Poseidon's Daughter

by Diane A. S. Stuckart

  Halia interrupted her reading to glance over the edge of her text at Malcolm. He contrived to look bored despite the fact he was again tied spread-eagle upon a berth...this time, sans shirt and trousers.

  She averted her gaze. The missing garments had been consigned to Lally and her flatiron for some much-needed attention. In the interim, modesty was served by the ship's blanket that was draped across Malcolm's nether regions. Unfortunately, that woolen covering was of such a miserly length that much of Malcolm's torso was exposed to her gaze.

  She bit her lip and willed herself not to blush. Her acquaintance with the naked male form was extensive, given her classical education. Had she not studied and cataloged any number of Greek and Roman marbles and frescoes, many of which depicted athletes in their traditional state of undress? The fact that those depictions were stone and plaster, rather than living flesh, should make little difference.

  Still, she found herself more unnerved by Malcolm's state of undress than she cared to admit. In an attempt to keep her composure, she demurely addressed the wall above his head.

  “It might interest you to know, Mr. Northrup, that most scholars believe orichaleum to have been some manner of copper or alloy. Likely, the metal was valued for its utilitarian properties rather than as a precious ore.”

  An inelegant snort was Malcolm's only reply to this bit of intelligence. Hastily, she resumed her reading.

  “ ‘In the temple, they placed statues of gold: there was the god himself standing in a chariot... around him, there were a hundred Nereids’—those are sea nymphs, Mr. Northrup—‘riding on dolphins...there were palaces in like manner which answered to the greatness of the kingdom and the glory of the temple.’ ”

  She skimmed the next few lines in silence, and then gave a satisfied nod. “You should find this following bit quite enlightening. ‘In the next place, they used fountains both of cold and hot springs...they constructed buildings about them...also cisterns, some open to the heaven, others which they roofed over, to be used in winter as warm baths.’ ”

  “All the bloody comforts of home,” came the muttered observation from her prisoner.

  Halia frowned. “Really, Mr. Northrup, you are being most disagreeable. It was imperative we restore your clothes to some semblance of order, and that could hardly be accomplished any other way save by removing them. In the meantime, I am attempting to entertain you the best way that I know how—”

  “Certainly not the best way, luv.”

  “—and I would appreciate a modicum of cooperation on your part,” she finished in a rush, feeling her cheeks flame at his attempt to unnerve her.

  To cover her confusion, she shut her book with an acerbic little snap. “Very well, I presume you must already be familiar with this text, anyway, since it was part of your charade. If you do not wish me to read, perhaps you would rather discuss our plans for when we reach Savannah.”

  “Suit yourself.”

  His features were still arranged into an expression of carefully contrived ennui. Only the glint in his dark eyes spoke of angered impatience barely held in check. Doubtless, any cooperation on his part would have to be gained by way of bribe or threat.

  Taking a deep breath, Halia began her explanation. “Just as soon as the Esmeralda docks, we will make our way to your bank, a branch of the Second Bank of the United States, I do believe. Once there, you will withdraw the entire half million dollars you have swindled from my fellow countrymen and then turn over that sum to me.”

  “And just what will you do, luv, if I decide I'd rather take a solitary little stroll, instead?”

  “I would not entertain thoughts of escape if I were you,” she countered with as much composure as she could muster. “You see, Christophe will have my pistol trained upon you from the moment you set foot ashore. And it would be equally foolhardy of you should you attempt to alert the bank officials as to my plans. If you do so, I will simply turn over to them a certain packet of letters I have with me...letters detailing in length your nefarious deeds.”

  At that last, Malcolm favored her with a humorless smile.

  “My congratulations, Miss Davenport. It would seem I have no choice but to cooperate. But even if I do go along with your mad scheme, what makes you think my banker will hand over that sort of blunt without question?”

  “But I expect him to ask questions. Indeed, I would be most disappointed had you entrusted your ill-gotten gains to someone lacking common sense. For that reason, I have come up with a story I believe will serve quite well. You will simply tell your banker that I am your betrothed, and that you require funds to set up our new household.”

  “Betrothed...household?” he repeated, abruptly rising on one elbow to regard her with a look of horror.

  His action sent the blanket slipping to his waist, but that lapse of modesty was lost on Halia when he added, “Whatever my supposed crimes, Miss Davenport, surely none is so dastardly as to deserve that particular fate.”

  With an effort, she swallowed back the heated words that rose to her lips at this aspersion. How dare the rogue imply that marriage to her would be nothing short of punishment! Why, she'd received quite a respectable number of proposals over the years, with more than one swain claiming his heart to be irreparably broken by her refusal. Indeed, had she wished to give up her work, she could have long since been married to any number of fine gentlemen.

  And as for this blackguard tied upon the bunk before her, he certainly was no prize, himself!

  Not caring at this point if the man lay stark naked before her, she shot him a quelling look. To her dismay, the same humorless smile was again playing over his lips, and she realized that he had followed her chain of thought.

  Her irritation redoubled. Might it not be worth the sacrifice of her goal for the pleasure of watching Christophe toss this would-be nobleman, ropes and all, into the gray waters of the Atlantic?

  Reluctantly, she shoved aside the pleasant image of the man floundering in the waves. “I believe that my plan is quite workable, so long as you contrive to properly act the part,” she said, instead. “By now, Lally will have pressed the worst of the wrinkles from your clothing, and Christophe has already procured a suitable shirt from one of the senior crew to replace yours. At least, you will appear the gentleman...even if you are not one.”

  That last comment earned her the faintest of sneers from her prisoner. “So let me get this straight,” he said in a stiff tone. “We go to my bank, I let you have all my money, and you release me from your charming custody.”

  “Exactly.”

  She waited for Malcolm to launch into a volley of objections at her reply. Instead, he managed the suggestion of a bored shrug and said, “One last question, Miss Davenport. As you surmised, during my tenure as Sir John, I was forced to do a bit of study on the subject of Atlantis. It would seem that scholars and adventurers have been searching for the place for centuries now.”

  “Indeed.”

  Malcolm lifted a wry brow. “So tell me, just what in the bloody hell makes you think that you, of all people, will be the one to find Atlantis—and in the Caribbean, no less?”

  “This, Mr. Northrup.”

  Heedless of the proprieties, she unfastened the top two buttons of her blouse. Plucking forth the chain from which dangled the Poseidon coin, she favored him with a small triumphant smile.

  “My father discovered this artifact during his final expedition to the Biminis,” she explained. “Unfortunately, I do not know the exact locale of the site he was exploring, since someone tore the page with the coordinates from the journal that he left behind. Perhaps I can find someone in the islands who served as his guide and who can take me back to the same spot.”

  Realizing that she had strayed from the original subject, she went on, “At any rate, Mr. Northrup, the coin dates from the correct time period and is inscribed with both the name and image of the Greek sea god. And Poseidon, as surely even you must know, was the patron god of Atlantis.”

>   “Ah, yes, the Earthshaker, I believe he was called. But I fear my acquaintance with the Greek gods is rather limited...save, of course, for an interest in the ways of Aphrodite.”

  His cool gaze deliberately dropped to the soft, pale flesh of her exposed throat, and Halia blushed. Swiftly, she tucked away the makeshift pendant and refastened her lace collar.

  “Jest if you wish, Mr. Northrup,” came her stiff reply, “but I intend to recover whatever articles of historical interest there are to be found off the coast of Bimini. I have worked with my father on countless other such expeditions, and I am confident that the standard methods of archaeology can be applied here, despite the milieu.”

  Reaching for her book, she tucked it beneath her arm and stood. “If you have no further questions, I will be on my way. Christophe will be in to attend you in another hour or so. Until later, Mr. Northrup.”

  She did not linger for any parting words from the Englishman, but hurried to the cabin door and pulled it open. Not bothering with a backward glance, she shut the door behind her with a bang and started down the passageway toward her own cabin.

  ###

  Malcolm waited until the louvered door had closed with an irritable click before he let his features settle into an expression of chill calculation.

  Statues of gold.

  A bloody hundred of them, just waiting somewhere beneath the waves to be discovered, or so the chit claimed to believe. This, not to mention a possible cache of gold coins like the one she had just shown him.

  Slowly, he shook his head. He might have dismissed her as merely delusional, save for the evidence of the coin...that, and the fact that hers was the second recent opinion he'd heard that the fabled lost land was located somewhere in the Caribbean.

  The first suggestion had come from the nameless gentleman who, but a week earlier, had sold him a certain document that hinted at the same possibility.

  Malcolm let his thoughts drift to that night outside his Philadelphia hotel. His lecture earlier the same evening had met with even more than its usual success, so that it was almost midnight when his hack pulled up before the hotel's awning-covered entry. Wilkie had gone on ahead, leaving him behind to pay the driver. Barely had the carriage pulled away than a furtive figure behind him stepped from the shadows.

  Growing up on London's back streets had developed keen instincts in him, so that Malcolm was poised for a fight well before he had gotten his first good look at the man. For once, his instinctive wariness had proved unnecessary. The man had turned out to be, not a desperate footpad, but a nervous gent of middling years possessed of a document he claimed would interest the ersatz Sir John.

  His interest piqued by the possibility of yet another new scheme, Malcolm had stood the man a brandy and listened to his tale. What had unfolded was a wild accounting of Caribbean pirates and ancient treasures that culminated in a whispered offer...that for a sum, Malcolm could become the proud possessor of a paper detailing the coordinates of the long-lost continent of Atlantis.

  The purchase price proved a modest thousand American dollars. Amused by the irony of it all—a con man unknowingly attempting to swindle his fellow practitioner of the game—he had countered with an offer of half that amount. To his surprise, his nameless companion had accepted with alacrity.

  Malcolm frowned as he attempted to recall just what his five hundred dollars had bought him. The best he could remember was that it had been an unprepossessing page of penciled scrawlings, apparently torn from a journal. Among them had been what he presumed were a set of maritime coordinates—unintelligible figures, to him, but perhaps possessing some meaning for a seafaring sort of person.

  Now, however, he wondered if the paper he had purchased with the vague idea of reselling it one day might instead serve a more useful purpose—that of turning the tables on one Miss Halia Davenport.

  He settled against the thin mattress of his bunk, hardly noticing the discomfort of his bonds as he began turning ideas over in his mind. Atlantis or no, if there was gold to be had somewhere beneath the waves, he bloody well meant to get in on the deal. As he earlier had told Wilkie, the time had come to retire the fictional Sir John Abbot and set upon a new scheme.

  Momentarily, he turned his thoughts to his absent partner. With any luck, the intrepid Wilkie had discovered just what devious sort of plans Miss Davenport had in mind for Malcolm, and was even now in pursuit. Once in Savannah, he need merely wait for the older man to arrive at a certain Mrs. Bluedecker's boardinghouse that had been their prearranged rendezvous spot for the past few months. Then, they would plan what steps to take next... though already, an idea was taking form in Malcolm's mind.

  At the moment, a treasure hunt seemed just the thing to stave off the boredom that inevitably settled in once he had played out a con beyond its useful life. And his role as gentleman and scholar was growing rather stale. He needed something challenging.

  All that remained now was to convince a certain young woman that what she needed in her quest was a partner.

  ###

  Damn the man, but he was infuriating...not to mention thoroughly treacherous.

  Teeth gritted and fingers clenched into small fists, Halia hurried down the hallway toward her own cabin, the accompanying click of her heels against the wood deck pounding out an angry staccato. So caught up was she in her pique that she did not see the bearded and bespectacled middle-aged gentleman who innocently stepped outside his cabin door and into her path.

  Had the man been less light on his feet, they would have collided. As it was, the edge of her book caught him in the ribs.

  “Oomph,” he gasped out. That reflexive exhalation was followed by an equally breathless, “I do beg your pardon, miss.”

  “Indeed.”

  The scathing look she spared him as she gathered up her fallen tome was actually meant for a certain Englishman. Not knowing that, her luckless victim tipped his bowler and prudently scuttled back inside his cabin again.

  A bit of her anger now spent, she continued down the passage at a more sedate pace. The time had come to put aside emotion in favor of logic, she told herself, trying to ignore Lally's prediction, for it still echoed in her mind.

  Dat man, he be trouble.

  Halia shook her head, though she could not dismiss the truth that lay in the woman's words. The fact that the Englishman appeared resigned to his fate did not reassure her. Twice already, she had been lulled into complacency by the rogue's apparent compliance with her wishes, only to be taken unaware a moment later. By now, she trusted Malcolm Northrup with the truth rather less than she would trust the ship's striped cat with a string of fresh fish.

  “But it is just for a few hours more,” she reassured herself as she reached her cabin door.

  Once inside, she set down her well-thumbed copy of Plato's works on her bunk and gave the leather cover a fond pat. Reaching for her portmanteau, she pulled out her father's journal and laid it beside the other book, then flipped back its cover. The slim volume fell open of its own volition to the spot where a ragged strip was all that remained of the missing page that had recently been torn.

  Determinedly, she began scanning the entries on either side in hopes of discovering some clue to the missing page's contents, trying as she did so to forget the rest of Lally's prediction. She had no intention of giving her heart—or any other part of her anatomy, for that matter!—to her unwilling captive.

  She would be rid of Malcolm soon enough. Beyond that, she would be possessed of sufficient funds to keep her expedition afloat, both literally and figuratively, for several months. As for her enforced relationship with the Englishman, it would become an unpleasant memory that would soon fade from her thoughts beneath the brilliant Caribbean sun.

  Or would it?

  With a sigh, she shut the journal and began gathering up the few remaining possessions that she had yet to pack. Thus far, her plans had unfolded with relative ease, so that she was confident now that she had not erred in her unorthodox c
ourse of action. Before the summer was ended, she might well have made the discovery that would validate her and her father's work...nay, their life's passion. Only one minor stumbling block now remained on the road to her success.

  Someone other than she possessed Arvin Davenport's notes detailing the exact location of the long-lost Atlantis site.

  ~ Chapter 6 ~

  ”Dat place, it be looking like some kind o' fancy dessert.”

  Lally's muttered observation broke the silence that had held during the short drive from the wharf. Discreetly dabbing a trickle of perspiration from her brow—for the hot Georgia sun had made their hired hack feel like a fully fired cook stove—Halia followed the older woman's gaze beyond the carriage window.

  The vehicle was rolling to a halt before a sizable structure whose clean lines bespoke the subdued architecture of the previous century. What had caught her and Lally's notice, and no doubt the attention of even the least discerning passerby, was the fact that the building's well-tailored facade had been stuccoed an improbable shade of pink.

  “It does rather look like a petit four,” Halia agreed. Silently, she determined that the distinctly tropical color was more than a little appropriate for the sultry heat that gripped the city. Indeed, the brilliant shade shamed the pale hue of her smartly tailored walking suit—dusty rose trimmed with black piping, a combination that always set off her golden complexion to advantage.

  She gave the building another doubtful look. She might well have dismissed it as another of the Englishman's ruses, had she not spotted the unassuming placard above the columned entry. Its wording dispelled any doubt that this startling confection of a building was an official branch of the Second Bank of the United States.

  “Quite an amusing color, is it not?” Malcolm observed from the seat across from them.

  He had pulled out his pocket watch to check the time. Now, as he snapped the lid shut, Halia noted the engraved coat-of-arms that adorned it. Some sort of creature was its centerpiece...a dog, perhaps, or maybe a wolf. No doubt in his role of baronet, the rogue claimed that hereditary device as his own.