by Maya Banks
Mrs. Unster frowned. “I am not sure I should give it to you, dearie. It’s a dreadful piece, it is.”
Ridge looked curiously at her. “Why do you think it’s dreadful? Is it very ugly?”
“Oh no, indeed not,” she protested. “It is quite beautiful, but it’s evil. I’m convinced it is of the devil himself.”
India slid to the edge of the settee, her face a mask of serious determination. “It is imperative that it is returned to its rightful place.”
Indecision flickered on the older woman’s face. “It’s the God’s truth, I’d be glad to be rid of the thing. But I wouldn’t feel right inflicting it on someone else, mind you.”
Ridge cocked his head. “Why do you say such things, Mrs. Unster? You act as though it has a life of its own.”
She nodded furiously. “It does. Aye, it does. Why one evening it began glowing. Just out of the blue, it did. When I received Roddy’s things from abroad, I thought to display the bracelet, it being so beautiful. But I never felt right in the same room with it. And one night, it began glowing. Bright red, it did. Tell them, James,” she said, gesturing emphatically at the young man.
“Aye, that it did, Madam,” he said soberly.
“Then perhaps we can help,” Ridge said. “If you would not mind parting with it, that is. I will pay you a handsome sum, of course.”
“It is more likely that I should be paying you for taking it,” she muttered.
She turned and waved airily at James. “Do fetch it, dear boy. You know where it is.” She downed the contents of her cup in one gulp and looked longingly at the tray James had deserted to fetch the bracelet.
Ridge sat drumming his fingers on his leg, and he looked over at India. She looked calm. Composed. Not at all like she was suffering the same eruption of anticipation that he was. When he heard approaching footsteps in the hall, he stood up.
James walked into the room bearing a cloth covered object. India brushed against Ridge, and he looked down to see she was standing beside him. The butler gingerly held out the bracelet, his eyes reflecting caution.
Ridge took it, half expecting to feel warmth, or a surge of energy. He shook his head at his absurdity and began unwrapping the bracelet. When it lay, cool in his hand, he turned it over to examine it.
It was an odd mixture of wood and metal. On one side, tiny jewels encrusted the edge. On the other, the surface was flat and smooth, but carved into it were strange symbols.
He glanced up at India who was staring thoughtfully at the bracelet. “What do you make of it?” he asked.
She took it from his hand, flipping it over several times as she studied it.
“Artemis was right,” she said. “It is as exactly as the drawing represented.”
Ridge nodded, not wanting to discuss the eccentric old man and his prophetic ramblings.
“What now though?” he asked. “What do we do with the bracelet?”
Mrs. Unster, too, looked curiously at India. “Are you taking up your father’s work, my dear?”
India looked between him and Mrs. Unster, uncertainty ringing her eyes. “I’m not all together certain, but I know the legend has it that the bracelet is the key to Pagoria.”
Mrs. Unster nodded approvingly before Ridge could respond. “In Roddy’s last letter to me before his death, he told me that he and your father were on the verge of a most remarkable find, that they had finally found the key to all their dreams. I can only assume he meant the bracelet.”
India surveyed the woman in shock. Was the old woman daft? “My father was working with Sir Roderick? But he was in India.”
Mrs. Unster shook her head. “I have the letter. Would you care to read it?”
“Please,” India responded.
Her mind raced as the older woman disappeared from the sitting room. Surely her father wouldn’t have left India when she was being held captive by the rebels. But then how else did she explain his presence now in Spain? Alive.
Hurt crowded her chest. Had her father deserted her? Left her for dead? And to work with Sir Roderick, a man she and her father both regarded as a scoundrel, someone who held no real respect for history, only the wealth ancient artifacts would bring.
She shook her head as if her will alone could alter the truth. She wouldn’t allow that her own father had chosen his obsession with the lost city over her safety.
Ridge curled his hand around her elbow, directing her attention to him.
“I don’t understand the significance of your father working with Sir Roderick.”
She blinked and looked away. “There is no significance. I was merely taken aback by her claims.”
He looked doubtfully at her but didn’t pursue the topic.
Mrs. Unster returned bearing a folded sheaf of papers. “Here you are, dearie. This came a mere month before I learned of his death.”
India opened the letter and began reading. By the time she reached the end, tears blurred her vision. Unless Sir Roderick fabricated the entire story, her father had indeed joined him in Spain to search for Pagoria. While she remained in India, frightened, alone, and certain of her death.
She closed her eyes and handed the letter back to Mrs. Unster. She had always assumed her father had disappeared in his search for her. Not for the city. When she had escaped and made her way to the British Consulate, she was informed that her father had vanished and presumed dead.
And here she was prepared to sacrifice everything to save him from certain death.
“Are you feeling well?” Ridge asked beside her. “Perhaps we have done too much on the heels of your injury.”
“Injury?” Mrs. Unster exclaimed. “Are you hurt?”
“I’m quite well,” India responded, raising her head and forcing the oppressive sadness from her throat.
“We must take our leave, Mrs. Unster,” Ridge began. “But before we depart, I feel it necessary to warn you that someone with nefarious intentions is dogging our every step. The book seller who sold me your brother’s journal was murdered this morning.”
Mrs. Unster gasped and raised a hand to her throat.
“Heavens! I shall have to retrieve the pistols from the case.”
“It wouldn’t hurt to post a few extra men around the house to ensure no intruders gain access. I shall direct a few of my men to see to your protection,” Ridge continued.
India looked down at the bracelet resting in her palm, ignoring the discussion between Ridge and Mrs. Unster. Could this really be the key to the lost city? Had her father and Sir Roderick gained access to Pagoria? And what had gone so terribly wrong afterwards? Sir Roderick’s mysterious death. Her father’s capture. And now someone willing to murder for the journal and the key.
She ran a finger across the etched symbols. There was a message there, but what? How to decipher it without telling Ridge what it said? She knew it would provide the final link to finding the city. She could feel it.
Ridge nudged her. “Are you ready?”
She nodded her head and followed him toward the door.
“Good luck in your travels,” Mrs. Unster called out.
India had never really believed in luck, but now she thought they could definitely benefit from it.
As they climbed into the carriage, Ridge’s eyes gleamed with excitement.
“We’ve done it! We’ve actually done it.”
“Yes, it would appear so,” she murmured.
“I’ll make the final preparations for our journey and make sure the ship is properly rigged. With any luck we’ll be in San Sebastian in a fortnight.”
There was that word again. Luck. With luck indeed. She stamped out the nagging worry she felt and tried to look eagerly ahead to their travels. Even if the mere idea of embarking again on the life she had sworn to forsake sent panic racing down her spine. There would be plenty of time for worry when they arrived in Spain.
Chapter Nine
India turned the bracelet over and over in her pa
lm, studying the intricate designs engraved into the face. Exhaustion beat an incessant cadence in her head, but she couldn’t sleep. Wouldn’t sleep. Not with the night.
She glanced out her window into the offending darkness. The stars glared malevolently back at her, mocking her with their beauty.
A noise directed her gaze downward to the torch-lined walkway of the garden. To her surprise, she saw Lord Ridgewood standing on the stone path, his hands shoved into the pockets of his trousers.
He removed his spectacles and tucked them away then he stared up into the sky. He stood there, still, as if absorbing his surroundings. For a brief moment of fancy, she considered that he too was staring at stars sprinkled liberally over the horizon.
Was he dreaming of all the far away places he had never visited? She wished she could summon the same excitement he displayed over their impending voyage to Spain. In her youth, she possessed the same adventurous spirit the viscount displayed.
For as long as she could remember she had enjoyed the tales her father recounted. Counted the days until his return. Prayed that the next time he would take her along. But he never had. Not until that terrible summer her mother had fallen ill and died in a matter of weeks.
He returned a week after her mother had been buried, told her to pack her belongings, and they had departed the very next day. He had taken her back to India, where she was born. Where she had spent the first years of her life.
From that moment on, she had traveled everywhere with her father. Africa, America, Egypt, and to the east. But her heart had always remained in India.
Her lips tightened as she blinked back tears. They had betrayed her. Her countrymen. All they had seen was a fair-skinned Englishwoman. An outsider. Not one of their own. Someone they could use to try and sway the British occupying their country.
That day she had ceased to see herself as Indian and seen for the first time that she was British. No common bond with these noble people she had considered her brethren.
After her escape from the awful captivity she had endured for three months, she had only wanted to return home. A home she had not acknowledged in more than a decade. The British High Command in Calcutta had informed her of her father’s disappearance and seen that she was put on a ship to England.
It was assumed he was killed by the same band of rebels that had captured India.
Her throat tightened. But he hadn’t been killed. He was off searching for Pagoria while she was fighting for her life and sanity. Had he known she was alive? Or had he cared more for the city than for his only daughter?
She shook her head in silent denial. She wouldn’t allow herself to think that. He couldn’t have known she was alive. It was the only explanation for why he had left the country.
Lord Ridgewood still stood in the garden, his attention obviously miles away. He hadn’t moved since he had gained her attention several minutes ago. What was he thinking?
She frowned. He was occupying too much of her thoughts. If she was going to carry out her deception, she couldn’t afford to start softening toward him. She must ignore her attraction to him. No matter how likeable he was. Yes, she liked him. Another frown plagued her. Why couldn’t he be utterly unlikable?
His eagerness to loot the city was annoying, but she couldn’t really hold it against him. Had she not the knowledge that the city still lived, she would likely be just as eager to uncover whatever artifacts had been left behind by a dead civilization.
But he was critical of her father. Irritation singed her mood. Much better. If she could summon the anger she had felt each time she had been treated to one of his censorious articles about her father’s beliefs on Pagoria, she could remain objective and convinced that he deserved her betrayal.
Yes, he was quite deserving.
She stared down at the bracelet once more, her bottom lip tucked firmly between her teeth. The symbols seemed vaguely familiar, tiny recreations of...yes! That was it.
She raised the bracelet to survey it more closely. The symbols were backwards. Opposing as if a mirror image. It was difficult to decipher staring at it in the form of the bracelet but if she were to...
She whirled around, leaving the window and striding toward the door. Surely there was a mound of dirt she could find in the garden. Lord Ridgewood might very well think her mad, but she might very well figure out what the bracelet was trying to tell them.
She hurried down the stairs and rounded the corner, entering the hallway leading to the garden. Careful so as not to startle him, she eased out the French windows. The cool evening air blew over her, lifting the tendrils of hair tucked behind her ears and sending them scattering about her head.
She smoothed them down and walked toward the viscount.
Ridge looked surprised to see her. “Good evening, India. What brings you out to the gardens?”
“Have you a place where there is a pile of dirt?”
He arched an eyebrow, his forehead wrinkling in confusion. “Whatever do you want dirt for?”
She held up the bracelet. “For this.”
He regarded her suspiciously. “Planning to bury it?”
She looked past him, ignoring his question. “Dirt?”
He gestured toward a row of rose bushes at the back of the enclosure.
She nudged past him. “Bring a torch,” she called back. The back of garden wasn’t as well lit as the pathway, and she needed to be able to see clearly.
When she reached the bushes, she knelt down, satisfied to see dirt mounded up around the bases. She cupped handfuls of the dirt and made a pile in front of her.
When she was satisfied with the result, she pressed the bracelet into the dirt. Then she carefully picked it up, careful not to disturb the impression left in the soil.
Ridge made a sound of discovery above her, and she glanced up to see his eyes bright with curiosity.
“What does it say? Brilliant deduction, India. I wouldn’t have considered there was a message.”
Her cheeks warmed at his praise, and she ducked her head guiltily. Her mind raced to come up with a plausible message and also to translate the real message quickly in her head.
“Have you paper and ink?” she asked, trying to buy time.
“Of course. I’ll return in a moment.”
She listened as his boots tapped against the stone walkway, the sound growing fainter as he stepped into the house. She turned her attention back to the impression, committing to memory the wording there.
The way is broad that leads to destruction.
Not at all vague. She shook her head in exasperation.
She frowned again. No it was all backwards. That was the last statement. She refocused on the symbols, and put them in order in her head.
Look to the north, to the great peaks of Orion. In the cradle of the moon lies the doorway. The way is broad that leads to destruction.
“Here you are,” Ridge said.
She jerked her head up in surprise, her heart racing. “T-thank you.”
Her brow furrowed as she turned her attention back to the mound of dirt. What to write down on the paper? She really hadn’t even formulated a sound plan. The events had unraveled at an alarmingly fast rate.
Think, India, think.
They would sail to San Sebastian. That much was known. The clue before her led her north to the isolated country of Castelonia. Could the city be there? In the cradle of the great mountain chain that formed the border between Spain, Castelonia and France?
She was to find a man named Juan Miguel, but she felt in her heart that whoever held her father would want her or her father to translate the directions to the city and possibly lead the way.
So she must send the viscount in the opposite direction.
Using the same idea as the wording on the bracelet, she drew in a deep breath and began to write.
Look to the heart, to the great city. In her shadow lies the doorway. In the bosom of Tagus, you will find
what you seek.
She handed the translation to Ridge, and waited his reaction. It was swift.
“Madrid! It must refer to Madrid.”
She nodded and exhaled slowly.
Suddenly she found herself pulled up and staring into Ridge’s eyes. Excitement gleamed there. But something else lurked within. Admiration. Respect.
She nearly cringed.
“Brilliant, India. Just brilliant. I cannot thank you enough for agreeing to help me.”
He continued to stare into her eyes, his gaze probing her, as if trying to uncover her secrets. His breath stuttered, catching slightly as he breathed out. He moved his head forward, his eyes never leaving hers, as if seeking permission.
She jumped slightly when his hand cupped her cheek. His thumb smoothed over her skin then over her lips.
“You have beautiful lips,” he murmured.
He was only inches away. Then softly, gently, his lips found hers. A soft sigh escaped her only to be swallowed up as his tongue made a slow entrance to her mouth.
She trembled, tiny waves of pleasure quaking over her body. To her surprise, her knees buckled and he caught her against him when she would have fallen.
Warmth enveloped her, seeping from his body to hers. He smelled of books, chimney smoke and something else she couldn’t quite identify. It was a scent unique to him. It screamed maleness, confidence, strength. Of earth and wood.
He awakened sensations in her, dangerous sensations. He made her forget what was most important to her.
She wedged her hands between them and pushed herself away. Her lips left his and she gasped for breath, her body a mass of jumbled nerves.
She looked away, desperately trying to collect herself. When she looked back at him, he was staring at her, his eyes aglow with desire. Warm, liquid need.
A shiver crept up her spine. Not from the coolness of the air, but from the raw need she saw expressed in his face. She didn’t want to be needed.
“I’m sorry,” he said quietly. “I forgot myself.”
Her chest tightened at his words. She drew in a steadying breath, but expelled it in a shaky, jerky whoosh. There was no use pretending indifference. Any fool could see she was rattled.
