Pulling the lamp closer, he flipped up the edge of the rug and discovered a flat, metal receptacle. Pulling the edges apart, he opened it and discovered a large sheet of vellum, exactly like the sheet on which the Mandylion map was drawn. On quick inspection, it looked like the same ink, the same colors and the same style of writing as the map. It had to be the key—the ancient document that would lead him to the precious cloth.
Jack stood up and set the lamp on the desk and frowned while he studied it. There were several diagrams on it, as well as a few primitive drawings. There were numbers, along with a great deal of medieval script.
Unfortunately, it seemed to be mostly Arabic, and Jack had difficulty making out any of the words. Now he knew for certain that he’d have to find a translator.
That would have to wait. For now, he had to get back to see how O’Neill fared and make plans to travel north to York. He wanted to get a head start on Bright and put his hands on the Mandylion before Alastair managed to do it.
“Oh!”
Jack whipped around to see Miss Bright, standing in the doorway of her father’s bedchamber. Wearing a thin wrapper that delineated the very curves he’d fought to forget, she appeared shocked. Confused.
And more than just a little bit angry.
Chapter Four
Dorothea was speechless. While she’d bathed in the kitchen, this rogue had been rifling through her father’s belongings and helping himself to whatever he wanted. He’d probably taken a sackful of those disgusting figures and was now looking for money.
“Miss Bright,” he said. There was a self-satisfied gleam in his eyes that was just as vexing as his burglary. He tapped a flat metal case against the palm of his hand. “Now that I’ve found what I needed, I’ll be on my—”
“I think not, sir,” she said angrily, blocking his exit from the room. “To my knowledge, common thieves are not let loose here in London any more than they are in any other city in the world.”
“The common thief in this house isn’t me, Miss Bright,” he said. “If it’s anyone, it’s your father.”
Dorothea snapped her mouth shut in outrage. How dare he insult her father, a highly respected explorer and archaeologist. She had heard her father’s credentials enumerated by her mother. Just because her parents were incompatible did not mean Honoria had no respect for Alastair’s professional qualities. True, she had not spoken of him often, but Honoria had made Dorothea aware of what she needed to know of her father.
According to Honoria, the British Museum owed a huge debt to Professor Bright for his contributions to their collections of ancient art, and certainly other museums had benefited from her father’s daring explorations. To call Alastair Bright a thief would be to malign all explorers and excavators of ancient sites.
“How dare you!”
“Easily,” he replied as his wicked grin faded. “I call it like I see it.”
“Then perhaps your vision is impaired!”
“Not likely,” he said as he moved around the bed to stand in front of her. He was like a mountain, huge and indomitable. His presence dominated the room, and Dorothea fiercely resisted the urge to step back. “Your father sabotaged my expedition in Tanganyika. He stole the most prized possession of the Mongasa tribe, and—”
“And I’m to take your word for that?” she asked caustically, crossing her arms over her chest.
“What you do is your business,” he said. He moved to push past her, but Dorothea did not let him by.
“On the contrary, Mr. Temple,” she said, ignoring the scent of the outdoors that he carried with him. “What you have in your hand is my business.”
The man had the audacity to laugh in her face. His teeth lined up white and straight behind lips that were turned up in ridicule, rather than humor. “Right. A moldy old map, written in ancient Arabic is your business.” He moved again, but Dorothea’s hand shot out to grab the metal case in his hands. She only succeeded in knocking it to the floor.
They both bent down to retrieve it, bumping their heads together. A yellowed and withered length of old vellum fell from the metal case and Dorothea snatched it.
“Hand it over,” he said menacingly.
Turning her back to Mr. Temple, she held it toward the light. “To his most gracious excellency—” she read.
“Give me that!” he demanded, reaching around her. Dorothea turned to avoid him, but he managed to slip one hand around her waist and yank her against him while he grabbed for the vellum.
“—the, umm, priest? No, the abbot…of—”
“One more chance to do the right thing, lady,” he growled. “Then I take hold of this sash and you’ll be wishing you’d handed it over.”
With a gasp of outrage, Dorothea realized he had hold of the tie that held her wrapper together at her waist. She’d been in such a rush to investigate the noise in her father’s bedchamber, that she hadn’t taken time to dress properly. She was standing half-naked in this man’s presence, and she was entirely at his mercy.
In a huff, she handed the document to him while she held her dressing gown together, in case he had other ideas. She tried to move, but he did not allow her to step away. Anxious to preserve some modicum of dignity, she did not struggle, certain that he would release her shortly.
“What do you know of this?”
“Of what?” she asked haughtily.
“The text…the writing.” Still behind her, he shook the vellum once in front of her face.
“It looks like a letter,” she replied.
“You can read it?” he asked, his voice incredulous. “You know Arabic?”
With his hold loosened, she pulled away, then turned to face him, drawing herself up to her full height and attempting to appear composed. When she spoke again, she used the exact tone her mother always used to express contempt, wondering if Honoria had ever felt the same kind of uneasiness that ran through Dorothea now. “I know a great number of things, Mr. Temple. The Arabic language is one of them.”
“Wouldn’t you know,” he muttered. “Have you already translated this for him?” he asked her.
“This conversation is over, sir,” she said, forcing her voice to remain steady. She was in the most compromising situation she could ever have imagined, with a man more dangerous than any she’d ever known. Her damp body was naked but for a thin wrapper, and she could not imagine the state of her hair. She did not know whether prudence dictated that she flee from him and lock herself in her room or force the issue and make him leave.
He was still dressed in the same clothes he’d worn earlier, only now they were even more disreputable. His awful whiskers hadn’t gotten any shorter, and he appeared more threatening than ever.
But Dorothea had never known her mother to back down, no matter what the circumstances. And her will had always prevailed. “I’ll thank you to return the letter to me and leave this house. Immediately,” she said, holding out one hand to receive the document.
“What does he know of the map?” Temple demanded, refusing to budge from his place directly in front of her. “Has he figured it out yet?”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” she replied. She let go of her wrapper to push him out of the room, but when it started to fall open, she realized that he’d untied the sash. Heat blossomed on her cheeks and she quickly turned away from him, scrambling to repair the damage.
She heard a chuckle behind her and as her temper flared again, she realized that anger would not serve her now. She needed to unnerve the barbarian as badly as he had shaken her and wished she had a little gun that she could pull from her sleeve the way he’d taken his from his boot that afternoon.
“What are his plans?” he probed.
“Even if I knew, I certainly would not tell you,” she said.
When Dorothea was as decently covered as possible under the circumstances, she turned to face him, tamping down her embarrassment. Not only was she half-naked, she was completely ineffective against this ruffian. It w
ould be up to her father to deal with him when he returned. She could do no more, and she yearned to escape to the privacy of her room. “Now, if you’ll—”
“Not until you tell me what you know,” he said menacingly. With arms as thick as railroad ties crossed over his chest, he positioned himself in front of the door so she was unable to leave. “Does he have copies of the map? Can he get to the Mandylion without the map and key? Has he got a good translator for—?”
“I’ve never heard such nonsense,” she said, startled by the rapid spate of questions. “What is this Mandylion and why—”
He barked a laugh. “You are very good.”
Uncertain of his meaning, she continued. “—and why do you care what my father does with it?”
He shook his head in what appeared to be disbelief. “Besides being a thief, your father is a charlatan who will sell the Mandylion to the highest bidder.”
“Well…Is there some reason why he should not?”
“My God, woman,” he nearly shouted. “It’s the Mandylion! The legendary cloth that was used to wipe the face of Christ when He walked to His death. The cloth that’s said to bear the imprint of His face.”
She did not wish to appear uninformed or stupid, but she had never heard of such a cloth. If it existed, as Mr. Temple believed, it would certainly be a priceless relic. Surely her father would not sell it indiscriminately. He was far too conscientious a scholar to do that.
“And the map that leads to the Mandylion was in my father’s desk today?”
His eyes narrowed and he gave a slow nod as he scrutinized her.
“I cannot believe your audacity in coming here and maligning my father to my face,” she said quietly, trying another tack. If her father found this Mandylion and turned it over to the British Museum, his reputation would be infinitely enhanced. A man like Jack Temple could never again accuse him of being a fraud.
“Your father sabotaged my expedition into Mongasa territory six months ago because of his greed,” Temple said, and Dorothea heard the grimness in his voice. “We nearly lost our lives.”
Certain that he was exaggerating, Dorothea held out her hand again, for the vellum he still held. She had an idea—though she really needed to think it through a bit more—that if she were the one to find the Mandylion, she could give it to her father and he could present it to the museum.
If only she knew where Alastair was, she would not have to go to such lengths. She could question him and discover exactly what he knew of the cloth, where he intended to look for it and what he intended to do with it once he found it, for surely he had a plan.
But according to Creighton, her father was not yet returned from his African expedition. Dorothea hadn’t asked for details, assuming he would return home soon, so she did not actually know how long it would be before he arrived. One glance at the formidable man standing in the doorway, and Dorothea was certain that Mr. Temple would not wait and deal fairly with Alastair. The American would take the map and its key and do all he could to discredit her father.
Dorothea was not going to allow that to happen.
Reluctantly, Jack put the document into her outstretched hand.
She turned toward the light, obviously unaware that her robe was molded to every curve of her body. Damned if she wasn’t the worst distraction he’d suffered since being tied to the stump in the middle of the Bahisi village. And while his senses were flooded with the delicate floral scent of her, all her attention was focused on the key, which she unfolded and studied.
Jack took a step closer. Looking over her shoulder as she scrutinized the document, he breathed deeply and reminded himself that this woman was Bright’s daughter. He forced his attention away from the alluring curve of her neck and the pulse that beat there. He ignored the urge to pull out the pins that held her hair in place and touch the soft curls with his fingers. Instead, he looked at the swirling script on the page in her hands.
The text, which was not written in an orderly fashion, was surrounded on all four sides by intricate ink drawings. Jack could not tell if the elaborate border was part of the key or if it had been added just for the sake of decoration, in the medieval style. On closer inspection, he realized there were several Arabic characters interspersed in the design. Greek and Latin words were interlaced in the pattern, too.
“To his most gracious excellency, the Abbot of Rievaulx,” she read.
“Right,” he grumbled. “So you said already.”
“The next line is Greek,” she said, though she made no attempt to read it.
“Herein lies the precious cloth,” Jack translated with ease. The Greek and Latin words posed no problem for him. And with Bright’s daughter to take care of the Arabic…Damn! This was it! Between them, they’d have the whole thing worked out in a few minutes and he could leave for York on the night train, if that’s where the clues led him. “What does the next line say?”
She turned her head and looked over her shoulder at him. “Did you know the abbot of Rievaulx had something to do with this?”
“I only know that the map was found in York, near Rievaulx,” he replied. “But I haven’t had a chance to study it yet.”
“So you don’t know where the Mandylion is located.”
“No,” he said, “although York makes the most sense.”
“York?” Her tone was incredulous and he couldn’t blame her. “The city? Or the entire—”
“I don’t know,” he said, feeling testy. “That’s why I need the map. And the key. What does the next part say?”
“What will you do if you find the Mandylion?”
Jack did not bother to reply. What he did with the Mandylion was not her concern. He just needed her skill with Arabic, and he’d be on his way.
Impatiently, he tapped the vellum in her hands. “Can you read this?” he asked.
She looked back at the faded script on the vellum. After a long pause, she said, “I’m…not exactly certain of the words.”
“What do you mean?” he demanded. As he took the document from her hands, she whirled to face him. “I thought Arabic was one of the many things you know.”
Ignoring his sarcasm, she replied, “Well, the words blessed and fibers are there…”
“And what else?” he asked. His words were slow and deliberate, his voice low and menacing.
“It’s a poem…or a song, I think,” she replied.
“Go on.”
“Well, the Arabic is quite archaic,” she said, “and it won’t sound very poetic when I translate it.”
“Just give me the general idea,” he said, his patience waning.
Her eyes were shadowed and inscrutable, but when she straightened her shoulders and tilted her head slightly, Jack knew there was going to be trouble.
“I…I think I’ll have to sleep on it.”
“What?” he roared.
“There is no need to shout, Mr. Temple,” she said, flinching at his outburst.
“You know perfectly well—”
“I should say not,” she said peevishly. “It will take a bit of time and study before I can be certain that my translation is an accurate one.”
He wanted to take her by the shoulders and shake her. “I’m leaving for York tonight, and I need to know what this says.”
“Then you’ll have to take me with you,” she said, and it seemed to Jack that she had surprised herself. It was an audacious thing for a priss like her to even consider. He decided to take her bluff.
“Pack your things, then.”
“Wh-what?”
“Pack. Now.” He took her arm and led her out of Bright’s room, then ushered her down the hall. “I take it your room is here somewhere?”
She yanked her arm away. “I’ve only just arrived in London, and I—”
“Exactly what I figured,” he said, pleased to know that his theory had been correct. She had just gotten off a ship. “It’ll be simple since you probably haven’t unpacked yet. You’re coming with me.”
“You’re the one who suggested it,” he said, not entirely bothered by the fact that Miss Bright would be traveling with him. She was the most prickly female he’d ever known. But she was also one of the most interesting.
Chapter Five
Jack might have dozed comfortably in the rumbling car of the train. He might have relished his discovery of the Mandylion map and that he had gotten it away from Bright and his associate, Fleming, but one factor in all this bothered him.
Miss Bright. Miss Dorothea Bright, as he’d discovered just before leaving her house.
The lady sat on the bench beside him, her head lolling on his shoulder as she slept soundly. A feather from her overly decorated hat tickled his ear occasionally, and he brushed at it unconsciously as he considered what she was doing here.
Obviously, she had her own plans. Her hostility toward him could not be mistaken, and he knew without a doubt that she would not help him find the Mandylion to the exclusion of her father. Whatever she did, he felt certain that she would be acting in her father’s best interests.
Jack doubted she would give him a faulty translation of the Arabic lines on the map and in the key. She would not want to waste her time following him as he hunted down fraudulent clues. No, she would probably try to cause delays until her father could join her. If that didn’t work, she would go after the Mandylion with him. He figured she planned to get the upper hand somehow—maybe by withholding the last line of Arabic—so that she could find the Mandylion first and give it to Alastair.
It actually wasn’t a bad plan, he thought, absently moving her hat feather from his ear. And she probably thought she’d be able to contact her father and let him know of their progress somewhere along the way.
But Jack had a better plan. He wasn’t going to let her out of his sight until he had the Mandylion in his own hands. He allowed himself a small smile of satisfaction before he dozed. Ah, yes, the next few days were going to be mighty uncomfortable for Dorrie Bright.
It was near dawn when Dorothea awoke. She couldn’t remember ever having felt as exhausted as when they’d settled into their seats on the train the night before. Feeling the vibration of the railcar beneath her, she opened her eyes and realized she had fallen asleep on Jack Temple’s shoulder. Mortified, she hoped he had also slept, and had not noticed her compromising position.
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