by Robyn DeHart
“The sample.” She ran a hand over his extraction equipment. “You said you purchased another, but I don’t see any new jars. Did you leave it at the store?”
“Please don’t touch that.” He hovered over the machine much as a mother bird protects her young. He pointed to the empty jar to his left. “It’s right here.”
She loathed liars, especially if she was paying them to do a job for her. “I see. Then why were you seen leaving the store empty-handed?” She walked over to him, grabbed his tie, and tugged forcefully on it. “You are lying to me, and I do not care to be lied to by anyone. Especially an employee. What were you doing there?”
She stood nearly a head taller than him, and under her gaze, she could see the man’s will give way. People did not often succeed in deceiving her. She tended to persuade them that honesty was a far better choice.
“I went to speak with Miss Tobias,” he said quietly.
“And?”
He shook his head. “She would not give me any information.”
Cassandra laughed. “You asked her for the recipe?”
“I offered to pay her,” he said shallowly.
“You offered to pay her. Now don’t you think, were that an option, I would have simply done that instead of hiring you?” She paused a moment, waiting for him to give another excuse, but he said nothing. “I was told you were unmatched in your abilities. Evidently someone lied about that as well.” She jammed her finger into his chest. “You are an idiot.”
“No, I am unmatched. I am the best,” he said.
“I have yet to see proof of that.”
“Madam St. James, please. I can figure out the formula, I promise. I merely need more time.”
“I’m afraid it might be too late for that. We’ll see. Perhaps later I’ll be feeling more generous. Right now, however, I’m feeling rather inhospitable,” she said.
He straightened his shoulders and tried his best to add height to his pitiful frame. “I am not without threats of my own, madam,” he said, his voice wavering. “I might not be able to threaten you with bodily harm as I don’t keep company with those thugs you employ. But I do know people, people who would be interested in what you’ve been up to.”
“Is that a fact?” she asked. But he knew nothing. She’d told him she was interested in that crème because a friend who owned a French cosmetics shop had believed her product had been stolen.
“The fountain of youth,” he said firmly.
She narrowed her eyes at the man. “If you think—”
“I know precisely what you’ve been looking for. I do not accept employment from people without thorough research. I know of your previous association with the Marquess of Lindberg and his search for Atlantis as a member of Solomon’s.” He boldly jammed a finger into her chest. “I can destroy you.”
“Don’t touch me again,” she said slowly. “You know nothing.” But the nasty little man did. He’d uncovered her secrets, and she could not have anyone know what she was after. “I’ll be in touch, Mr. Olney.”
She walked back over to the door and slammed it behind her. He couldn’t do anything to her, she reminded herself. Still, it would seem that he knew more than he should. She needed to call Johns. There was a mess here only he could clean up.
“Well, open it,” Sabine said. “What the devil are you waiting for?”
Max shrugged. “I thought you might like to warn me about what could happen if I pulled the latch.”
“There’s no time for warnings,” she said.
“Here goes.” He smiled and yanked hard. The wood creaked and moaned as it loosened and opened to reveal a staircase.
Their eyes met. She nodded and he stepped in, putting one foot on the step.
“Seems sturdy enough,” he said. “Though it’s going to be a tight squeeze.”
He was correct in his assessment, as he had to shift his body to get his shoulders through the opening. She followed him down. Their lantern lit the area around them enough for her to see that they stood in a small, carved-out room.
“Ah, perfect,” Max said. He stepped away from her, leaving her momentarily shrouded in near darkness. But soon light filled the area. “Torches,” he said with a smile as he lit a third one. “Always useful.”
The wooden walls of the shelter were plain and solid, with no markings or cutouts. The ceiling, aside from the hole at the entrance, was much the same. On the floor, however, lay stone tiles of different sizes, all painted with images. The brightly colored floor stood out against the rest of the surroundings.
“What is that?” Max asked, pointing to something in a corner of the room.
She followed his movement and found a pole with a small wooden box perched atop. She looked back at the floor, then felt for the leather bag in her pocket. “It’s a game,” she murmured as she poured the stones into her palm.
“This doesn’t look like a game,” Max said. He bent to the floor and ran a hand over one of the painted tiles. “They’re reminiscent of stained glass. This looks more like a tomb or monument of some sort.”
“No, it’s Thistle. I know this game,” she said.
“You’ve played before?”
No, she’d never played it before, but she’d watched the other children in the village for hours. Nose pressed against the window, she’d sat and stared at them while they’d laughed and skipped and tossed their rocks, until her breath would fog the glass. She’d longed to play as the other children had, but she had been born to a guardian so she’d had studies. And she’d had to be protected from injury and accidents that marked others’ childhoods with tiny scars and scuffed knees. Though all of that sacrifice had seemed foolish and presumptuous when she hadn’t been selected guardian.
She took a steadying breath. “Not precisely.”
“This is an Atlantean game?” Max asked.
“Yes, and I’ve seen it played many times.” She looked directly at Max. “I can do this.”
He opened his arms in a welcoming motion, then stepped away from the painted tiles.
She took another look at the small rocks in her hand, and then she released them into the box. They scattered and rolled until eventually they stilled.
“Three,” she said. She moved over to the painted tiles and studied them. Max was right. They did resemble stained glass, with their portrayals of people in everyday life. On one, a woman hung laundry on a line to dry. Another showed people harvesting in a field. “Three,” she said again.
Before she began, she looked at Max. “Whatever happens, don’t touch the tiles until I’ve completed the game.”
He nodded.
She stepped forward onto one of the tiles. Then moved to the next. Before each move, she studied the images, always choosing ones with patterns of three, to select her next step.
Max stood quietly, watching her every move.
In her mind, she could see the girls and boys playing together, laughing and teasing. Some days they had waved to her, sitting in her window. But most days, they’d simply ignored her.
Another four moves, and she was halfway across the board. She examined the next option.
She shifted one foot forward to touch the next tile, the image of children playing with three balls. As her foot touched the stone, it shattered and fell below, leaving a gaping cavern in its wake. Her balance shifted, but Max caught her, holding her steady without walking onto the game board himself.
“You all right?” he asked.
“Wrong move,” she said, her voice shaky. “I must have missed something in that picture. An extra ball, perhaps.”
“Does that always happen if you mess up?”
“No, normally you die, meaning you lose your turn. This one seems a little different from the Thistle the children play. Here it doesn’t seem to be a metaphorical death.”
“Right.” He made no move away from her, still holding her up and assisting her balance.
“I can finish now,” she said with a nod.
“No
more mistakes,” he suggested.
She smiled. “I’ll try.”
She didn’t know how much longer it took her to work through the game, but eventually she came down to her last move. She closed her eyes and concentrated, then examined the remaining tiles. “Last one,” she said.
“Are you certain?” Max asked.
“More or less,” she said as she took the final step. The tile did not break, but instantly the box, in which she’d cast her rocks, began to shake.
Max made his way over there. “The box opened,” he said. He reached down into it and pulled something back. “It’s a letter.”
“What does it say?” she asked, standing still, afraid to move.
He met her eyes. His own sparkled with excitement. “It’s another clue.”
They made their way down the hill. Sabine moved more quickly in their descent, clearly eager to get back to their room. Max had no difficulty keeping up with her pace, but twice he had to grab her elbow to steady her when she hit a rocky portion of the hill. They walked in silence into the tiny inn and had barely closed the door to their room before Sabine grabbed his arm. “What does it say again?” she asked.
Max unfolded the parchment again and read aloud: “‘At the Virgin’s rock, the dove bathes where the ancients found tranquillity.’”
Sabine sat on the edge of the bed. Deep creases settled into her brow. “It’s a riddle,” she said.
“So it would seem.” Max eyed the handwritten note again. It was written on papyrus, but anyone could purchase the antique paper. So the question was, how old was this particular note? The ink had faded, but was still legible. And the note had been scrawled in Greek, not the native Atlantean language.
Max sat next to her on the bed, and beneath both their weight, it creaked and moaned.
“If the Chosen One has a copy of the prophecy, which I’m assuming he does in some form or another, then he knows about the dove, too,” Sabine reasoned. “He will undoubtedly be looking for the dove as well. Or has looked for it in the past.”
Max nodded. “And what better way to keep him from getting his hands on it than to hide it with a series of puzzles.”
“But we solved the first one,” she said.
“No, you did. I wouldn’t have known how to play that game. Hell, I didn’t even know what it was,” Max said.
“I almost failed,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper.
“But you didn’t.”
“Let me see the note,” she asked.
He handed her the note, then scooted backward so that he lay on one side of the bed, if there could actually be sides in a bed this small. He folded his arms up behind his head. In this position, his feet hung off the bed past his ankles.
She still wore the men’s clothing he’d given her, and he tried not to let his eyes linger on the way the suspenders cupped her breasts, or the way her hips and bottom seemed even rounder in those pants. Her hair bound up in that cap gave him a clear view of her tender throat.
“Virgin’s rock, I don’t know what to make of that,” she muttered. She turned to hand the note back to him. Her head cocked to one side. “Where am I supposed to sleep?”
He patted the empty portion next to him. “There’s plenty of room.”
She snorted. “For elves, perhaps, but not for grown people.”
“We might have to snuggle.” He wiggled his eyebrows at her.
The edge of her lips curled, but she did not fully smile. “You are incorrigible.”
There was a long pause as she eyed him warily. She glanced at the bed, then finally resigned herself to lying next to him. He busied himself by reading the riddle again and again. Or rather he simply stared at the note pretending to read while she settled her warm, luscious body next to his.
Once she stopped moving, he rolled over and braced his arms on either side of her so that he leaned above her body. She looked up at him with molten amber-colored eyes. Her lips parted in a protest, but she said nothing.
He moved even closer, putting no more than a breath of distance between their mouths. Her eyes widened, then fluttered closed as she waited for him to kiss her. But he did not. She wanted him, too. Satisfaction surged through him.
“I’ve thought about that night on the train again and again,” he said.
She said nothing in response, but made no move to retreat.
“I know you have, too,” he ventured. He lowered himself onto her. They were fully clothed; still he could feel her soft curves below him.
He kissed her. Not a slow, gentle, romantic kiss intended to seduce, but rather one full of the pent-up passion and desire he’d felt since the moment he set eyes on her. She didn’t shy away from his advances. She wrapped her arms around him and kissed him back.
He moved against her, his erection rubbing against the juncture of her thighs. Her legs parted, pressing him closer to her. She kissed him more deeply.
With one hand, he reached up and cupped her right breast. Her nipple pressed hard against the fabric of her shirt, and he stroked it with his palm. She arched beneath him, pressing herself into him.
Damn, but he wanted her. As he’d never wanted another woman. He tugged on her shirt, pulling it up from beneath her waistband, and then slid his hand up to touch her bare breast. He rocked against her again, feeling more like a boy touching a girl for the first time than the man he was now. His fingers fumbled across the buttons on her shirt, but he managed to get it unfastened.
Her breasts were perfect. Round and pert with dark rose-colored areolas. He dipped his mouth to one, covering the tip. She cried out. Her nails dug into his arms. He laved kisses from one breast to the other and all in between. Her soft, olive-colored skin was warm beneath his lips, simply delicious under his tongue.
“Wait,” she whispered.
He stilled, listening for her next words. Her eyes met his.
“I can’t.” She shook her head. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to…” But her words died out.
He rolled off her. Lying on his side, he stared at the wall. He was not above seducing a woman into his bed, but he would not take what was not freely offered.
“I’d be a liar if I said I didn’t want to,” she said with a humorless laugh. “But I just can’t. You make me want more…,” she said quietly, her words trailing off.
Max didn’t say anything else. He wanted more, too. More touching, more kissing, more passion. But he didn’t think that’s what she’d meant. He couldn’t offer her anything more than an affair.
He got up from the bed and made his way to the small window. The first hint of morning peeked out from the horizon in a soft golden glow. There was nothing to say; nothing more to discuss. She could rest, and in the meantime, he would try to decipher the riddle to figure out where they would go next.
He found a chair behind the dressing screen and pulled it out beside the fire. Sabine rolled over to face away from him, but said nothing. With no cover and the way her legs curled up, those trousers molded to her backside, leaving nothing to his imagination.
For more than an hour, he sat in that plain wooden chair. At the Virgin’s rock, the dove bathes where the ancients found tranquillity. He read it again and again. The fire in the hearth died down to a handful of embers. A chill settled on the room. He didn’t know if Sabine had fallen asleep or just lay there in silence.
He leaned the chair back against the wall, pulling the two front legs off the floor. Virgin’s rock. Bathes. Weapons did not bathe, though. Perhaps it was the site of a previous battle, a stream where warriors would have washed their swords. But what did that have to do with tranquillity? What if they meant bath as in a Roman bath? Then how did Virgin’s rock fit in?
Damnation!
He let the chair fall forward. Could it be that simple? If he was right, they had a lengthy drive ahead of them. He glanced out the window to find that the sun had fully risen now. They needed to leave.
Gently he nudged Sabine’s shoulder. “Sabine,” he
said.
Her eyes opened, and she sat upright. “What?”
“I think I’ve figured it out. But we need to leave now.”
She nodded and stood. Quickly she buttoned her shirt and tucked it back into her pants. He boldly watched her, but said nothing and made no attempt to touch her.
“Where are we going?” she asked.
“Kent, to Maidstone.”
Chapter Fourteen
Several hours and two very sore backsides later, they found themselves in the bustling town of Maidstone. They had not spoken much in the carriage, other than to exchange theories about who might have set up the clues leading to the dove.
Max didn’t know precisely what had made her pull away from him. He supposed most women wanted more from a relationship than a passionate night spent in a dingy hotel. After his family died, he’d decided then and there, he’d never again get close to anyone. And he’d never even been tempted—until now, echoed through his mind, but it was only her kisses that tempted him. Nothing more.
Now they were walking the streets, and the late-afternoon crowds were thinning out. The shops prepared to close for the day.
“If the clue pointed to a Roman bathhouse,” Sabine said, “it stands to reason that Bath is where we should have gone. I don’t recall ever hearing of a bathhouse in Kent.”
“Nor have I,” Max said. “But Bath would have been far too obvious. Additionally, Bath wouldn’t explain the mention of the Virgin’s rock, which clearly points to Maidstone. If I’m wrong and we find nothing, we will go to Bath. And you’ll have my permission to box my ears. Does that make you feel better?”
She paused awhile as if considering his offer. “Perhaps. I have wanted to do that on occasion.”
He chuckled, but said nothing more on the subject. “We’re looking for anything having to do with bathing or tranquillity or ancients.”
They got to the end of the cobblestone street and turned down another. There were fewer people here, fewer carriages, and eventually the road stopped at an alleyway.
“A dead end. Where to next?” she asked.
