Scoundrel's Daughter

by Margo Maguire

  She did not move. Taking stock of her entire situation, she realized she was practically draped over the man. Her hat had fallen halfway over her face, and she had drooled on his shoulder.

  And what was worse, her hands were loosely settled in his lap. The wool of his pants leg was soft and warm, but the muscle beneath was hard. Hard and taut.

  Dorothea swallowed. Bracing herself for the worst, she tipped her head and looked up at Mr. Temple, hoping to God that he was asleep.

  His eyes were open, and he was gazing at her.

  She sat up abruptly, unsure what to do first, whether to straighten her clothes, tip her hat back into place or wipe her mouth. What was the proper protocol for awakening in the morning with a man she hardly knew?

  “Sleep well?” he asked.

  She put her hand to her mouth and tried to think of something to say. He had cleaned himself up the previous night—shaving and changing clothes in her father’s kitchen—while she had dressed and packed. And now that he didn’t appear quite so barbaric, she found herself actually intimidated by the man.

  He stood and stretched, then leaned over her to look out the window. Dorothea held her breath as his powerful body hovered over hers. Now that he appeared so much more civilized, she should have felt more at ease. She should have been able to relax her guard. Yet she felt that during the next few days, her wits were going to be sorely tested.

  When he returned to his place beside her and sat down, she did not miss the wry smile that turned up his lips.

  “You can…freshen up back there,” he said, nodding toward the rear of the car.

  Grateful to have a safe retreat, she threw him a scathing look and stepped over the brute, who hadn’t the courtesy to move out of her way. She practically straddled his knees before escaping, which was no small feat, considering the slim skirt she wore.

  Barbarian that he was, Jack Temple seemed to enjoy her predicament and didn’t even turn away when her bosom was at his eye level.

  With no small degree of vexation, Dorothea ignored the palpitations in her chest and left Jack Temple long enough to repair what damage had been done overnight. When she was presentable again, she returned to her seat only to find him gone.

  The train was still moving, so it was obvious that he had not gone far. Glad for an extension of her reprieve, she thought about the days ahead and how she would manage to gain the upper hand.

  She had not yet seen the map, only the battered vellum they’d looked at together in her father’s bedchamber. She did not know if they’d come to York only because Rievaulx was located here or if the map indicated something more specific.

  It was certain she would have to get her hands on the map. How she would manage it was another question. As far as she knew, Mr. Temple kept it in one of his pockets at all times.

  She pictured herself slipping her hand into his back pocket, but her imagination would allow her to go no further. Already, she’d suffered any number of humiliations because of him. Blushing hotly, she vowed not to subject herself to any further indignities where Mr. Temple was concerned. She would soon figure some way to trick him out of the map.

  And then she would find the Mandylion for her father.

  “We’re just about to pull into the station,” Jack said when he returned to his seat next to Dorothea. Her stomach grumbled loudly and he grinned at her, enjoying her discomfiture. Her appearance was quite captivating when she was not scowling at him. And with that fresh flush on her cheeks, she was nothing short of beautiful. He wondered what had her so flustered now.

  Perhaps it was the memory of the way her hands had been curled on his thighs when she’d slept. That was something no proper miss would ever have allowed, but he’d certainly enjoyed it. His body reacted predictably when he thought of those delicate fingers resting in forbidden places and he wondered…Better not to wonder any further. The only thing he wanted from Dorrie Bright was her knowledge of Arabic.

  “We’ll get something to eat at our hotel,” he said, as much to distract himself as to tease Dorothea for the noises her stomach had made without her consent.

  “And then what?” she asked primly.

  “We’ll rest awhile, then go and see what we can learn at Rievaulx.”

  “But the monastery is gone,” she said. “How will you go about finding the cloth?”

  “I have the map.”

  “But it does not tell you what you need to know,” she countered, “or else you’d never have bothered looking for the key.”

  “Speaking of which,” he said, taking it out of the breast pocket of his coat, “did you get enough rest to decide what the rest of this line might be?”

  He kept the vellum on his lap, forcing her to lean toward him, almost as close as when she’d slept against him during the train ride. It was either that, or she’d have to pick up the vellum from his lap. Either way, he hoped she’d be thrown off balance.

  “Um…”

  “Blessed fibers?” he prodded.

  She glanced up at him then, her green eyes sparkling, and he knew. She was leading him on.

  “Or is your knowledge of Arabic as limited as mine?”

  She looked down at the vellum. “Its stained and blessed fibers,” she read. “The next line is Latin.”

  “A testament of the comfort it brought,” Jack translated.

  “To one we hold divine.”

  Which said, exactly what, Jack wondered. He considered the lines they’d translated together.

  Herein lies the precious cloth,

  Its stained and blessed fibers

  A testament of the comfort it brought

  To one we hold divine.

  The lines sure didn’t give any clues to the meaning of the tightly folded map in his back pocket. Both documents contained words, or lines, in several languages. It was as if the writer wanted to make sure that no single person would be able to do a full translation, and therefore, find the Mandylion.

  Jack frowned. Was this document the key?

  He considered asking Dorothea her opinion, then decided that whatever answer she gave, he was not likely to trust it. She had her own motives for coming to York with him, and it sure wasn’t to help Jack Temple.

  On the actual map, he’d recognized the word Eboracum, the Roman name for York. Using that as a base, he’d looked north and found a cross marking Rievaulx Abbey, then several other markings between the abbey, the town and the coast. Jack just didn’t know what these markings meant.

  He could approximate the distances and explore the areas represented by all the symbols, but this was a medieval map. Distances and land configurations didn’t mean the same thing to people five hundred years ago, especially when they were drawing maps. It was possible that he’d need to consult a medieval historian, but with luck, someone here in town would be able to help him.

  The train came to a stop, and in a short time, Jack got them into a cab and on their way to the Ainwick Arms Hotel, a reputable place where he’d stayed when he’d visited York some years before. When they arrived, he made sure that Dorothea was seated in a comfortable chair in the lobby with a cup of hot tea, before he registered for a single room in the name of Mr. and Mrs. John Adams.

  He saw no need to upset her before it was absolutely necessary, and certainly not in public. But he was not only going to keep her with him tonight, he was not going to advertise his own name so that Bright could locate him, just by asking for Jack Temple.

  Taking the room key, he turned their luggage over to a porter, then joined Dorothea. “Shall we go have some breakfast?” he asked cordially. He knew there would be some histrionics when she learned about their room and wanted to have a meal first.

  He escorted her into the dining room, where several tables were engaged. Most of the other patrons were men who appeared to be discussing business, although a few tables were occupied by couples who seemed completely absorbed in one another. Jack figured they must be newlyweds—they were the only men he knew who looked at t
heir women like such saps.

  Jack didn’t mind looking at Dorothea. Not at all. Her skin was about as pretty as any he’d ever seen, smooth and flawless, from the faint blush of her cheeks to the hint of a cleft in her chin. Her cool green eyes intrigued him. Framed by thick dark lashes, they sizzled with anger or became razor sharp when her brain was at work. But it was their expression when she’d awakened, when they’d been as soft as wet moss, that he could not forget.

  As he looked at her lips, full and pink and inviting, she brushed at her chin. “Do I have something on my face?” she asked without guile.

  Jack shook his head and put that sweet image of her aside. No point in him looking like a sap, too.

  Breakfast could not have been more uncomfortable for Dorothea. With Mr. Temple’s undivided attention on her, she was hardly able to choke down her muffin and egg. No one had ever disconcerted her so.

  “What do you expect to find at Rievaulx?” she asked. She finished her tea and dabbed daintily at her mouth. Then she set her napkin on the table next to her plate and placed her hands in her lap. She’d been surprised to discover that Mr. Temple understood table etiquette. For a barbarian, his manners rivaled her own, and she disliked having to admit it. She had looked for every possible reason to continue thinking of him as a rude and uncouth colonial.

  But, since their arrival at the hotel, he was proving her wrong.

  “I’m not sure,” he replied, leaning back in his chair. He didn’t take his eyes off her, and Dorothea resisted the urge to squirm in her seat. His steely gaze never failed to make her heart pound, and she would have avoided looking directly at him, except that she refused to be cowed by him. She reminded herself that Jack Temple was the one who had stolen her father’s property, he was the one in the wrong here, and Dorothea was going to see that her father got his due.

  “Do you think there will be someone whom you can question about the map?”

  “Possibly, although it’s not likely.”

  “Then I fail to see what the point is,” she said.

  A small smile softened his lips and Dorothea was chagrined to note that a long dimple creased his cheek. He looked so much less disreputable with those awful whiskers gone, but no less dangerous. Dorothea didn’t allow herself to consider what that meant but went on questioning him.

  “What does the map say? Can you read all of it, or will I have to help you translate?”

  “Tell you what,” he said. “I’m beat. Why don’t we get a couple hours’ sleep, then we’ll look over the map together. If you see anything you recognize, we’ll go after it.”

  He stood and helped her from her chair, just as a true gentleman would, although Dorothea could barely give him credit for that. She needed to remember that he was the enemy, as courteous as he might pretend to be.

  “What do you mean, if I recognize anything? Is the writing Arabic? Do you think I’ll—”

  “No,” he said. “It’s a typical medieval map. It’s formed in a circle, with the main point of interest at the center.”

  As he placed his hand at her lower back and guided her up the main staircase, Dorothea couldn’t help but imagine herself being led upstairs by a devoted husband—like the ones she’d seen in the dining room. Those young men had looked so devotedly at their wives…Surely, those couples were newlyweds enjoying their wedding trip.

  They would spend the day together, touring the countryside, having picnics or driving out to the seaside. And at night, they’d return to their room together and spend it in each other’s arms.

  At least, that was what Dorothea thought, although her mother hadn’t spoken much about marriage. The most Honoria had said was that the wedded state was something for which Dorothea—and all respectable women—should strive, to gain security and stability in her old age.

  Dorothea definitely wanted security and stability, and if only Albert Bloomsby had proposed before she’d left Oxford, she would have happily become his wife.

  But here she was, being escorted by a coarse and barbarous American, rather than sitting quietly in her father’s London home awaiting word from Albert. She sighed.

  Mr. Temple pulled a key from his waistcoat and pushed open the door to her room. It was lovely. She quickly took in the restful shades of blue and gray in which the room was decorated and the large bed that dominated the space. She would be comfortable here for the length of their stay, and while Jack Temple was sleeping in his own room, she would slip away to find a telegraph office and send a wire to London. Certainly Creighton would see that Alastair received the message as soon as he arrived home.

  She turned to close the door just as Jack Temple’s shabby valise caught her eye. A nasty jolt of suspicion shot through her. What was that valise doing here?

  Turning to confront him, he shut the door behind him.

  He nodded at her with a self-satisfied smirk on his face. “That’s right,” he said. “It’s just you and me, Dorrie. Together.”

  Chapter Six

  “You’re not going to faint, are you?” Jack asked, alarmed by Dorothea’s sudden pallor.

  Color quickly flooded her cheeks and she placed her hands on her hips, showing her figure to great advantage. Jack decided it was in his best interests to ignore it for the moment.

  “Of course I’m not going to faint,” she said, reaching to place one hand on the doorknob. “But I’m going to have you removed from my room. The very idea!”

  “Uh-uh,” he said, covering her hand with his own. “We stick together through this whole expedition or all bets are off, Dorrie.”

  “Why, I—”

  “Planned to summon the old man, didn’t you?”

  “Certainly not!” she cried. “I—I only want m-my privacy. It is entirely improper for me to be here with you. Like this.”

  “Like what?” Jack said, moving closer. His face was only inches from hers, and, as he anticipated, she did not retreat a single inch.

  “Alone.”

  “What do you think is going to happen?” He was but a breath away. He had intended only to tease her, but she was so close he could almost count her eyelashes. He could see a few faint freckles dusting the bridge of her nose and smell whatever floral scent she’d dabbed behind her ears.

  He wanted to taste her.

  He wanted to touch the smooth, soft skin of her face and breathe in the scent of her hair.

  Luckily, he remembered exactly who he was dealing with, before he did something stupid. “Nothing,” he said, answering his own question. “That’s what’s going to happen. Absolutely nothing.”

  She released the breath she’d seemed to be holding. A small frown creased her brow, and Jack stepped away. He decided to take pity on her. “Take the bed. Have a rest. I’ll be back in a while.”

  When Jack left the room, he started down the stairs, planning on a long walk to clear his head. He must be insane to entertain the kind of thoughts that had crossed his mind while gazing into Dorothea Bright’s eyes. No doubt her father used her as a very effective distraction whenever he negotiated terms. There wasn’t a man on earth who could avoid being distracted by her.

  Jack didn’t know how he was going to stick with her for the entire time they were in York. He’d have to…

  Jack stopped at the foot of the staircase. What a fool! He’d almost been tricked into leaving her alone. A woman of her intelligence wouldn’t have the slightest difficulty slipping away to get a telegraph message to her father. And when Alastair Bright arrived, Jack would have to take drastic measures to keep the man from sabotaging him again.

  Jack wanted the Mandylion discovered and publicized before Bright had a chance to get his greedy hands on it. And the sweetest revenge was that he was going to use the old man’s daughter to do it.

  He hurried back up the stairs, unwilling to give Dorothea the slightest opportunity to slip past him. There was a small sitting room at the end of the hall, and he decided to stay there and have a smoke while he waited for Dorothea to get settled.
Then he was going to join her in their room, grab one of the blankets from the bed and bunk down on the floor in front of the door.

  He needed an hour’s rest, too.

  Dorothea did not know how long she stood with her back to the door, her hand at her breast, her heart pounding. She was short of breath, too, but Dorothea did not think it was due to her condition. Jack Temple had an entirely too unsettling effect upon her, and she was going to have to guard against it. She would present no more opportunities for him to intimidate her in any way—including that most recent episode.

  Now that he’d left her alone and she could think clearly, she decided to approach the hotel desk and ask someone to send a message to her father. It was entirely unfair of Mr. Temple to have stolen the Mandylion map and to get so far ahead of her father in his explorations. She did not think any of her translations had helped him so far, but there was more—much more—Arabic written on that document. She hadn’t really studied it, but it was entirely possible that it would point exactly to the spot where the Mandylion was hidden.

  Dorothea opened the door a crack and looked to the left. All clear.

  “Looking for me?” Temple asked.

  Dorothea slammed the door shut and slipped her hand down to the lock, but there was no key. She couldn’t keep him out. And when a suspicious metal click sounded loud in her ears, she knew she couldn’t get out, either. He had locked her in.

  “Mr. Temple!” she called, her voice a harsh whisper. She would not make a scene in this respectable hotel, but she certainly would not allow him to jail her! “Open this door.”

  “Aw, honey,” he drawled. He was playacting! “Don’t be mad. I’ll just give you a few minutes to settle down, and I’ll be back. Go ahead and…get ready.”

  “I’ll get ready all right,” she muttered angrily, stepping away from the door. No doubt he’d uttered his words for the benefit of anyone who might overhear. Dorothea certainly wasn’t going to heed them. She would sit up in the boudoir chair by the window and wait for him to reappear. Then they would have it out. She would not be held prisoner by that barbarian.