recent experience and the rest of him liked all of his body parts attached to him. “Why that fireplace?” he asked, trying to sound like a civilized duke and not a dragon. He was only mildly successful.
“It hasn’t been used in centuries.”
The crooked fireplace was tucked into the back corner of the entrance hall, under the balcony. The firebox was red brick, the mantel and surround were a rich, faded wood old enough and thick enough with polish to shine under the candlelight. The supporting legs were carved with vines and roses. Above the mantel, holding up a pediment, were two women wearing crowns. “I’ve been comparing maps,” Meg explained. “And this fireplace is late medieval. I think it might be oldest part of this entire estate.”
“That sounds promising.”
“And the wall, just here? It never quite lines up in any of the drawings.”
They moved closer, touching the carvings, pushing against leaves and filigrees, exploring every nook. He knocked on the decorative panels, along the edges of the mantle, and finally over the figures.
The queen on the left did not sound like the rest of the woodwork.
He knocked again.
Definitely hollow.
He traced over the crown, the arms, her gown.
“What are you doing exactly?” Meg asked, drily from where she had crawled inside the firebox only to poke her head back out to find him fondling a medieval queen.
“Exploring,” he shot back, equally drily. “Isn’t this what historians do?”
Something shifted, ever so slightly, under Dougal’s palm. If he hadn’t been so focused, he would have missed it altogether. He pushed again, and that faint give had him looking down at her and grinning. “Found something.”
Meg pounced, nearly knocking her head on the mantel in her haste. “Show me!” Her candle’s flame wavered, almost going out. “I want to shove the treasure right into that man’s broken nose.”
Years of dust and polish had all but glued the seam that cut along the vertical length of the linen folds of the queen’s skirts. The folds were carved deep, and the shadows hid their secrets. Not for long.
Or so he thought.
It would not budge.
Dougal pulled harder, worked his fingertips into the wood for purchase, but still nothing.
“Blast,” Meg muttered. “Even if there is a secret latch, it won’t open.”
“I need a knife,” Dougal said. “I’ll be right back.”