'Well,' I began, 'it's been split along the middle horizontally, which in heraldic language is party per something, isn't it?'
'Party per fess.' He nodded.
'And the bottom colour is gold, but I don't recognize the top color.'
'Sanguine,' Geoff supplied. 'Blood-red. It's not common.'
'So the bottom part would be "or a rose gules, barbed and seeded proper,"' I told him, looking up at the red rose with its green thorns and gold center, bright against the gold background. 'How am I doing?'
'Wonderfully well,' he admitted. 'What about the top half?'
I frowned, studying the two hooded hawks gleaming gold against the deep blood-red, their hoods a shining silver, their wings and talons outstretched. 'Sanguine, you said? Then it would be "sanguine two hawks or displayed ... hooded argent"?'
I was less sure of that one, but his approving smile gave me confidence.
'I am impressed,' he said softly. 'The rose symbolizes the family's patriotism and loyalty to the crown, and the hawks our blind faith and tenacity. Hood and talons. Try a little more,' he urged. 'What does the helmet on top of the shield tell you?'
That one I knew.
'That the owner of the arms is a knight or a baronet,' I said with certainty.
'And how do you know that?'
'Because the helmet is facing forward and the visor is up, with no bars on it.'
'And the helmet's steel,' he added, 'not gold or silver. Well done. And the crest?'
'It's that thing on top of the helmet, isn't it? The hawk's head on the twisted wreath.'
This hawk was also hooded, and very fierce looking.
'Now'—Geoff folded his arms across his chest—'tell me what the scrolled bit framing the shield is called, and I promise I'll fall over backward in astonishment.'
'Sorry.' I grinned. 'I don't remember what it's called, but I do know that it's supposed to represent the mantle of cloth that knights wore to keep the heat of the sun off their armor.'
'It's called the lambrequin,' he told me with a triumphant smile. 'At least there's one thing I know that you don't. "I'm a little rusty on my armorial bearings," ' he mimicked me, his smile broadening. 'Are you angling for a job as a tour guide?'
I blushed a little, shaking my head. 'No. I just have a good memory for details. I see things, or read them, and I remember them.'
'I didn't mean to embarrass you.' He frowned. 'I was just teasing. You shouldn't be embarrassed about having brains.'
'I'm not, really, I—'
'I like smart women,' he told me with a good-natured wink. 'Intelligence is very sexy.'
I blushed deeper and concentrated fiercely on the coat of arms above my head. 'What does the motto mean?' I asked him.
'You're a little rusty on your Latin, as well?' He moved closer until I felt the warmth of him through the thin fabric of my blouse. His voice was a low, pleasant rumble beside my ear.
"Everti nan polest.' He read the words aloud, slowly, reverently, solemnly. 'It means "Indestructible."'
The word hung in the air between us for several seconds before the excited murmur of voices approaching jolted us out of our contemplation. We had lingered too long in the Great Hall, and the next tour was about to begin.
'Bloody hell,' Geoff swore without violence, looking round for an escape route. 'Come on,' he said, and grabbing my hand fairly hauled me through a doorway to the left of the fireplace and into the narrow passage beyond.
Thirteen
And this is the west passage,' Geoff said, pulling the door shut behind him, he leaned back against it with a wolfish grin. 'I couldn't wait to show it to you.'
'It's lovely,' I said, laughing. 'Arc all your tours like this?'
'Usually,' he admitted. 'I don't much like crowds. You ought to count yourself lucky—when I took Vivien round to show her the restored rooms a couple of years ago, we had to hide in a cupboard for twenty minutes.'
"Lucky Vivien,' I almost said, but I caught myself in time. Instead I asked him, tongue in cheek, 'There's a name for that, isn't there? A pathological fear of crowds?'
He nodded. 'Privacy.' He gestured to the door directly opposite. 'That's the servants' hall across there, but since the tour will be going there next, I think we'll skip ahead to the kitchens, if you don't mind.'
I trailed after him down the long passage with its sloping flagstone floor. 'Does it bother you,' I asked him, 'having all those people tramping about your home?'
'Not really.' He shrugged, his tone amiable. 'As I said, I kept the best part of the house for myself, and that's my home—those are the rooms I grew up in. All this is just... superfluous, I suppose. It's too much for one family to live in, let alone one person. Most of these rooms would probably never see the light of day if it weren't for the tourists. Besides, it's all a bit much, don't you think? I mean, can you honestly see me whipping up a midnight snack in this?'
He stopped walking and raised a hand to indicate a kitchen of truly baronial proportions, all brick and polished copper, with a monstrous hearth. The turn-of-the-century stove planted in one corner looked as if it could hold twenty roasting turkeys with room to spare.
'I see your point,' I told him, raising my eyebrows.