by Allison Lane
The special license was in his valise. Getting it had been easy once he’d found the information the application required. But he’d had to search half the library to learn Miss Vale’s full name. Sir Winton did not keep the family Bible in plain view.
Alexandra Merideth Vale. A pretty name for a beautiful lady. Her family must follow the same custom as his – using the mother’s family name as one of the child’s Christian names.
Anthony Torwell Linden.
Jonathan Concord Linden.
Alexandra Merideth Vale. So Miss Merideth’s father would have been Lady Vale’s brother. The portrait in the gallery must depict a young Lady Vale, for she bore a startling resemblance to Miss Merideth. Family likenesses were often quite strong…
He slept.
* * * *
Tony gouged his tunnel deeper, feeling for the uneven surface of mosaic tiles. His other hand scooped the loosened soil into the trench behind him.
He was having trouble breathing. The more they uncovered, the more complex the design appeared. And it was in better shape than anything he’d ever seen. The villa’s size had not been his only miscalculation. Mud must have flowed inside before its collapse, cushioning the floors. Or at least this one…
That would account for the double fan, he realized, pausing to shovel the accumulated dirt from the trench. Heavy rainfall could wash vast quantities of mud from the hills. The temple had been on a rise that might have deflected the flow through the villa. Even if it were liquid enough to leave walls intact, it would have piled mud and debris in every corner and carried possessions away. It might even have filled the hypocaust and knocked down rickety outbuildings, battering bricks into dust as it tumbled downhill. Stone walls surrounding the grounds could have deflected everything toward the east. Had the paving stones in the test hole actually been the top of a wall?
Then the hill itself had collapsed, dropping mud and rock straight onto the hapless villa, folding the northern edges atop more protected areas – much like his test slide had scraped away some of the mound. But most of the debris would have been swept straight south.
At least part of this room had been deep in mud by then. A foot of soil lay between the mosaic and the artifacts they had been uncovering. How much of the floor had survived?
His mind raced with the implications of this discovery. Once word leaked out – as it was bound to – the estate would be overrun with scholars, fortune hunters, and the curious. Sir Winton would dig out the floor and sell it to the highest bidder. That might be the best solution for its ultimate preservation, of course, for protecting it here would be nearly impossible. Unscrupulous people had been known to sneak onto a site and chip away sections of mosaic, especially mosaic of this quality. Even guards were not immune to greed.
The artist had been an exquisite craftsman. Many mosaics were quite crude, especially in the border areas. But not this one.
His fingers jammed against stone. Had he hit the foundation of the wall that had once enclosed this room, or a bit of debris?
Shifting to allow as much light as possible into the hole, he brushed the floor. More design, but in a simpler pattern. Brown and red. Probably the outer frame. Thus the stone would be a foundation block.
“I just hit the wall,” he announced, abandoning his digging, “so unless this was a walkway, the center of the room is on your side.” As soon as they had a better idea of the room’s size, they could stake out the edges and work their way in. With luck, mud had filled the hypocaust without damaging the floor supports. But even if this was the only intact piece, it was the find of a lifetime.
“The pattern is changing,” she confirmed. Instead of tunneling as he had done, she had been shaving the trench walls.
“To brown and red?”
But the question was unnecessary, for he was already clearing loose soil from the mosaic. It was a room. And, at least at this point, the floor was unbroken.
He worked back along the trench, deepening it to this new level. When he’d cleared enough space to work, he turned toward the room’s center. Occasionally, he brushed against Miss Merideth’s arm or leg, but he hardly noticed in the excitement of uncovering a masterpiece. He did note how his donated shirt clung to her breasts, though. But even that could not distract him for long.
An hour later, he stared at the result. “Incredible.”
A cat snarled, one paw poised to strike, though its body was still buried. A circular frame curved beneath the second paw.
“The corner panel,” he said softly.
“Corner panel?” Awe thickened her voice. Her eyes never strayed from the mosaic.
He used the point of his trowel to carve a quick sketch into the trench wall. “Rooms in the Glevum region were usually square. The brown and red outer frame I found would have run along the edge, about a foot wide. The panel frame is two feet wide, forming a square that should contain the circular main picture, also framed.” He pointed at the frame under the cat’s paw. “These triangular sections filled the corners between the circle and the square. Judging from the curve, this room might be as much as eighteen feet across. We came in near the center of one wall.” He stood, his eyes already noting the probable locations of the other walls. If the entire floor was intact…
“The cat looks alive.” She stroked the raised paw.
“Exquisite workmanship,” he agreed. “I hope the entire mosaic was executed by the same artist.”
“Why wouldn’t it be?”
“I’ve seen several mosaics that show different levels of expertise. Maybe an impatient owner hired a dozen workmen – laying mosaic is a slow process. Or perhaps he ran out of money and had to finish with an apprentice. Or the artist may have died, or been lured away by a more influential patron. Or someone might have fixed a damaged floor a century after it had originally been laid. Who knows?”
She stood to gaze around the clearing, seeming not to have heard him. But her hands trembled.
“Are you all right?”
“Yes. No.” She shook her head to clear it. “I can’t seem to take it in.”
“Shock.” He grinned as his own euphoria broke free. “This is the best-preserved floor I’ve ever seen.”
“I’ve never seen a Roman mosaic. I had no idea. The tiles we found the other day gave no hint of their potential.”
“They wouldn’t. Pieces were shaped as they were laid. And a true artist used gradations in color and even inclusions to heighten the impact of his work.”
She again stared at the cat, her smile broadening until it matched his own grin. Suddenly, she laughed and threw her arms around his shoulders. “It’s real. The villa is real. It’s fabulous. I can’t believe it was just sitting here, waiting for us. I could have found it two days ago if I’d only dug a little deeper.”
His own excitement flared, bursting in a wave of exhilaration. He twirled her around, nearly knocking her feet against the trench wall. Without thought, he hugged her close and kissed her.
The first touch of her lips drove the villa from his mind. Heat rampaged through his body. Scorching heat that burned away memory of every kiss he had savored in thirty-two years of living. Pulling her closer, he prodded her lips, drinking in her taste as she responded. What had started as a simple act of celebration rapidly turned to searing passion.
She tightened arms strengthened by hours of digging, dragging him into her skin. He’d been drooling since the moment she’d removed her jacket, revealing nipples pinched tight from the chill air. Now they dug into his chest, separated only by two thin layers of cambric.
Mine. His hand slid down her hip, kneading, stroking, calling forth the moans that sang like a Siren’s song in his ears. Her legs tangled with his, lacking the usual bulk of skirts and petticoats that formed so frustrating a barrier.
Mine, echoed his body as fire swirled into his groin and excitement sizzled along every nerve. He could not be more aroused if she lay naked beneath him.
Not yours! his conscience scream
ed. He froze.
* * * *
Alex’s emotions had shifted so often in the last hour that she hardly knew what she was doing. Guilt. Pain. Shock. Excitement. Euphoria. When Torwell’s mouth crushed into hers, it set off an explosion that drove every rational thought from her mind.
His body was as hard as she’d remembered, and far hotter. He radiated heat, excitement, passion…
She clung, amazed to feel almost fragile in his arms. Her hands roamed freely over his back, around his shoulders, into his hair. She opened her mouth to him, the exchange of breath raising desire that weakened her knees.
I actually feel normal!
He was tall enough that kissing was not awkward – for either of them, though that was a stupid thought. He was far too good at this to ever feel awkward. His tongue twisted around hers in an erotic dance that melted her bones. She pressed closer to keep from falling, reveling in the feel of his body, shocked to realize she was grinding against him as if she were trying to crawl inside his skin.
He stiffened.
Dear Lord! She was on the verge of ripping the clothes off a man she could never wed.
She stepped back.
“Forgive me,” he begged woodenly. “The excitement of the moment carried me away.”
“And me,” she said shakily, though all her senses protested the lost contact. “Since I started it, it is I who must beg your pardon. One does not discover so rare a treasure very often.”
“True.” He retrieved his spade and trowel. “Let’s see how much of the cat remains. Then we need to discuss how to protect it.”
“From the weather?”
The last trace of pleasure drained from his face. “From men. Do not mention this to anyone, even Miss Vale, until we secure the site. Looters have destroyed even amateurish mosaics. Once word of this leaks, it will become the target of every treasure hunter in England and beyond.”
That sobering thought kept her silent for the rest of the afternoon.
He was right to raise the issue, but she could not escape the conclusion that doing so now was deliberate. He had sensed that her reaction transcended mere celebration. As he’d done last week, he was reminding her that they were colleagues only. He had no interest in her as a woman, so unless she got her unruly passions under control, they could not even work together.
A moot point. After tonight, he would never allow her near one of his digs anyway – assuming Linden was recovered enough to receive her.
Chapter Eleven
Alex paced her bedchamber, oblivious to the spectacular sunrise outside her window.
The evening had been a worse disaster than the afternoon. Linden had remained in his room. His valet never left his bedside, so she had no opportunity to talk to him. And Sarah had insisted on sharing his dinner, claiming that he would feel neglected if he had only servants for company. Thus Bessie had also been there.
She should have joined them, she admitted, pounding a well-worn circuit from fireplace to window to dressing table and back. Dining with Torwell had been the most uncomfortable experience of her life. Their stilted conversation – if a few terse exchanges separated by interminable periods of silence could be termed conversation – demonstrated how far she had stepped across the line. Gone were the easy repartee, the sparkling wit, the enjoyable debates when they argued opposite sides of a question. Gone were the smiles, the relaxation, the anticipation of the next day’s dig.
Every gesture revived memories she was trying to forget – his hand curling around a wineglass as it had curled into her thigh; his eyes glinting green in the candlelight when he turned to speak with Murch; his tongue sliding along his lip in search of a wayward crumb…
Her body had burned with recollection. She’d barely stifled a moan. Thank God his attention had remained firmly on his plate, leaving him unaware of her reaction. She had escaped even before the dessert course, pleading fatigue.
He’d been relieved.
How could she have been so stupid? Throwing herself at him was bad enough – and she could only thank fate that he was an honorable, trustworthy vicar; Linden would have taken advantage of such an opportunity – but losing control of herself was beyond comprehension. She’d nearly ripped his clothes off! He’d been appalled, though he was gentleman enough to take the blame.
Not that it mattered who was at fault. The incident had destroyed their partnership, to say nothing of her peace of mind. She couldn’t sleep. Even lying down was impossible, for it brought a surge of memory so strong, she could actually feel him against her – deepening his kisses, crushing her closer, sucking and biting and moaning…
Sensation flooded every inch of her body. Groaning with needs she barely understood, she sank to the floor, her head in her hands.
So this was desire. More proof that she was no lady. But perhaps that would appeal to Linden. He preferred the unconventional. How would his kisses affect her? She couldn’t imagine anything better than Torwell’s, but then until yesterday, she could not have imagined his, either. His technique was lethal.
He sure doesn’t kiss like a vicar.
“And how would you know?” she demanded, climbing to her feet. “You have no experience. Stop thinking of Torwell and concentrate on Linden.” But she could not imagine kissing Linden. Or even touching him.
“Stupid,” she muttered, pacing the floor. “It’s the same body – broad shoulders, narrow hips, hard muscles. Same coloring, even.” But her mind remained unconvinced. The thought of running her fingers through his dark hair left her cold.
Shoving the image aside, she concentrated on the mosaic and on Torwell, the antiquarian. Mortification was no excuse to avoid him. They had business that could not be postponed, no matter how uncomfortable the meeting would be.
Working silently, they had uncovered the rest of the cat, flinching whenever their hands or arms accidentally touched. It was a beautiful piece of work, pristine except for minor damage near its tail.
Awe had filled his face, though he remained as far from her as the trench allowed. She recognized his discomfort, for it mirrored her own.
Desperate to get away, they’d tossed their tools in the shed and galloped back to the house. Thus they’d not yet held that discussion about security.
But she needed his ideas before he left.
As clearly as if he’d told her, she knew he would never visit the villa again. If not for his cousin, he would have fled Vale House last night. Once she confessed to Linden – which was another unpleasant chore that awaited her this morning – Torwell would leave. Only loyalty to Linden would keep him here long enough to preside at the wedding.
Or would it? Even a vicar would have recognized her infatuation during that wild embrace. Was Linden Park worth saddling his cousin with a wife who cared for another?
But the decision would not be his. He was too honest to remain quiet once he learned her identity. So Linden would make his own choice, fully aware of the facts. He had come here intending to wed a stranger, so her own feelings would hardly sway him.
Unless… If Linden wanted the entire fortune, why had he said nothing to Sarah? He might have postponed his offer to give Torwell more time at the villa, but that was far from certain. If he had talked Torwell into taking the bride, her confession could send them both fleeing. Torwell had made no attempt to hide his revulsion once he realized who was in his arms, and Linden was clearly having second thoughts about wedding anyone.
Her head spun.
“I am so stupid,” she snapped, loathing in her tone. “Why the devil did I ever think this would work?”
Linden was a problem she would address later, for he would not rise for several hours yet. Torwell was more immediate.
He undoubtedly planned to leave today, if only to protect himself from further assault. It would be months, if not years, before they could face each other without remembering.
And cursing.
She rubbed her chest to assuage the pain.
It had been a e
uphoric moment, which explained his initial response. Men would consort with anyone if the moment was right. But when he calmed enough to recognize her, he had pulled away, flinching in horror. The shock on his face had frozen something in her soul.
He would never have embraced her on his own. And now that he knew she was susceptible to lust, he would stay as far from her as possible.
This time the pain was harsher. Her father had always claimed she was a freak. His charges sounded more damning than ever as she admitted the folly she’d been trying to ignore since Torwell had recoiled from her embrace.
She had fallen in love with him.
“Ass!” she hissed at herself, adding every curse she had heard during a lifetime of living in the shadows while her father and his debauched friends swaggered through the sunlight.
The situation was impossible – more than impossible. She was incapable of inspiring affection in any man. Linden would take her only to recover his fortune, though even he might balk at this point. If he did, would Torwell step in, sacrificing himself to save his family? It would be like him.
Fool!
She was becoming as fanciful as the most pea-brained, moon-struck widgeon. She could never accept Torwell. He might have treated her as a colleague before she’d destroyed even that relationship, but he found her unattractive. She would be happier with Linden. At least neither of them would expect anything from the other.
“Accept it, Alex. You have no future there. The sooner you admit it, the sooner you can get over him. Now pull yourself together and face the morning.”
Her reflection stared back from the mirror, convinced that control was impossible.
At least not today. She knew what she must do. Talking to Linden was hopeless. Discussing security with Torwell was worse. And if Sarah saw her in this state, she would shower her with compassion that would break her down completely.
Donning her riding habit, she slipped down the servants’ stairs. Stroud was far enough away to provide a welcome escape from her memories, and she had business there anyway. It would make a pleasant all-day excursion. By the time she returned, she could face Linden.
