Poseidon's Daughter

by Diane A. S. Stuckart

Not waiting for her reply—if, indeed, she had been capable of making one—he slid the dressing gown from her shoulders. His fingers were warm against her suddenly chill flesh as he eased the garment down her arms. Finally, with the barest whisper of fabric, it settled in a blue flannel pool about her feet. That obstacle gone, he lightly gripped her buttocks and pulled her to him, then once more claimed her lips with his.

  Even as she opened her mouth to him, she was aware of the hot, throbbing bulge of his manhood as it pressed insistently against the juncture of her thighs. An answering warmth began to build in her—a tight, curling heat centered low in her belly. But even as she acknowledged the sensation, he broke free of their kiss.

  She gave an instinctive cry of protest and opened her eyes, only to hear his soft chuckle in return.

  “Don't worry, luv,” he murmured, lowering his head to nuzzle the soft flesh of her throat. “I'm not through with you, yet.”

  Before she realized what he was about, he had slid one hand between her thighs. Heedless of the thin barrier of her pantalets, he began quite boldly fondling her woman's mound, lightly stroking at the swollen nub of flesh where every sensation seemed suddenly centered.

  She gave a soft, strangled cry and would have pulled away, save that his other hand clutched her buttocks and held her still. “Don't fight it, luv,” he urged. “Let me pleasure you for a moment.”

  Pleasure?

  Indeed, it seemed the sweetest sort of torture, this kaleidoscope of sensation that was spreading through her in a way she'd never felt before. Vaguely, she was aware that her pantalets were soaked now with her own hot juices, while the lips of her woman's flesh had swollen like a bud ready to flower. How this was happening, she was not quite certain, but she prayed it would never stop.

  But it must stop. It must.

  Abruptly, Halia pulled away from him and caught a painful breath. Dear Lord, had she been that ready to surrender him her innocence? And she would have, in another moment, save for her sudden return now to her senses.

  With a muffled sound suspiciously like a sob, she shook her head and took an unsteady step back. “No, Malcolm, this is a mistake. I don't...that is, I cannot—”

  She broke off abruptly at the expression of bewildered masculine outrage that flashed across his face. It occurred to her that, once, such a reaction surely would have drawn her satisfaction. Why, then, was she racked with an odd sense of guilt, as if she had betrayed some sort of trust? An explanation on her part surely was in order...yet she could never hope to spell out her reasons to his satisfaction, when she could not understand them, herself.

  Hastily, she bent to retrieve her discarded dressing gown. Then, with a silent look imploring him not to despise her for this sudden change of heart, she whipped that garment about her and fled the dark courtyard on coward's feet.

  Malcolm stood within the fig tree's maze of shadows, his stunned gaze fixed on the French doors through which Halia had just disappeared.

  What in the bloody hell had just happened here? All he knew was that he'd reached the point of wanting her almost beyond bearing, only to have her figuratively dash him in the face with a bucket of cold sea water.

  With a groan, he adjusted his trousers across the bulge of his erection, which still strained against the confining cloth in hopes of relief. He waited a few moments more, until his almost painful need had eased into a less urgent throbbing. Then, reflexively, he shifted his bare feet against the rough flagstone, cursing under his breath when a sharp rock caught his heel. Until a moment ago, he could have been standing in a pile of broken glass and not noticed, so aroused was he.

  As she had been, he bitterly reminded himself. He had not forced himself upon her—that much, he knew. Hell, she'd been more than bloody willing, clinging to him like some dockside trollop who'd been paid an extra shilling to pretend that she liked it.

  So what had gone wrong?

  A mistake. That was what she had said, though moments before she had been as eager for his touch as he still was for hers. Perhaps it had been the thought of losing her maidenhead that troubled her, yet why should that matter? After all, he intended to wed her just as soon as—

  “Bloody hell,” he choked out and abruptly sat down on the hard stone bench as he realized what had just passed through his mind.

  What in blazes had possessed him to consider—even briefly!—so ludicrous an idea? He had no intention of marrying the chit, now or in the future. Just because he happened to want her like he'd never before wanted any other woman didn't mean a bloody thing!

  He gave his head a sharp shake to clear it. It had to have been too much sun earlier that made him susceptible to such fancies. The idea of marriage—to her or any other woman, for that matter—had been an aberration, and one he intended to put from his mind forever.

  That firmly settled, he stood again. At least, fiery pain of his back had subsided to a tolerable ache. He caught up the jar of ointment and started for the door, grudgingly deciding that he owed Lally a word of thanks on the morrow. As for what to do about Halia...hell, maybe he should take to wearing the emerald around his neck again. It did seem that he had lost control of the entire situation with her at about the very time he had shed the lucky gem.

  As he reached his bedroom, he knew that sleep would likely prove elusive for the remainder of the night. For all he might deny it, he was finding himself obsessed by her. Chances were he would lie awake tonight and in the nights to follow, wondering what it would have been like to bury himself deep inside the tight warmth of her...and knowing that Atlantis would surely rise from the sea again before that would ever happen.

  ###

  Bleary-eyed, Halia stood apart from the rest of the Johnesta's crew, hardly noticing the glory of early morning and the cool sea breeze that was a respite from the island's usual heat. Her unseeing gaze was fixed on the passing shore as the boat skimmed the shimmering blue waters leading to the Atlantis site. But right now, the last thing on her mind was her search for that long-vanished city.

  What haunted her was memories of last night after she’d fled Malcolm’s embrace.

  It was not until she had reached her room and latched the door behind her that the hot tears she had not realized she'd been holding back spilled over her lashes.

  Lally and her spirits were right, she had told herself in despair. Malcolm was trouble. Worst of all, he had cast a spell on her... a sensual spell that left her traitorous body yearning for him, for all she knew that it was wrong.

  Dashing the moisture from her cheeks, she impulsively had stripped off her dressing gown and undergarments, so that she stood naked in the heated darkness. Not caring that she splashed the floor with precious fresh water, she had filled her washbasin. With a coarse towel she brutally began scrubbing every inch of her body as if to eradicate the very memory of his touch. But instead of easing her yearning, the rough feel of the cloth against her smooth flesh had only intensified her need.

  With a moan, she had flung aside the towel and pulled on her nightrail, then clambered beneath her sheets. Sleep proved elusive, however, because, moments later, she heard Malcolm moving about the adjoining chamber. What if he sought her out, since all that stood between them was a single door?

  Half-dreading and half-hoping that he would, she had tossed and turned almost until dawn, awakening unrefreshed and well past her usual time. As a consequence, she had arrived almost half an hour late to the dock.

  It be a good thing you be payin' the wages, Captain Rolle had jovially pointed out, or me an’ my crew, we be gone a long time ago.

  She had acknowledged his good-natured gibes with a strained smile and a mumbled excuse about too much sun the day before. And then she'd caught sight of Malcolm.

  For he had been there, after all, though she had half-suspected he might not be. He apparently had learned his own lesson from the tropical sun. Not only was he wearing a shirt today, that garment was buttoned to the throat. His familiar straw boater was pulled low over his brow,
its brim shadowing his face so that she could not guess his thoughts. She could only hope that they were as unsettling as her own.

  Still, an odd sort of relief had swept her at the sight of him. She told herself it was the fact that his absence on top of her own late arrival might have given rise to talk among the crew. With the success of the expedition at stake, she could ill afford undue attention focused on either of them. She would maintain her usual cool distance from him, she had vowed as the boat had set sail.

  So caught up was Halia in her thoughts now that, when she finally returned herself to the present, the Johnesta had already reached her destination. Once more, they were at a spot off the island's northwest coast, not far from where yesterday's discovery had been made.

  The anchor sliced through the water's calm blue surface with a muffled splash, that sound followed by the creak of timber masts and the soft splat of waves against the boat's hull. The peaceful rhythm was punctuated by the squawking laughter of gulls that dipped and swirled like carefree children at play.

  Determinedly, she prepared for the job at hand. As the crew gathered around, she unrolled her charts and began marking off sections. She finally settled on one square on the main map that corresponded to a spot just off the bow.

  “We'll begin here. Garnet”—she addressed the young sponge diver whose lighter, almost ruddy complexion had earned him that sobriquet—“you and Jeffers take the first group of measurements. I believe we should move in the direction of shore,” she went on, turning her attention back to the map. “It seems logical that these blocks we've found might be the remains of a road, or even a harbor. Once we've moved a bit more sand—”

  A muttered sound of disagreement made her break off abruptly. Not needing to look up to identify her dissenter, she asked in a chill tone, “Are you questioning my conclusion, Mr. Northrup?”

  “Not your conclusion, just the whole bloody way you're going about this.”

  “Indeed?” Her lips thinning in irritation, Halia glanced up to meet his gaze.

  He stood apart from Rolle and the rest of the men, arms crossed over his chest as he leaned against the rail. His comment was the first sign he had given of acknowledging her existence this morning. Doubtless, he had not forgiven or forgotten what had happened between them in the courtyard.

  As if reading her thoughts, Malcolm favored her with a humorless smile.

  “As I said, you're going about this whole thing all wrong. All we have found thus far are several large, flat rocks embedded in the ocean floor—hardly evidence of a lost civilization, to my mind. Hell, I've seen rocks just like them in every stream bed I've ever stumbled across.”

  “I have already told you that we're not looking for columns and temples,” she countered. “Whatever is here is buried beneath the sand.”

  He ignored the interruption. “I suggest that before you have these men dig up the entire sea bottom, inch by inch, you broaden your scale a bit.”

  “I hardly think you are qualified to make that judgment, Mr. Northrup. I am trained in these procedures, so I suggest that you let me run this expedition as I see fit.”

  “As you see fit?”

  He pushed away from the rail and stalked over to join them. “Might I remind you, Miss High-and-Mighty Davenport, that it is my money funding your little adventure, not to mention the fact I'm the one who supplied you with the correct coordinates, in the first place.”

  “Indeed?”

  Outwardly calm although seething now within, Halia set down her pencil and stood so that their gazes were closer on a level.

  “I have no idea how you stumbled upon the coordinates, but they are mine by right, since they came from my father's journal. As for the money, it wasn't yours to begin with. You stole it.”

  “That's beside the bloody point. We're equal partners in this venture.”

  “Only because you shoved your way in, not because I wanted you.”

  “That's not the impression I got last night, luv.”

  His words held a sneering implication that was not lost on her…or, from the interested expressions on the faces of the crew, on anyone else. The mortifying thought occurred to her that anyone watching would think this was a lovers' quarrel.

  Halia felt wash over her cheeks a sudden heat that had nothing to do with the tropical sun. She and Malcolm were standing almost nose to nose, now, so that she could see glinting in his eyes an anger that matched her own. Her own emotions ran almost as high. But she would not sink to his level, no matter how he goaded her.

  She took a calming breath and squarely met his gaze.

  “Perhaps I was remiss in not explaining to you more fully just how a dig such as this is accomplished. To properly excavate the site—even considering that it is underwater—we must mark off quadrants and then thoroughly investigate each one in sequence. That way, we can intelligently link any evidence to its surroundings. It is a tedious process, I will admit, but it is the correct way. So unless you think you can do a better job—”

  “Bloody right, I can.”

  Fairly snatching Halia's pencil from her hand, he leaned over and stabbed at the spot on the map that she previously had indicated.

  “I'll make you a new deal, Miss Davenport. We'll divide the site like this”—he paused to slash an arrowed line north and south from the circle—“and we'll each conduct our own treasure hunt. The Johnesta will serve as our joint base of operations, with all supplies and equipment to be evenly shared.”

  He paused to scrawl her name to the right of that penciled line, then his to the left.

  “You will take half the divers and search the side closer to shore using whatever strategy you see fit. I'll take the other three men and search the waters west of our imaginary line in my own way. If I find the first actual evidence that we've discovered something more here than a pile of rocks, we will remain equal partners, but with the excavating continuing under my direction...though I will, of course, solicit your advice from time to time.”

  “And if I make the first find?” she countered, ignoring that last patronizing concession.

  He shrugged. “Everything is turned over to you—lock, stock, and barrel, including the rest of my money and the sole use of the Johnesta and her crew. I'll relinquish any claim to my fifty-percent share and leave the island without a murmur.”

  Leave the island?

  What should have been a welcome possibility suddenly left her feeling strangely bereft, but she would throw herself overboard before she let Malcolm know that. Instead, she coolly asked, “And who will determine whether or not any object either of us uncovers is a genuine Atlantean artifact?”

  “We'll let Captain Rolle make that judgment; that is, if he is agreeable.”

  As one, she and Malcolm turned to the seaman, who shrugged and nodded. “If you be wantin' to do it dat way, it be fine by me, but I warn you I'll not be playin' any favorites.”

  “Then it's settled,” he pronounced with a challenging look back at her, “unless you are afraid to take me up on my proposal.”

  By way of answer, she stubbornly lifted her chin and stuck out her hand. “I accept, Mr. Northrup, starting this very moment. But I believe we also should agree that neither of us will search without the other. We will avail ourselves of Captain Rolle and his boat only.”

  “Done,” he replied and grasped her fingers in his.

  As always, his touch sent a warm shiver through her senses, but she met his triumphant gaze with a look of stony resolve. This time out, she vowed, she would conquer her womanly weakness and keep her thoughts firmly on her goal. For she had the advantage of knowledge and experience that should surely give her the edge over Malcolm's haphazard approach.

  Why, perhaps by day's end, she would have made her first discovery. It might be as soon as the morrow that a certain rogue Englishman would finally be out of her life...and this time, for good.

  ~ Chapter 15 ~

  Five days had passed since she and Malcolm had agreed to divide th
e Atlantis site. To Halia's dismay, nothing had yet come of her tedious hours spent directing her small team of sponge divers. In pairs, with Halia taking an occasional turn, they continued her approach of measuring each quadrant before carefully sifting through and then removing its cover of white sand. Though a pattern had begun to emerge—a road, perhaps, or maybe the top of a wide, long-buried wall?—she had as yet found no telling artifact such as the Poseidon coin that her father had found.

  Her only consolation was that Malcolm seemingly was faring no better.

  Having commandeered the Johnesta's dinghy, he and his crew of three had spent much of their time observing the site from above the waves. She had been surprised the first time she'd seen him clamber into the tiny boat with his men and take to the waves, given his propensity for seasickness and his previous unpleasant experience overboard.

  But he continued to row out with them, even taking his own turn at the oars. Though still proclaiming his neutrality, Captain Rolle had taken pity on the fact Malcolm was a poor sailor and given him an ample supply of a local herb— the root of which, when chewed, helped combat unpleasant symptoms. She'd noticed, too, that he was no longer burning beneath the tropical sun but was beginning to turn as brown as she.

  Sourly, she guessed that his next step would probably be to take swimming lessons from Garnet or one of the others, further narrowing her advantages over him.

  With the line between them literally and figuratively drawn, they both had taken pains to feign disinterest in the other's actions these past days. They arrived at the dock independently and went their separate ways immediately as the boat returned. In between times, they each kept to their own side of the ship—hers, starboard and his, port—both addressing any point of concern to the captain, who found himself in the unlucky role of go-between.

  It was all quite childish, she conceded to herself, but such was the stuff of competition…and this game was one she could not afford to lose.

  Still, a dose of feminine curiosity prompted her to covertly observe Malcolm and his men. From what she could tell by way of casual glances, it appeared that he was using the water glass to get an overview of his portion of the site. He would send his men on seemingly random dives throughout the day, sometimes more than once in the same area.