Riley almost wanted to laugh. How like a man to think he could waltz into her life and provide the solution she’d failed to see hanging right in front of her face.
“You know what? You’re right.” She slapped her forehead. “I should just do something easier. Thanks so much for bringing that opportunity to my attention.”
“Ah.” Clark grimaced, looking genuinely regretful. “That was clumsy of me. I wasn’t trying to insult you.”
Wasn’t he?
“Right.” Riley scoffed. “I’m sure it’s just a consequence of growing up a sheltered snob who’s built a career trading on Daddy’s name.” Her job was dangerous enough without getting repeatedly bulldozed by the last person she’d kissed.
Clark’s face went white and then crimson.
But she hadn’t said anything that wasn’t true. Riley let the fumes of her anger drown out any traces of guilt.
“Let’s be clear about what’s happened here. You did your very best to undermine me in front of my employer.” She stepped forward so they stood toe-to-toe. “You’ve insulted my character, my work ethic, and now my intelligence.”
He shook his head. “I didn’t mean to—”
“If you had even an ounce of honor,” she said over his interruption, “you’d pack up your shit and go home. Because I promise I’m not leaving, and if the opportunity arises to pay you back, I’m going to take it.”
“Despite what you think”—his tone was tight, his hands folded behind his back—“I can’t afford to abandon this job.”
Riley recognized the words he’d fed to Martin.
“My career hinges on making something of this mockery of an assignment, but—” His words lost their razor edge. Clark ran his hand through his hair, looking frustrated, like she kept getting in the way of his plans. “It doesn’t have to be a battle between us.”
Ha. Easy for him to say. They might both have something to prove professionally, but without the security of Clark’s father’s money and connections, Riley would always have more to lose.
“I promise you,” she said, feeling the potential of this assignment to make or break her, knowing that Clark’s soft mouth could cut her down as sure as the dagger they’d found, “it does.”
“Very well, then.” His posture changed, hardened, as any attempts to be conciliatory gave way to challenge.
Riley might have done the noble thing, declaring her intentions, but the wicked glint in his eyes said she’d come to regret it.
“Enemies it is,” Clark said, all crisp consonants and barely leashed scorn. “Do your worst.”
Chapter Six
For the record, Clark knew something like this would happen.
Ideally, after throwing down the gauntlet outside Riley’s room, he could have stormed off, metaphorical cloak swishing. But in actuality, they were both headed to the castle—both leaving at the same time—so what transpired was an incredibly awkward walk over. He had a few minutes’ advantage and did his best to hurry without looking like he was hurrying, but he never really managed to pull more than a kilometer or two ahead of her.
“I’ll be working in the music salon today,” Clark told her when they both reached the front gate. “All I ask is that you don’t get in my way.”
“Whatever.” Riley waved him off. “I’m taking the dagger for the morning.”
“What do you plan to—You know what, never mind.” The less he knew, the better. Clark needed to maintain plausible deniability for whatever calamity she undoubtedly caused. “Just try not to damage it.” It pained him to allow her to handle any historical artifacts, but thanks to the HES’s apathy and Martin’s refusal to see sense, he didn’t exactly have the jurisdiction to stop her.
Once they’d parted ways, heading down separate wings, Clark set up shop. He unpacked his tools and his trusty solar-powered Bluetooth speaker, as well as some battery-operated lanterns to supplement the low light coming through the dusty windows.
With a mixture of gratitude and trepidation, he applied the salve Riley had given him, letting out a deep sigh as the fragrant mixture soothed his irritated skin. Assuming the concoction didn’t eventually turn his hands purple or something, it had been nice of her to offer it. Surprisingly nice, considering he’d done nothing but piss her off over the last twenty-four hours. He still had no idea how she’d managed to cause the irritation. Perhaps he had an allergic reaction to something in the tower and she’d merely taken advantage of convenient timing.
Despite her acerbic pronouncement that they were at war, he did hope some degree of civility could be maintained during their shared time in the castle. Ignoring her would be a challenge, but if Clark simply kept to his system, he might finish his work here with minimal additional interruption.
He wanted to do a good job even though his assignment was a sham. As Patrick had pointed out somewhere around sixth form, Clark had always been desperate for approval. Still, this poor, maligned castle deserved better than to fall to capitalist wolves without proper attention worthy of its legacy. Arden had been shaped and sieged, burned and reclaimed, from a thirteenth-century fortress to a fifteenth-century clan seat, until it was finally made into a manor house at the end of the 1700s.
Rumors of an alleged curse contributed to ownership of the estate passing like a hot potato between minor aristocracy and private investors over the last few centuries. No one lasted long enough to finish anything they started. Everywhere he looked he found scaffolding, half-laid floors, peeling wallpaper, and faded frescoes.
On the bright side, this room was in better shape than most of the others. Though water damage had turned a formerly white ceiling brown, and the wood frames of the walls—bent and warped—were now held up by metal beams from previous, abandoned restoration efforts, partial remains of moldings and golden sconces hinted at former grandeur.
This wasn’t a proper excavation—he didn’t have license to dig—but Clark still segmented each accessible room with gaffer’s tape and a digital measuring device, adapting a survey method to make sure he searched for artifacts in the closest proximity to a scientific process as he could. It was why, in addition to the random mishaps Martin had mentioned, he was taking longer than projected to complete the contracted review.
Carefully, he sifted through piles of detritus and debris. Other scientists might have rushed this job, and the HES even seemed to expect him to—certainly Martin would have preferred it—but this work was about more than professional redemption for him. Clark needed to prove to himself that he could work without Patrick—that he was fine—look how fine he was—after the betrayal, the months of despondency that followed.