Cordina's Crown Jewel

by Nora Roberts

  “For what army?”

  She glanced at the cart, winced. “I may have gotten a little carried away. I can put some of it back. Why don’t you go outside and—”

  “Just get through the damn line.” He stepped forward, and certain he’d see the tabloid, she dug in her heels.

  “Don’t push me again.”

  “I’m not pushing you, I’m pushing the stupid cart.”

  When he moved past the newspaper rack without a glance, Camilla nearly went limp.

  “Hey, Del, didn’t expect to see you back in here so soon.” The cashier began ringing up the things Del began pulling out of the cart and dumping on the conveyer belt.

  “Neither did I.”

  The woman, a plump brunette whose name tag identified her as Joyce, winked at Camilla. “Don’t let him scare you, honey. Bark’s worse than his bite.”

  “Not so far,” Camilla muttered, but was relieved that he was at the wrong angle now to see the grainy photograph of her. Still, she put her sunglasses back on before turning her face toward the cashier. “But he doesn’t scare me.”

  “Glad to hear it. This one’s always needed a woman with plenty of spine and sass to stand up to him. Nice to see you finally found one, Del.”

  “She just works for me.”

  “Uh-huh.” Joyce winked at Camilla again. “You hear from your mom lately?”

  “Couple weeks back. She’s fine.”

  “You tell her I said hi—and that I’m keeping my eye on her boy.” She rang up the total and had Camilla wincing again.

  “I think I might need a little more money.”

  “Damn expensive lemons.” Resigned, Del took what he’d given her, added more bills.

  She helped him load the bags into the truck, then sat with her hands folded in her lap. She’d overreacted to the tabloid, she told herself. Still her initial spurt of anger had been liberating. Regardless, she’d recovered well, and a lot more quickly than she might have done just a week or two before.

  That meant she was stronger, steadier. Didn’t that serve to prove she was doing the right thing?

  Now it was time to put that issue away again, and deal with the moment.

  “I’m sorry I took so long, but I don’t think it’s unreasonable for me to want to see something of the town.”

  “Your car should be ready tomorrow. Maybe the next day seeing as Carl’s claiming to be backed-up and overworked. Next time you want to play tourist, do it on your own time.”

  “Be sure I will. Sarah Lattimer at the antique store said to give you her best. I wonder that anyone so well-spoken and courteous could have ever gone out with you.”

  “She was young and stupid at the time.”

  “How fortunate for her that she matured and wised-up.”

  “You got that right.” He caught her soft chuckle. “What’s so funny?”

  “It’s hard to insult you when you agree with me.” It was hard to brood about a silly photograph in a trashy newspaper when he was so much more interesting. “I like you.”

  “That makes you young and stupid, doesn’t it?”

  She grinned, then amused at both of them leaned over and kissed his cheek. “Apparently.”

  Chapter 6

  I’m having the most wonderful time. It wasn’t the plan to stay in one place so long, or to do one thing for any length of time. But it’s such a beautiful place, and such an exciting thing to do.

  Archaeology is truly fascinating. So much more interesting and layered to me than the history I enjoyed and was taught in school, or the sociology classes I took. More fascinating, I find, than anything I’ve studied or explored.

  Who, where and why? How people lived, married, raised their children, treated their elderly. What they ate, how they cooked it. Their ceremonies and rituals. Oh, so much more. And all of it, society after society, tribe by tribe speaks, doesn’t it, to our own?

  He knows so much, and so much of what he knows is almost casual to him, in the way a true scholar can be. Not that knowledge itself is casual to him. He seeks it every day. He wants to know.

  I find that passion admirable, enviable. And I find it alluring.

  I’m attracted to his mind, to all those complex angles. Working with—all right, for—him is hard and demanding, sometimes physically exhausting. Despite his injuries, the man has astounding stamina. It’s impressive the way he can lose himself, hours at a go, in his work.

  It’s also an absolute thrill for me to do so as well. I’ve studied bone fragments that are centuries old. Sealed, of course, in plastic.

  I wonder how they might feel in my hands. If anyone had told me I’d actually want to handle human bones, even two weeks ago, I’d have thought them mad.

  How I wish I could go to the dig—or wet archaeological site—and actually see the work being done there. Though Delaney paints a very clear picture when he speaks of it, it’s not the same as seeing it for myself.

  This is something I want to see, and do, for myself. I intend to look into classes, and what Delaney somewhat disdainfully refers to as knap-ins (a kind of camping session on sites for amateurs and students) when I’m home again.

  I believe I’ve found an avocation that could become a vocation.

  On a personal level, he’s not as annoyed by me as he pretends to me. At least not half the time. It’s odd and very educational to have someone treat me as he would anyone else—without that filter of manners and respect demanded by rank. Not that I appreciate rudeness, of course, but once you get to know the man, you can see beneath the rough exterior.

  He’s a genius. And though courtesy is never out of place, the brilliant among us are often less polished.

  I find him so attractive. In my life I’ve never been so physically drawn to a man. It’s exciting on one level, terribly frustrating on another. I was raised in a loving family, one which taught me that sex is not a game, but a joy—and a responsibility—to be shared with someone you care for. Someone you respect, and who affords you those same emotions. My position in the world adds another, complex and cautious layer, to that basic belief. I cannot risk taking a lover casually.

  But I want him for a lover. I want to know what it’s like to have that fire inside him burn through me. I want to know if mine can match it.

  The tabloid in the supermarket reminded me of what I’d nearly let myself forget. What it’s like to be watched, constantly. Pursued for an image on newsprint. Speculated about. The fatigue of that, the unease, the discomfort. Gauging how I feel now against how I felt the night I left Washington, I understand I was very close to breaking down in some way. I can look back and remember that hunted feeling, feel the nerves that had begun to dance, always, so very close to the surface.

  Much of that is my own fault, I see now, for not giving myself more personal time to—well, decompress, I suppose—since Grandpère died, and everything else.

  I’m doing so now, and none too soon.

  My time here is, well, out of time, I suppose. I feel it’s been well spent. I feel—perhaps renewed is an exaggeration. Refreshed then, and more energized than I have felt in so many months.

  Before I leave and take up my duties again, I’ll learn all I can about the science of archaeology. Enough that I might, in some way, pursue it myself. I’ll learn all I can about Camilla MacGee—separate from Camilla de Cordina.

  And I might consider seducing the temperamental Dr. Delaney Caine.

  * * *

  The cabin smelled like a woodland meadow. Since it was a nice change from the musty gym sock aroma he’d gotten used to before Camilla, it was tough to complain.

  And he wasn’t running out of socks anymore. Or having to scavenge in the kitchen for a can of something for his dinner. His papers—after a few rounds of shouts and threats—were always exactly as he left them. A good third of his notes were typed, and the articles needed for the trade journals and the site’s Web page were nearly finished. And they were good.

  The coffee was always fre
sh, and so were the towels. And so, he thought with some admiration, was Camilla.

  Not just the way she looked, or the pithy remarks that she aimed regularly in his direction, but her brain. He hadn’t considered just how much a fresh mind could add to his outlook and his angle on the project.

  He liked the way she sang in the mornings when she cooked breakfast. And how rosy she looked when she came out of the woods after one of her breaks. Breaks, he recalled, they’d negotiated with some bitterness.

  He couldn’t say he objected to the candles and bowls of smelly stuff she’d set around the place. He didn’t really mind the fancy soaps she’d put out in the bathroom, or coming across her little tubes and pots of creams in his medicine cabinet.

  He’d only opened them for a sniff out of curiosity.

  He even liked the way she curled up on the sofa in the evening with a glass of wine and grilled him about his work until he gave in and talked about it.

  Alone in the kitchen, he did slow curls with a two-pound can of baked beans with his weak arm. It was coming back, he decided. And he was burning that damn sling. His muscles tended to throb at odd times, but he could live with that. Mostly it just felt so good to move his arm again. The ribs would take longer—the doctors had warned him about that. And the collarbone would probably trouble him for some time yet.

  But he didn’t feel so frustratingly helpless now.

  Maybe he’d see if Camilla could give him a neck and shoulder massage, just to loosen things up. She had small hands, but they were capable. Besides, it was a good way to get them back on him again. She’d taken his orders to back off just a little more seriously than he discovered he’d wanted.

  He paused, set down the can with a little thump. God, he was getting used to her, he realized with some horror. Getting used to having her around, and worse to wanting her around.

  And that, he was sure, was the beginning of the end.

  A man started wanting a woman around, then she expected him to be around. No more coming and going as you pleased, no more heading off to some dig for months on end without a concern about what you left back home.

  Scowling, he looked around the kitchen again. Bottles of wildflowers, a bowl of fresh fruit, scrubbed counters and cookies in a glass jar.

  The woman had snuck around and made the cabin a home instead of a place. You left a place whenever the hell you wanted. But home—when you left home it was always with a wrench.

  When you left a woman, it was with a careless kiss and a wave. When you left the woman, he suspected it would rip you to pieces.

  She came out of the woods as he thought of her, her face glowing, white wildflowers in her hand. How the devil had she come so close to becoming the woman? he asked himself with a spurt of panic.

  They hadn’t known each other for long. Had they? He ran a hand through his hair as he realized he’d lost track of time. What the hell day was it? How long had she been there? What in God’s name was he going to do with himself when she left?

  She came in, full of smiles. Well, he could fix that.

  “You’re late,” he snapped at her.

  Calmly she glanced at her watch. “No, I’m not. I am, in fact, two minutes early. I had a lovely walk, and fed the ducks who live on the pond.” She moved over to the bottle, working her new flowers in with the old. “But it’s clouding up. I think it’s going to rain.”

  “I want to finish the section on brain tissue. I can’t do that if you’re out feeding a bunch of ducks.”

  “Then we’ll get started as soon as I pour us some lemonade.”

  “Don’t placate me, sister.”

  “That would be beyond even my masterly capabilities. What’s wrong, Del? Are you hurting?” She turned, the pitcher in her hand, and nearly bobbled it when she focused on him. “Your arm. You’ve taken off the sling.” Quickly she set the pitcher aside and went to him, to run a hand along his arm.

  He said nothing because, God help him, he wanted her to touch him.

  “I suppose I expected it to be thin and wan. It’s not.” Her lips pursed as she tested the muscle. “A bit paler than the rest of you, and I imagine it feels odd and weak.”

  “It’s all right. It just needs—ow!” The jolt made his eyes water when she pressed down firmly on his shoulder. “Hey, watch it, Miss de Sade.”

  “I’m sorry. Still tender?” More gently, she kneaded it. “You’re all knotted up.”

  “So would you be if you’d had one arm strapped against you for the best part of two weeks.”

  “You’re right, of course. Maybe some linament,” she considered. “My mother would rub some on my father when he overdid. And I’ve helped treat some of the horses that way. I saw some witch hazel upstairs. After dinner, I can put some on your shoulder. Then you’ll get a good night’s sleep.”

  He had a feeling having her rub him—anywhere—wasn’t going to ensure quiet dreams. But he figured it was a good trade-off.

  * * *

  “Laboratory tests proved that the substance found inside the recovered skull was, indeed, human brain tissue. In total, during the three six-month field studies, preserved brain tissue was found in ninety-five of the recovered skulls. Twenty-eight contained complete brains, albeit shrunken to approximately a third of their normal size. The find is completely unique, with significant scientific impact and potential. This will give scientists a never-before-possible opportunity to study brain matter which is more than seven thousand years old, with its hemispheres and convolutions intact. The DNA, the basic human building block, can be cloned from tissue older than any previously available.”

  “Cloned.” Camilla’s fingers stopped. “You want to clone one of the tribe.”

  “We can get into a debate on cloning later. But no, the purpose would be to study—disease, life expectancy, physical and intellectual potential. You can go back to your science fiction novel after we’re done.”

  “They’ve cloned sheep,” Camilla muttered.

  He gave her a mild look behind the lenses of his reading glasses. “That’s not my field. DNA research isn’t my area. I’m just outlining the potential and import of the find. We have intact human brains, seven millenniums old. People thought with them, reacted with them. Developed language and motor skills. They used those brains to build their village, to hunt their food and prepare it. They used these minds to interact, to raise their children, to find a mate and for survival.”

  “What about their hearts?”

  “What about them?”

  “Didn’t their hearts tell them how to tend their children—how to make those children in the first place?”

  “One doesn’t happen without the other, does it?” He took off the dark-framed glasses and tossed them aside. “These people cared for their young and had interpersonal relationships. But procreation is also an instinct—one of the most basic. Without young, there would be no one to care for the old, no replacement for the dead. There’d be no tribe. Man mates for the same reason he eats. He has to.”

  “That certainly takes the romance out of it.”

  “Romance is an invention, a tool, like …” He picked up the scarred head of an old, crudely fashioned hammer. “Like this.”

  “Romance is a human need, like companionship, like music.”

  “Those are luxuries. To survive we need food, water, shelter. And to ensure continued survival, we need to procreate. Man—being man—came up with tools and means to make meeting those needs easier. And often more pleasant. And being man, he devised ways to make a profit from those needs, to compete for them, to steal for them. Even to kill for them.”

  She enjoyed him like this—enjoyed the casually lecturing mode when he discussed ideas with her as he might with a bright student. Or perhaps an associate. “That doesn’t say much about man,” she commented.

  “On the contrary.” He touched the jaw of an old, bleached-out skull. “It says man himself is a complex, ingenious and constantly evolving invention. He builds and destroys wit
h nearly the same skill and enthusiasm. And is constantly remaking himself.”

  “So what have you made yourself?” she asked him.

  He turned the hammer head over in his hand, then set it down again. “Hungry. When are we going to eat?”

  * * *

  She wasn’t giving up on the discussion, but she didn’t mind taking the time to think about it while she finished fixing dinner. She slid pasta into boiling water, tossed the salad. Sprinkled herbs on oil for the thick slices of bread.

  She poured wine. Lighted candles.

  And looking at the cozy kitchen, hearing the rain patter gently on the roof, she realized she had—unwittingly—employed a tool tonight. The scene she’d created was, unquestionably, a romantic one. She’d simply intended to make it attractive and comfortable. Instinct must have kicked in, she decided. Maybe for a certain type of person, particularly when that person was sexually attracted to another—creating romance was instinctive.

  She found she liked knowing that about herself. Romance—to her thinking—was warm and generous. It took the other party’s comfort and pleasure into account.

  It was not, she decided as she drained the pasta, a damn hammer.

  “A hammer,” she declared to Del when he stepped in, “implies force or a threat.”

  “What?”

  “A hammer,” she said again, testily now. “Romance is not a hammer.”

  “Okay.” He reached for a piece of bread and had his hand slapped aside for his trouble.

  “Sit down first. Prove you’ve evolved into a civilized human being. And don’t say okay just because you’re bored with the subject and want to stuff your face.”

  “Getting pretty strict around here,” he muttered.

  “I’m saying that your tribe demonstrated human emotions. Compassion, love—hate certainly, as you did find remains that showed evidence of violent injury or death. Emotions make us human, don’t they?” she demanded as she served the salad. “If it was only instinct that drove us, we wouldn’t have art, music, even science. We wouldn’t have progressed far enough that we’d build a village near a pond, create rituals to share and love enough that we’d bury our child with her toys.”

  “Okay. I mean okay,” he insisted when she narrowed her eyes. He wanted the food in his belly and not dumped on his head. “It’s a good point—and you could do an interesting paper on it, I imagine.”

  She blinked at him. “Really?”

  “The field isn’t cut-and-dried. It isn’t only about facts and artifacts. There has to be room for speculations, for theory. For wonder. Edge over into anthropology and you’re dealing with cultures. Out of cultures you get traditions. Traditions stem from necessity, superstition or some facet of emotion.”

  “Take our tribe.” Mollified, she offered him the basket of bread. “How do you know a man didn’t woo a woman by bringing her wildflowers, or a cup of fresh elderberries?”

  “I don’t. But I don’t know that he did, either. No evidence either way.”

  “But don’t you think there was a ritual of some sort? Isn’t there always? Even with animals there’s a mating dance, oui? So surely there had to be some courtship procedure.”

  “Sure.” He dipped the bread, grinned at her. “Sometimes it just meant picking up a really big rock and beating some other sap over the head with it. Loser gets the concussion. Winner gets the girl.”

  “Only because she either had no choice, or more likely, she understood that the man strong enough, passionate enough to smash his rival over the head to win her would protect her and the children they made together from harm.”

  “Exactly.” Pleased with the tidy logic of her mind, he wagged a chunk of bread at her. “Sexual urge to procreation. Procreation to survival.”

  “In its own very primitive way, that’s romantic. However, the remains you’ve studied to date don’t show a high enough percentage of violent injury to support the theory that head bashing was this tribe’s usual courtship ritual.”

  “That’s good.” Admiring the way she’d spun his example back to prove her point, he gestured with his fork. “And you’re right.”

  “Del, do you think, eventually, there might be a way for me to visit the site?”

  He frowned, thoughtfully now, as she served the pasta. “Why?”

  “I’d like to see it firsthand.”

  “Well, you’ve got six months.”

  “What do you mean?”