Adventures of Grace Quinlan and Lord William Hayden In the Lost City of the Incas (Psyche and Eros Reborn) Volume 3

by Freda, Paula

  The Adventures of Grace Quinlan and Lord William Hayden

  In the Lost City of the Incas

  (Psyche and Eros Reborn)

  Volume 3

  Copyright 2005 - 2011

  by Dorothy Paula Freda

  (Pseudonym - Paula Freda)

  Cover photo and inserts licensed by Paula Freda from iStockphoto.com

  Smashwords Edition

  Author retains all rights.

  All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof.

  This story appeared in my novel "In Another Life (from the Journals of Grace Quinlan and Lord William Hayden)" under my pseudonym, Paula Freda. It is a work of fiction. Except for documented historical data and geographical locations, all names, characters, places and incidents are a product of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to persons living or dead is purely coincidental.

  DEDICATION

  With thanks to my Lord Jesus and his Blessed Mother Mary whose strength, guidance, and her Holy Rosary, are my anchor in this troubled world, I dedicate this novella to my husband, whose love, patience and kindness over the past 40 years have kept my dreams and my view of the romantic, alive and vibrant." Paula Freda

  The Adventures

  of Grace Quinlan and Lord William Hayden

  in the Lost City of the Incas

  (Psyche and Eros Reborn)

  CHAPTER ONE

  Row upon row of hundreds of various sized crates filled the warehouse. Similar warnings coated in dust marked each one.

  Property of the U.S. Government

  To Be Opened Only by Authorized Personnel

  An elderly man in a brown sweater and baggy pants rolled an empty hand wagon up one of the aisles between the rows of crates. Every few feet he stopped and listened. Stray wisps of thinning gray hair peeped from under his cap. In contrast, his eyebrows were thick and coarse over droopy eyes the color of dark slate. At his fourth stop, a smile touched his wizened mouth. He pushed the hand wagon into the aisle. The old man halted in front of a rectangular crate. He listened to the steady hum, like delicate voices of angels raised softly in song emitting from the crate’s interior. Extending his arm, he wiped the dust from the crate’s top with his sleeve and read the warning along with the serial number.

  The elderly man strained as he slid the heavy crate from side to side, using leverage and what muscles he possessed until the box sat securely on top of the hand wagon. He resumed rolling it. When he had reached the end of the aisle, he looked first to the right and then to the left. The right corridor leading to the exit was empty, the area dimly lit. He turned the cart toward the exit. The door was open. An unmarked truck waited silently, its driver silhouetted in the shadows, as silent. In anticipation, a portable ramp had been raised. The elderly man pushed the wagon and its contents up the ramp and into the back of the truck, and then pulled the tarpaulin covers shut. The truck moved, leaving the ramp behind.

  A sliver of moonlight passed through the space where the two flaps of the tarpaulin almost met. The old man sat on a stool beside the wagon, holding the crate steady as the truck rumbled on. With his other hand, he removed his cap and peeled away the coarse gray eyebrows and the thinning hair. Folds of wrinkled skin followed. Then rubbing his face gingerly, he began to laugh, softly at first. As the truck sped into the night, his laughter grew, deep bellowing guffaws, until it rivaled the roar of the truck’s giant wheels.

  * * *

  Elizabeth / Grace Quinlan fingered the carvings etched into the stone blocks of the ancient Temple of the Mayan God Kukulcán, also known as the Aztec God Quetzalcóatl. She mentally translated the symbols, prayers of a once sophisticated race, intellectually, artistically and socially advanced, though psychologically primitive and harsh. Human sacrifice, and barbaric practices and punishment had been a part of the Mayan’s sophisticated culture. Elizabeth sighed quietly. Her brow wrinkled. She recalled words composed by a woman yet unborn—

  Hayden, seek the relic of power,

  Where no Mayan walks,

  Where only angels dare to tread

  And devils hide.

  Lord Hayden had awakened one morning shortly after his return from Peru to find a handwritten message on his end table. What had made the words stand out was the signature—With gratitude, Agnes. Some years ago, during the war, a rumor circulated that a famed archaeologist had found a relic of great power and brought it back to the States. Soon after, the Defense Department claimed the relic, and it disappeared.

  Elizabeth traced the remaining carvings. Praises to the Mayan God, but nothing that held a corresponding clue to Agnes’ verse. Yet Lord Hayden insisted that this was the starting point; more precisely, the Sacrificial Well, north, past a thirty-foot-wide ceremonial causeway that led nine yards to the sacrificial cenote. The cenote was a huge oval-shaped natural well encased perpendicularly by broken rocky limestone walls that rose about sixty-five feet above the surface of the murky green water. A place of human sacrifice—Where no Mayan walks, where only angels dare to tread, and devils hide.

  Numerous mythological tales and local superstitions surrounded the cenote. It was Lord Hayden’s belief that Agnes’ verse referred specifically to this well. Whether the relic of power that she mentioned was in the cenote, or whether the surrounding temples, stelae and other monuments, were merely pointers that might eventually lead to the relic, remained to be seen.

  Lord Hayden had begged Elizabeth, to reach Grace Quinlan and ask her to accompany him once again on a relic search. He had shown her Agnes’ message. Fighting to restrain her excitement, she had calmly assured him that as soon as she heard from Grace, she would extend his invitation. Thus, here they were during summer recess, Elizabeth under the guise of Grace Quinlan, once more together with Lord William Hayden, this time in the Yucatan Peninsula in Central America.

  Lord Hayden had concluded that Agnes’ message related somehow to the Mayans. The words reminded him strongly of their mythology. Elizabeth had argued that they could apply to almost any folklore, but Lord Hayden had not wavered in his opinion. With a like certainty, she knew she would remain at his side, sharing his enthusiasm and eagerness. When it came to rediscovering the past, they were both a little insane.

  The sun half-risen into the sky, splayed a handful of rays across the side of the Temple. The sudden glare made Elizabeth turn her head. Her gaze rested on a clearing about ten yards behind her where Lord Hayden lay asleep, his wide brimmed canvas hat drawn over his face and his khaki jacket rolled and serving as his pillow. Beside him was his backpack with his sword and the machete he used to carve a path through the jungle. Her gear and rumpled blanket lay a few discreet yards away from his.

  Warmth suffused her cheeks. The urge to lie beside him and feel his arms about her, to reveal her true identity and tell him how much she loved him rose softly within her. She held the urges in check and tore her emerald gaze from the sleeping figure, refusing to be just another woman in his life. He was enthralled with the mystery surrounding her. Once it was gone, and he realized the deception, he would probably hold her in contempt. And justly so. All that she could hope for the present was to never admit to him her love under the guise of Grace Quinlan and thereby retain his respect for her as Professor Elizabeth Eldridge.

  Composed once more, she returned her attention to the symbols on the stone slab, and on closer inspection, noticed that the edges of the rock were spaced wider than its companions. Sh
e applied pressure and gasped with anticipation as the stone depressed slightly. Could there be hidden space behind it? Perhaps even a chamber, and the clue to unravel Agnes’ riddle. Elizabeth applied pressure to the loose slab that her fingers had just encountered. The stone slid further in, then collapsed backwards into an apparent void. The beginnings of an exuberant laugh formed in her throat, then abruptly changed to a scream as the falling stone hit solid ground and simultaneously the dirt beneath her feet shifted, unveiling a trap door sliding open beneath her boots. Elizabeth glimpsed the abyss preparing to swallow her.

  A pair of strong arms caught her below her armpits and yanked her up and away from the gaping hole. "Miss Grace Quinlan, I warned you not to go exploring on your own." Hayden kept her dangling a moment longer, while he thanked the powers that be for the sixth sense, which had awakened him in time to see the woman he loved toying with a booby trap.

  "William, put me down!" Elizabeth hollered indignantly.

  "Do I have your promise that you’ll abide by my rules?"

  "I don’t make promises I can’t keep," she replied, attempting to wriggle free. "Please put me down."

  Exasperated, Lord Hayden complied. Regaining her balance, Elizabeth did not meet his eyes immediately. He was right, of course. Grace Quinlan, the writer, might be excused, but Professor Elizabeth Eldridge, the archaeologist and expert in her field, should have known better. She straightened her safari blouse and pants, and adjusted her veiled canvas hat that had come askew during her near fatal descent. "Thank you for saving my life," she said, in a matter of fact tone, finally deigning to raise her eyes to meet Lord Hayden’s. His expression was skeptical and his wide brow creased in a finely executed frown. He had not shaved since yesterday morning, and he probably would not for another couple of days. The rough brown bristle on his jaw added to the frown as he warned her firmly, "I’m the head of this expedition. You do as I say, is that clear?"

  "This is a joint venture," Elizabeth reminded him, lifting her chin to the point of straining and pursing her lips in the certain way that Hayden had come to admire.

  "Our last expedition," he advised her, "if you get yourself killed." The frown softened and he gazed tenderly at the woman he yearned to make his own. "You’re far too lovely," he murmured, bending to take her lips.

  Elizabeth accepted the compliment and the kiss, her tenacity melting under its ardor. "I will be more careful in the future, I promise."

  She had not promised not to explore on her own, only to be more careful. Lord Hayden supposed he would have to be satisfied with that for the present. Grace was intelligent and well versed in his field, but her experience was limited to the two expeditions they had shared in Sicily and Egypt. He, on the other hand, had spent the major part of his life exploring jungles and deserts, confronting traps and insurmountable odds and obstacles in his search for priceless artifacts, and managed to survive. Even Professor Eldridge was not as qualified. She lavished her archaeological contributions and her research and theories from behind her desk at Layton Hall.

  "Well, Miss Quinlan, it seems you’ve discovered a hidden chamber, but we’ll have to pull the stones forward so they won’t fall backward and activate the trap."

  "A logical deduction," Elizabeth remarked a bit flippantly. "Let’s get to it."

  "Right, let’s get to it," Lord Hayden seconded, contemplating the saucy tilt of her chin. Caught with her boots off, so to speak, his partner was not one to admit easily to a mistake. Intrinsically honest and courageous, a lover of the ancient, determined and unwavering in whatever she set out to do, she was nevertheless not the humblest of her species.

  The chamber proved disappointing, merely a room that some ancient High Priest had used to change into his ministry robes. A large reflective tin stand that must have served as a mirror leaned against a wall. The garments—a jeweled skin skirt, an ornamented and feathered poncho, an elaborate headdress, and several necklaces and armlets made of shell, jade and gold, preserved and dust free because of the vacuum, lay neatly on a stone settee. Lord Hayden shook his head, despondently. "Another blind alley," he said. "I wish Agnes had been more specific."

  Elizabeth touched his arm consolingly. "We’ve only begun to search. I trust your intuition." She favored him with a contagious smile. "So, where to next?"

  Lord Hayden acknowledged her compliment with a grin. If only she would return his love. The months away from her with no knowledge of her whereabouts had been torture. Had she any idea of how he looked forward to the summer recesses to be with her, with only the spinsterish Professor Eldridge’s company to ease the yearning—Eldridge, his peer and lately a dear friend and confidante, and his only link to Grace.

  Gathering his thoughts, he told her, "The sacrificial well, just north of the Temple."

  "Where no man walks," Elizabeth repeated the line from Agnes’ riddle.

  Lord Hayden nodded, adding, "The Carnegie Organization, a privately funded expedition, is presently dredging the well. I’d like to examine some of their finds. We have the proper credentials. I don’t think they’d refuse us."

  "It’s worth a try," Elizabeth said.

  CHAPTER TWO

  The tall, squatty, fortyish antiquarian introduced himself to the two archaeologists waiting to meet the head of the Carnegie expedition. "Good afternoon, I’m Professor John Talbot. It is a pleasure to meet you finally, Lord Hayden. I have read several of your informative journals. Your excellent contributions to our science are well spoken of in our circle."

  Lord Hayden accepted the handshake and the compliments, but before he could follow up the gesture with his own greeting, Talbot turned to Elizabeth. The dark gaze he swept over her was nothing short of sensual. "And who may I ask is this vision of beauty?" he inquired. He had fulsome lips and wide prominent cheeks. His hair was straight, cut short, and combed behind his ears, and like his eyebrows, thick and very dark.

  "My wife," Lord Hayden lied, irritation spicing his voice as he reacted to another male ogling the woman he meant to have as his mate.

  Talbot looked at Lord Hayden in surprise. "My congratulations," he offered. "And my apologies," he added, the tone of his voice implying he had not missed the territorial snarl. "I’m only human."

  The cynosure of so much attention, Elizabeth smiled, flattered. Enjoying the pretense, one she had fantasized for years, she offered in appeasement, "We’re newlyweds. I’m the former Grace Quinlan. You may have noticed my articles in National Geographic."

  "Indeed, I have." Talbot replied. He turned to Lord Hayden. "You’re to be doubly congratulated."

  Lord Hayden inclined his head; much of his irritation and Freudian reaction evaporating under the compliment and Talbot backing off now that he knew the territory was already staked and occupied. "Yes, we’re on our honeymoon," he said, "and as we’re both experts on the past, we thought to combine pleasure with research."

  "I take it you’d care to examine some of the pieces the divers have brought up," Talbot said.

  "Very much so. The museum affiliated with Layton Hall, might be interested in purchasing some of the artifacts." He appended graciously, "With your institute’s approval and that of the resident government, of course."

  "If you see anything that sparks your interest, I’ll be glad to act as your agent," Talbot said. "In fact," he motioned for the pair to follow him, "there is one piece I especially think you might fancy. It bears a set of etchings that, if I’m not mistaken, mention the city of Vilcabamba."

  Lord Hayden’s dark eyes widened with interest. "The Lost City of the Incas," he said.

  "Yes. The piece I refer to is an armlet. Possibly its wearer was a traveler who happened on this part of the Americas to his misfortune, and was thrown into the well along with other sacrificial victims."

  Over the years, the Cenote of Sacrifice had yielded a multitude of items, skeletal remains, both human and animal, and pieces of pottery, effigies, masks, statues, and exquisitely carved flint knives, the kind used to cut out a sacr
ificial victim’s heart. Jewelry, amulets, and trinkets had also been dredged up, since sacrificial victims were copiously adorned and weighed down with the ornaments to make sure they drowned.

  "We certainly would like to examine the armlet," Elizabeth remarked eagerly.

  "Very well," Talbot said, leading them to a tent not far from the Well. "The armlet is cast from gold and set with priceless gems."

  Once inside, Talbot removed a small-padlocked chest from under his cot and placed it on the folding table in the center of the makeshift room. Drawing a set of keys from his pants pocket, he chose one and opened the lock. As he lifted the lid, Elizabeth and Lord Hayden gasped, dazzled by the ancient jewelry within. Foremost was the armlet Talbot picked and handed to Lord Hayden.

  It was all Elizabeth could do to keep her hands off the armlet while Lord Hayden examined it. "These symbols are definitely Incan prayers," he said. "But what do you make of these lines?" he asked, pointing to the inside of the gold, gem-encrusted armlet. Elizabeth took the armlet from Lord Hayden with as much patience as she could mimic. Letting her imagination take old, she offered, "Might not the lines remotely be... directions; say, a sort of map?"

  Talbot replied, skeptically, "They could be simple scratches on the metal. The ornament has been lying at the bottom of the Well among silt and debris for centuries." Lord Hayden tended to agree. He was eager to examine the other items in the box.

  "We’d like to remain here for a few days, as observers. Would you mind?"

  "Not at all. In fact, your archaeological expertise is welcome. I will have my men set up a tent for you. In the meantime, feel free to examine the armlet further. I have some work to finish overseeing." He closed the box with the precious findings, locked it, and replaced it under the cot. The keys he returned to his pocket. "Please feel free to use my tent until yours is ready. There are sandwiches and a freshly filled coffee thermos in the corner. Help yourselves. I look forward to hearing your combined theories on the armlet when I return."