by Lila Dubois
Her lips, those wonderful lips, were wet against his. She tasted light and rich, like a good white wine. When she whimpered, he cupped her head, holding her still so he could devour her.
“Tristan,” she moaned when they stopped to breathe.
“I love you.”
Her eyes popped open.
“I thought that when you said it earlier you were under stress, but now I understand. I love you. Even if you leave. Even if we never fall in love, I will love you.”
She smiled. “That’s exactly how I feel.”
They held each other for a long time.
Chapter Thirteen
It was near dusk before they raised the first body. Melissa had gotten less than three hours of sleep, and that combined with various delays had left her temper frayed. She’d hoped they would have at least three out of the ground by now.
The area around the cemetery was cluttered with people and equipment. She had four grad students—Susan and Victor from London, Robert and Anna from her alma mater UCD—and one of the archaeologists from the National Museum. Dr. Drummond had arrived full of himself, assuming that he was going to be in charge of the excavation now that he was here. Melissa had shut him down. There were some jurisdictional issues—the Irish government, and therefore the museum—had the right to determine what happened to remains of historical significance. But after everything she’d been through, Melissa wasn’t about to turn the project over to someone else. She let him supervise the digging—he was the archaeologist, after all—but the instant the first rotted casket was lifted out of the ground, she took control.
A workspace had been set up in the church, and that was where she had the students carry it. They’d threaded straps under the box to get it out and then braced it on an acid-free, paper-lined board for transport. The church was full of light now that she’d ripped the boards off the windows. The glass was missing, meaning the building wasn’t wind or rainproof, but she’d tasked Sorcha with doing something about that. The redhead had sputtered for a moment, but then given in.
“Robert, you’re in charge of the video.” Melissa looked at the battered wood box. It was only five feet long. “Anna, you’re in charge of biological sampling and cataloguing any artifacts.”
The wide-eyed students nodded. Tomorrow, when she’d gotten some sleep, she’d be kinder to them, but right now she was in work mode. Dr. Drummond had mentioned that the pace she’d set meant they weren’t being as careful as they should. Melissa had snapped at him that someone had tried to rob the graves last night and that she wasn’t going to let unnecessary protocol stand between her and identifying these poor, abused remains.
After that, no one had protested the speed of the excavation.
Melissa used more straps and thin panels of wood to brace the casket. The top had rotted away, and what remained of it was in pieces inside the cavity of the box. The last thing she wanted was for the sides to collapse and the bones to come tumbling out. Their positioning may have something to tell her.
Leaving Anna scooping dirt out of the casket while Robert filmed, Melissa went back outside.
“What’s happening?” she asked Dr. Drummond.
“You were right. The headstone was knocked off the grave.” He’d excavated the areas at the head and foot of the hole they’d just dug. “We found the marker in D7.” The grid system gave them a way of plotting where each artifact was found—imposing order on what was inherently disorder.
Dr. Drummond, whose first name Melissa couldn’t remember, was in his late fifties. He’d seemed pompous when he showed up, flashing his museum badge. She’d assumed he would back off when she pushed him into getting dirty, but his eyes were bright with interest and his gray slacks were coated in mud, as were his hands.
“This is it?” Melissa asked as they squatted next to a broken chunk of stone. It was about three feet across and made of a fine white marble. Three sides were finished, but the top was broken off, making the marker much wider than it was tall. “Where’s the other half?”
“It’s not there. Possibly it was disassociated from the main burial and we’ll find it elsewhere, but look at the text.”
Melissa frowned. “The carvings aren’t very deep, and they aren’t defaced. The first stone I found had the words obliterated.”
“I know, that’s the one we’re working on now. While it’s notable that this text is still legible, look how shallow the carving is, how uneven.”
Melissa wiped her hand on her pants, then ran her fingers over the letters. “‘Tadhg Mac Gabhann. 1672 – 1682’. He was only ten.”
“Whoever put this marker in place couldn’t afford to have it properly carved, and I think we won’t find another piece of the marker. The text is centered between the broken edge and the bottom.”
“Of course.” Melissa shook her head. It was so obvious. “The stone was unusable for its original purpose because it was broken, so someone used it as a grave marker.” She slipped her bottle of water from her pocket and washed a small corner, examining the stone. “I’ve seen this stone before.”
“Where?”
“The foyer of the castle. It’s black and white marble. The pieces are about this big.”
“Can we corroborate this theory with dated building records?”
“I’ll have someone check. Thank you, Dr. Drummond.”
“I should be thanking you. It’s been too long since I got dirty.”
Melissa narrowed her eyes. “It’s my project.”
He laughed. “I know, and I won’t challenge that. And I have to say, you’re exactly how people describe you.”
“I don’t know what that means. I’m going back to the bones.”
She washed her hands and pulled on gloves when she entered the church. Robert and Anna were standing back, their arms at their sides, strangely grim expressions on their faces.
Melissa’s heart softened. “It’s harder when they’re children,” she said, approaching the casket.
“How did you know?” Anna asked.
“The casket is small, and I just saw the grave marker. His name was Tadhg and he was ten.”
“Ten? He looks so little.”
“Four hundred years ago, children like Tadhg were the strong ones. They survived infancy, but they were still subject to malnutrition and disease, all of which hinder growth.”
Anna had cleared away the upper layers of soil, revealing a little skeleton, the bones held in place by the remaining dirt. The skull was twisted to the side, the jawbone a few inches out of place.
“In a wet environment like Ireland, there’s a race between body decomposition and the rotting of the casket. See how most of the bones are still in place? That means that the top of the casket disintegrated, letting soil spill in, before the body was completely decomposed. It acted like wax, holding the bones in position. The jaw is out of place because, depending on how he died, the tongue may have been swollen, and if it burst, it would have pushed the jawbone away. Also, insects usually begin at easy points of entry—mouth, nose, eyes and any wounds.”
Anna and Robert were both leaning in, absorbing everything she said. Melissa smiled. Normal people would have run screaming from the room by now.
“Let’s get photographs and then I want you to keep going. Do the full excavation.”
“Us?” Robert asked.
“Yes. Photograph each bone in situ, then post-extraction. Lay everything out there.” She pointed to the table she’d procured from Rory. “I’d like to hear your observations when you’re done.”
“Dr. Heavey?”
“Yes, Anna?”
“Can we write a paper on this?”
“Absolutely. I’ll even author it with you.”
Anna grinned, and Melissa bit her lip. God bless post grads.
Melissa stopped outside the door to the church. The sun was already starting to set. She’d have to find a way to protect the bones tonight.
“You need sleep.” Tristan ladled mutton stew int
o a bowl for Melissa.
“I don’t trust these people.”
“These people?”
Melissa waved her hand around vaguely before propping her elbow on the counter and resting her chin on her fist. There were dark circles under her eyes and she was pale. She looked as tired as he felt.
“Eat something.”
“I’m not hungry.”
“Yes, you are. Eat.”
“You’re going to make me fat.”
He snorted. “Only bad food makes people fat.”
“Really? How many sticks of butter did you use in this?”
Tristan grinned. “I’m French.”
Melissa returned his smile, but it was weary rather than flirty. An unfamiliar desire to care for another person came over him. He enjoyed feeding people, but he wanted to do more than that for Melissa. He wanted to put her to bed, rub her back and tell her that everything would be okay.
She listlessly tore a bit of bread off the roll he’d given her with the stew. Dipping it into the bowl, she popped it into her mouth.
“That’s mutton?” She sighed happily. “This is really good.”
“Finish it.”
“You’re bossy.”
He snorted. “What is that expression? The pot calling the kettle?”
“The pot calling the kettle black. I’ve always preferred ‘those who live in glass houses shouldn’t throw stones’.”
“Chaucer.”
Melissa looked up. “Is that where it’s from?”
Tristan stepped out of the way as one of his chefs bustled past with two molten chocolate cakes in hand. He checked the plating as it went past, then turned back to Melissa.
“It is not glass houses, but a glass head in that story.”
“You’re a Chaucer fan?”
“You’re surprised?”
“A little bit.”
Tristan raised a brow. “You think because I did not go to university that I am not educated.”
“No, but Chaucer is an odd reference for someone who isn’t a native English speaker or who didn’t go to school in an English-speaking country.”
Tristan relaxed. He was proud of his profession, of what he’d made of his life, despite what had happened in Paris, but there were times that he wished he’d gone to school, become a scholar. Those moments were few and far between, but hard for him to deal with. Self-doubt was an unfamiliar companion.
“Grand-Mère read it to me, in English, when she was teaching me.”
Melissa nodded, then took another bite of stew. “Can I have coffee?” she asked once she’d swallowed.
“No.”
“I’ll make it myself if you show me where things are. I’ll even clean up afterwards.”
“I would make you the coffee, but you cannot have any. You’re going to sleep.”
“Tristan, we talked about this. I’m not letting anything else happen to that cemetery.”
“You have helpers—the students, the man covered in dirt.”
She laughed. “Dr. Drummond? He was rather dirty by the end of the day.”
“Let them guard the bones. You’ve done enough for today.”
Melissa’s shoulders sagged. “I am tired.”
“Come.” Tristan took her hand, helping her stand. She clung to his hand in a way that made him want to throw her over his shoulder and lock her away until she was rested.
“Jim, I’m leaving,” Tristan called out.
The friturier looked up from scrubbing the fry station and nodded. Normally he would have taken the stairs to the underground hallway that connected the kitchen to the pub rather than walk through the restaurant, but right now he didn’t care. Tristan looped Melissa’s arm through his. A few of the remaining diners looked up from their meals as they passed through the restaurant. Tristan saw them examining Melissa—she’d cleaned up, but her work clothes were rumpled and showed signs of mud. As they passed the table of an older couple, he heard the woman whisper the word scientist.
Try though they might, Tristan doubted they’d be able to keep much, if any, of what was going on a secret.
The door to the west wing was thrown open. The students and man from the museum had all been put in rooms on the first floor. It seemed strange that just a few weeks ago the nursery on the floor above had been Glenncailty’s biggest secret. Tristan suspected that once Melissa was done, the graveyard would reveal things worse than what he’d seen upstairs.
“I really should go back…” she muttered as she fished her key from her pocket.
“No.”
“That’s all you’re going to say? ‘No’?”
“That’s all I need to say. You’re going to sleep.”
“I’m not even sure why I’m letting you boss me around. I must be even more tired then I think.”
She opened the door and Tristan followed her in. The room was lovely, if uninteresting. There were scattered papers on the bed, as well as a laptop and printer. Her tool case was on the floor, the contents set out on a towel in precise rows, the way a doctor set out instruments in an operating room.
“Or maybe you want someone to take care of you,” he said quietly as they cleared the papers off the bed.
Melissa froze, her back to him. “I can take care of myself.”
“You can.” Tristan brushed her hair off her neck, then leaned down and kissed her throat. “But I want to care for you.”
He slid his hands around her, dipping his fingertips under the waistband of her pants. Melissa covered his hands with hers, then tipped her head back against his shoulder.
“I’m not the kind of girl who someone takes care of.”
“What kind of girl are you?”
“I’m not actually sure. I never have been.”
Tristan laid his cheek on hers, then turned them so they faced the mirror over the dresser. She was pale where he was dark, fragile where he was strong.
“If we’d met in a bar, would you have talked to me?” she asked.
“That is how you prefer to meet your lovers? In a bar?”
“Actually, I’ve never dated or slept with someone I met in a bar. Is that weird?”
“No, and I would have talked to you. The pretty English girl who sees everything, but doesn’t know how beautiful she is.”
“You make me sound like a cliché.”
“Then I will say this—if we had met in a bar, we would have had sex that night.”
She shivered at the word sex, and Tristan grinned. She pinched him. “We would not.”
“Yes, we would.”
“You think you would have gotten me to have a one-night stand with you?”
“One night? No. At least two days.”
“Two days of sex?”
“Sex and food.”
“That’s not fair.”
“What?”
“You’re perfect. I can’t fight perfect.”
“I am not perfect. You’re forgetting that you thought I was crazy.”
“And I was totally willing to sleep with you, even if you were nuts.”
“You’d use me?” Tristan sniffed in mock anger.
Melissa reached up and stroked his head. “Don’t be sad. I would have used you not just for your body, but also for your cooking skills.”
Tristan threw his head back and laughed. She was enchanting. He loved her, but he was also falling in love with her.
“There’s only one response to that,” he said when his laughter died. Tristan undid the button of her pants, slid down the zipper and pushed them off her hips.
Melissa gasped as her pants pooled around her ankles. “You…you can’t just…do that.”
“Yes, I can.” He lifted her shirt to get a better view of the pink panties she was wearing. “Pretty.”
“You…you!”
Releasing her, Tristan sat on the bed. “Undress for me.”
Melissa stepped out of her pants and turned slowly, tugging the hem of her shirt down. “I’m dirty, sweaty.”
&
nbsp; “Then I won’t touch you. All you have to do is take off your clothes.”
“I thought you wanted me to sleep,” she muttered.
“I will let you sleep, once you show me your body.”
She grimaced. “Tristan…I don’t look good naked.”
“I enjoy what I see so far.”
“What I mean is that my arm isn’t my only scar. When people see me naked, they don’t say, ‘Ohh, sexy.’ They say, ‘What happened?’”
He frowned, focus shifting from anticipation to concern. He flipped on the lamp beside the bed, then leaned forward to examine her bare legs.
Her skin was milky white, so the scars were hard to see, but they were there. Her right ankle was dotted with round marks, her left knee sported one long white line and there was a kidney-shaped area of shiny flesh on her right thigh.
“That’s a burn,” he said, touching her thigh.
“Yes. How did you know?”
He undid his chef’s coat, cast it aside, then turned his arm so she could see the scar near his elbow. “Caramel.”
“Chemical burn. Lye. We had a water purification kit at the project in the Congo, and I got some on my clothes.”
“The pain…”
“It did hurt.” She pointed to her knee. “This one I fell while hiking and looking for remains in Vietnam. Landed on a rock.”
“Your ankle?”
“Barbed wire.”
“Show me the rest.”
Melissa rubbed her lips together, then stripped off the long-sleeved button-up she was wearing as a jacket. Her T-shirt had short sleeves, and her left arm was on full display.
Her fingers toyed with the hem. Tristan motioned for her to keep going.
She was lovely—her skin creamy and smooth, her lean muscles visible as she moved. She wore pink panties and a tan workout bra. Neither was meant to entice, and yet he was captivated.
“You’re too skinny,” he said, watching the play of her arm and belly muscles as she took her hair down.
“I’m fairly certain there’s no such thing.”
“And you’re wrong.”
“About what?”
“The first thing I think about when I see you naked is not your scars. Any man who notices them before commenting on the beauty of your body is stupid.”