Cordinas Crown Jewel (5 page)

She didn’t jolt. He clumped through the cabin like a herd of elephants. She’d known he was there.

“I’m hungry. I refuse to cook or to eat in a sty. The papers in the kitchen are relatively undisturbed. It’s the filth I dispensed with.”

And the papers, she thought, were fascinating. What she could read of his handwriting, in any case.

“I knew where everything was.”

“Well.” She straightened, turned to face him. “Now you’ll have to find where it all is now. Which is in two ordered stacks. I have no idea how you—” She broke off as she saw the blood dripping from his hand. “Oh! What have you done?”

He glanced down, noticed the shallow slice in the back of his good hand, and sighed. “Hell. What’s one more?”

But she was rushing to him, taking the wounded hand and clucking over the cut like a mother hen over a chick. “Back in the kitchen,” she ordered. “You’re bleeding all over the place.”

It was hardly a major wound. No one had ever fussed over his cuts and scrapes—not even his mother. He supposed that was due to the fact she’d always had plenty of her own. Taken off guard, he let himself be pulled back into the kitchen where she stuck his bleeding hand into the sink.

“Stay,” she ordered.

As she might have said, he mused, to a pet. Or worse—a servant.

She unearthed a rag, dumped it in the pail of water and proceeded to wash off his hand. “What did you cut it on?”

“I don’t know. It was dark.”

She clucked again, as she examined the cleaned cut. “Do you have a first-aid kit? Antiseptic?”

“It’s just a scratch,” he began, but gave up and rolled his eyes at her fulminating stare. “Back there.” He gestured vaguely.

She went into the mudroom, and he heard her slamming cabinet doors—and muttering.

“Vous êtes un espece de cochon, et gauche aussi.”

“If you’re going to curse at me, do it in English.”

“I said you’re a pig of a man, and clumsy as well.” She sailed back in with a first-aid kit, busied herself digging out antiseptic.

He started to tell her he knew what she’d called him, then stopped himself. Why ruin what small amount of amusement he might unearth during this ordeal? “I’m not clumsy.”

“Hah. That explains why your arm’s in a sling and your hand is bleeding.”

“This is a work-related injury,” he began, but as she turned to doctor his hand, he sneezed. That basic bodily reaction to a dousing in a rainstorm had his vision wavering. He swayed, fighting for breath as his ribs screamed, and his stomach pitched.

She looked up, saw the pain turn his eyes glassy, his cheeks sheet pale.

“What is it?” Without thinking, she slid her arms around his waist to support him as his body shuddered. “You should sit.”

“Just—” Trying to steady himself, he nudged her back. His vision was still gray at the edges, and he willed it to clear. “Some bruised ribs,” he managed to say when he got his breath back. At her expression of guilt and horror, he bared his teeth. “Dislocated shoulder, broken clavicle—work-related.”

“Oh, you poor man.” Sympathy overwhelmed everything else. “Come, I’ll help you upstairs. You need dry clothes. I’m making soup, so you’ll have a hot meal. You should’ve told me you were seriously hurt.”

“I’m not …” He trailed off again. She smelled fabulous—and she was cooking. And feeling sorry for him. Why be an idiot? “It’s not so bad.”

“Men are so foolish about admitting they’re hurt. We’ll need the flashlight.”

“In my back pocket.”

“Ah.” She managed to brace him, shift her body. He didn’t mind, not really, when her nice, firm breast nestled against his good side. Or when her long, narrow fingers slid over his butt to pull the flashlight out of his jean’s pocket.

He really couldn’t say he minded. And it took his mind off the pain.

He let her help him upstairs where he eased down to sit on the side of his unmade bed. From there he could watch her bustling around, finding more candles to light.

“Dry clothes,” she said and started going through his dresser. He opened his mouth to object, but she turned with jeans and a sweatshirt in her arms and looked at him with a bolstering smile.

“Do you need me to help you … um, change?”

He thought about it. He knew he shouldn’t—it was one step too far. But he figured if a man didn’t at least think of being undressed by a beautiful woman he might as well be shot in the head and end it all.

“… No, thanks. I can manage it.”

“All right then. I’m going down to see to the soup. Just call if you need help.”

She hurried downstairs again, to stir the soup and berate herself.

She’d called him a pig. The poor man couldn’t possibly do for himself when he was hurt and in pain. It shamed her, how impatient, how unsympathetic and ungrateful she’d been. At least she could make him as comfortable as possible now, give him a hot bowl of soup.

She went over to plump the sprung cushions of the sofa—and coughed violently at the dust that plumed up. It made her scowl again. Really, she thought, the entire place needed to be turned upside down and shaken out.

He’d said he’d fired his cleaning service because they—she—had touched his things. She didn’t doubt that for a minute. The man had an obviously prickly temperament. But she also imagined finances could be a problem. Being an archaeologist, he probably subsisted on grants and that sort of thing.

She’d have to find a way to send him payment for the night’s lodging—after she sold her watch.

When he came back down, she had bowls and cups and folded paper towels in lieu of napkins on the
scarred coffee table. There was candlelight, and the glow from the fire, and the good scent of hot soup.

She smiled—then stared for just a moment. His hair was dry now, and she could see it wasn’t brown. Or not merely brown as she’d assumed. It was all shot through with lighter streaks bleached out, she imagined, from the sun. It curled a bit, a deep and streaky oak tone, over the neck of the sweatshirt.

A gorgeous head of hair, she could admit, with a rough and tumbled style that somehow suited those bottle-green eyes.

“You’ll feel better when you eat.”

He was already feeling marginally better after swallowing one of his pain pills. The throbbing was down to an irritating ache. He was counting on the hot food smoothing that away.

He’d have killed for a hot shower, but a man couldn’t have everything.

“What’s for dinner?”

“
Potage
.” She gave it a deliberately elegant sound. “
Crème de tomate avec pomme de terre
.” Laughing, she tapped her spoon against the pot. “You had plenty of cans, so I mixed the soup with canned potatoes and used some of your milk. It’d be a great deal better with some herbs, but your pantry didn’t run to them. Sit down. Relax. I’ll serve.”

Under normal circumstances, he didn’t care to be pampered. At least he didn’t think so. He couldn’t actually remember ever having
been
pampered. Regardless, it wasn’t what anyone could call a normal evening, and he might as well enjoy it.

“You don’t look like the type who’d cook—more like the type who has a cook.”

That made her frown. She thought she looked like a very normal, very average woman. “I’m a very good cook.” She spooned up soup. Because it had interested her, she’d taken private lessons with a cordon bleu chef. “Though this is my first attempt over an open fire.”

“Looks like you managed. Smells like it, too.” It was his idea of praise—as his anticipatory grunt was his idea of thanks when she handed him his bowl.

“I wasn’t sure what you’d like to drink. Coffee, or the milk? There’s beer … and wine.”

“Coffee. I took some meds, so I’d better back off the alcohol.” He was already applying himself to the soup. When she simply stood in front of him, waiting, he spared her a glance. “What?”

She bit back a sigh. Since the man didn’t have the courtesy to offer, she’d have to ask. “I’d enjoy a glass of wine, if you wouldn’t mind.”

“I don’t care.”

“Thank you.” Keeping her teeth gritted, she poured his coffee, then headed to the kitchen. How, she wondered, did a man get through life with no manners whatsoever? She opened the wine, and after a brief hesitation, brought the bottle back with her.

She’d have two glasses, she decided, and send him the cost of the bottle along with the money for lodging.

Since he’d already scraped down to the bottom of the bowl, she served him a second, took one for herself, then settled down.

She had suffered through countless tedious dinner parties, official events and functions. Surely she could get through a single stormy evening with Delaney Caine.

“So, you must travel considerably in your work.”

“That’s part of it.”

“You enjoy it?”

“It’d be stupid to do it otherwise, wouldn’t it?”

She pasted on her diplomat’s expression and sipped her wine. “Some have little choice in certain areas of their lives. Their work, where they live. How they live. I’m afraid I know little about your field. You study … bones?”

“Sometimes.” He shrugged slightly when she lifted an eyebrow. Chitchat, he thought. He’d never seen the point of it. “Civilizations, architecture, habits, traditions, religions, culture. Lapping over into anthropology. And bones because they’re part of what’s left of those civilizations.”

“What’re you looking for in your studies?”

“Answers.”

She nodded at that. She always wanted answers. “To what questions?”

“All of them.”

She rose to pour him another mug of coffee. “You’re ambitious.”

“No. Curious.”

When her lips curved this time it wasn’t her polite smile. It was generous and warm and slid beautifully over her face, into her eyes. And made his stomach tighten. “That’s much better than ambition.”

“You think?”

“Absolutely. Ambition can be—usually is—narrow. Curiosity is broad and liberated and open to possibilities. What do your bones tell you?” She laughed again, then gestured to the cluttered side table before she sat again. “Those bones.”

What the hell, he thought. He had to write it up anyway. It wouldn’t hurt to talk it through—in a limited fashion.

“That she was about forty-five years old when she died,” he began.

“She?”

“That’s right. Native American female. She’d had several fractures—leg and arm, probably from that fall—several years before she died. Which indicates that her culture was less nomadic than previously thought, and that the sick and injured were tended, treated.”

“Well, of course, they would tend to her.”

“There’s no ‘of course’ about it. In some cultures, injuries of that type, the type that would incapacitate and prevent the wounded from pulling her weight in the tribe, would have resulted in abandonment.”

“Ah well. Cruelty is nothing new,” she murmured.

“No, and neither is efficiency, or survival of the fittest. But in this case, the tribe cared for the sick and injured, and buried their dead with respect and ceremony. Probably buried within a day. She, and others unearthed in the project, were wrapped in a kind of yarn made from native plants. Complex weave,” he continued, thinking aloud now rather than talking to Camilla. “Had to have a loom, had to take considerable
time. Couldn’t have moved nomadically. Semipermanent site. Plenty of game there—and seeds, nuts, roots, wood for fires and huts. Seafood.”

“You know all this from a few bones?”

“What?”

She saw, actually saw him click back to her. The way his eyes focused again, clouded with vague annoyance. “You learned this from a few bones?” she repeated.

It was barely the surface of what he’d learned—and theorized. “We got more than a few, and findings other than bones.”

“The more you learn, the more you understand how they lived, why they did things. What came from their lives, and what was lost. You look for—is this right—how they built their homes, cooked their food. How they raised their children, buried their dead. What deities they worshiped, and battles they fought. And in the end, how we evolved from that.”

It was, he admitted, a nice summary for a layman. There was a brain inside the classy package. “That’s close enough.”

“Perhaps the women cooked soup over an open fire.”

The glint of humor caught him, had him nearly smiling back. “Women have been copping kitchen duty since the start. You’ve got to figure there’s a reason for that.”

“Oh, I do. Men are more inclined to beat their chests and pick fights than see to the more basic, and less heroic tasks.”

“There you go.” He rose. Despite the coffee, he was dragging. It was the main reason he skipped the pain pills as often as possible. “I’m going up. Spare bed’s in the first room, left of the stairs.”

Without a thank-you, a good-night or even one of his occasional grunts, he left Camilla alone in front of the fire.

I don’t know what to make of my host
, Camilla wrote. It was late now, and she’d opted to huddle on the miserable sofa in front of the fire as the spare room upstairs had been chilly and damp—and dark.

She hadn’t heard a sound out of Del, and though she’d tried both the lights and the phone, she’d gotten nothing out of them, either.

I’ve decided to attribute his lack of social skills to the fact that his line of work puts him more in company with the long dead than the living. And to season this with some sympathy over his injuries. But I suspect he’s every bit as brusque and unpardonably rude when in full, robust health.

In any case, he’s interesting
—
and spending time with people who will treat me as they treat anyone is part of this experiment.

As a lovely side benefit of his, apparently, hermit lifestyle, there is no television in the cabin. Imagine that, an American home without a single television set. I saw no current newspapers or magazines, either. Though some may very well be buried in the refuse heap he lives in.

The chances of such a man recognizing me, even under these oddly intimate conditions, are slim to none. It’s very reassuring.

Despite his odd choice of living arrangements when not actively working on a dig, he’s obviously intelligent. When he spoke of his work
—
however briefly—there was a spark there. A sense of curiosity, of seeking answers, that appeals to me very much. Perhaps because I’m seeking something myself. Within myself.