“You can see the abbey from here,” she said before Jack had a chance to wrap his mind around the idea of Dorrie without her corset.
Rievaulx was visible in the distance, and Jack wondered if Bright and Fleming had arrived and walked around the ruins after he and Dorrie left. If so, he hoped Alastair Bright’s memory was faulty, and he’d have difficulty remembering exactly how the rest of the map was marked.
Jack wasn’t too worried about Bright arriving at the Boar’s Head Inn. He’d covered that possibility with a credible story for the innkeeper about tricks his friends might try to pull on himself and his new bride. The innkeeper had winked and told him not to worry. No pranksters would be allowed to ruin a honeymoon at the Boar’s Head Inn.
Still, Jack intended to keep an eye out for Dorrie’s father. The man had seen the Mandylion map, as well as the key, and he knew the general area where the cloth was likely to be found. He’d be prowling around Yorkshire, asking the same questions Jack was asking, though Jack hoped he was asking them first.
He wondered if Bright could read Arabic, then decided it didn’t matter. He could find his own translator, just as Jack had done. And Jack took some satisfaction in the fact that he was using the translator Bright would have preferred.
As he watched Dorrie gaze into the distance, she shivered and ran her hands up her arms. Damned if the woman didn’t take a chill at the least little breeze.
“Cold?” he asked, unbuttoning his coat to give to her.
Absently, she shook her head. “Just…just thinking about someone.”
“Your father?”
“No,” she said quietly. “Actually…my mother.”
Jack had never heard anything of Alastair’s wife. And Dorrie had never mentioned her before. He wondered where she was now, and how she felt about her husband’s collection of lewd antiques.
“She died less than a month ago,” Dorrie said. “Just took ill suddenly and never left her bed.”
Jack did not know what to say. This was the last thing he expected to hear, and he felt a moment of shame knowing he’d dragged Dorrie out of her house while she was in mourning. She hadn’t said anything, though she’d seemed a bit out of her element, stunned perhaps, when Jack had first encountered her at her father’s house.
Damn, Alastair probably didn’t even know his own wife was dead. Maybe he was still in London seeing to whatever details he’d need to deal with and had sent Fleming ahead to York. It was something to consider.
“I’m sorry, Dorrie,” he said. “I didn’t know.”
She shrugged and continued looking toward the Rievaulx ruins. “It’s all right. You couldn’t have known.”
Jack didn’t think he’d have done anything differently even if he had known. He would still have brought her to York to help him translate the key and to keep her from helping her father.
But would he have kissed her in the buggy? Would he have entertained all manner of lascivious thoughts about her when he’d held her through the night? He would like to believe he was more noble than that, but he wasn’t. Even now, when he knew she was grieving, he wanted her.
He’d needed all his powers of self-restraint to refrain from kissing her again in their room at the inn. She had not put up any serious resistance to his advances, and Jack knew he could have had her on the bed and under him within minutes of touching her lips. Luckily, his good sense had prevailed. He’d hurried her into her coat and down the stairs before anything could happen.
“My mother would have been appalled by this turn of events.”
“You mean, traveling with me?”
She nodded. “And my…behavior. Anything but what she would have thought proper.”
“Dorrie, I—”
“I just miss her so much,” she said. The last word was caught on a sob that she quickly stifled. Her shoulders jerked and before Jack even thought about it, he’d turned her and pulled her into his arms.
She wept. At first he felt her trying to hold back, but when her tears came, they were accompanied by wracking sobs. Her hat fell off, but she didn’t notice. Jack held her close as she poured out her grief and murmured quiet words to her. He didn’t know what he was saying, only that he’d seen his mother do the same for his sisters when they were upset, and it always seemed to help.
Jack wasn’t feeling particularly familial with Dorrie, though. He felt sympathetic and protective. He felt like a man taking care of his woman. He felt powerful and needed at the same time. And he felt her soft body against his.
Her crying subsided and she took a long, shuddering breath. “She was always so strong,” Dorrie said. “Nothing like this would ever have happened to her.”
“Dorrie,” he said, rubbing her back. “You’ve done very well for yourself.”
“You don’t understand,” she said. “My mother would never have allowed you to steal those things from my father’s house, nor would she have let you drag her onto the Great Northern Rail—”
“I don’t remember any dragging.”
“—and force her to sleep in the same room with you.”
He rubbed her back and stifled a chuckle. “You were damn lucky to have me last night, sweetheart,” he said.
“I’m sure I would have managed.” She was prickly again.
“You didn’t seem to think so when you were shivering your toenails off.”
She pulled away from him. “I’ll thank you not to refer to…to…body parts—”
He laughed. “When I start talking about body parts, honey, they sure won’t be toenails.”
Enjoying her shocked expression, he took her arm and started down the hill. “Dorrie, I’m sorry for your loss,” he said, “and I regret that you ended up in the middle of this mess between your father and me.”
She sniffed once, and he searched his pockets for a handkerchief.
“I will assure you that if we do find the Mandylion,” he said, “it will be granted to a reputable museum and not sold as a black market treasure.” As your father would do, he wanted to add, but decided against it. He didn’t want to hear her defending Alastair.
“You’re implying that my father will sell it if he finds it?”
“Dorrie, I don’t want to imply anything,” he said, finally locating his handkerchief and handing it to her. “I’m just telling you that when I find the Mandylion, it’s going to the British Museum. The director of antiquities there can decide what’s to be done with it after that.”
Dorothea did not want to argue. She wanted to go to her room at the inn and let go the tears that were still welling up inside her. For days, she’d avoided thinking of her mother and how much she missed her, doing what was necessary to move out of the house in Oxford.
“Why don’t we go back for supper?” Jack asked. “The innkeeper is a talkative fellow. I wonder if he knows anything about the Mandylion and its connection to Rievaulx.”
Dorothea dabbed at her eyes, resentful of the fact that Jack was diverting her attention from her grief. “What do you think you’ll find out?”
“I have no idea,” Jack replied. “Sometimes local lore or legend has a basis in fact. Maybe the innkeeper can tell us some of the old stories about the abbey.”
“Then what?”
“It depends on what he tells us,” Jack said. “If he says there was an abbot in 1289 who had a secret treasure that he buried under the northeast pillar of the—”
“You don’t think he’ll say any such thing.”
“Why not? I’ve heard stranger things in my travels,” he said, “and I’ll bet your father has heard even more, given the kind of objects he prefers to collect.”
Dorothea felt as if her air had been choked off. She yanked her arm away from him. “I would appreciate it if you would not refer to my father’s…collection…again,” she said, loading as much dignity into her words as possible. “They are—I never—”
“Never saw any of that stuff before?”
“Of course not!”
�
�You mean your old man left that door locked all the time, and you never wondered what was in the room?”
“What my father does is his own business,” she asserted.
Jack laughed, and she struck out ahead of him. She would let him laugh as long as he liked, but not within her hearing. She would return to the inn alone and close herself in her chamber until morning. And Mr. Jack Temple could fend for himself somewhere else until then.
She was out of breath again when she arrived in the inn yard, but she ignored the discomfort. She was sure the feeling of breathlessness would pass once she had a moment’s rest.
“Ah, there you are, Missus,” the innkeeper said when Dorothea entered the main room. “Supper is ready. I was wondering if you and your husband would be back in time.”
Dorothea didn’t bother to correct the man’s perception of her relationship with Jack. Her incorrigible companion had registered them as man and wife, and it was much simpler to leave it that way. In fact, it gave her an odd thrill to be thought of as Jack Temple’s wife, to have shared a bed with him, and she knew she should be ashamed of it.
“Mr. Atwater,” Jack said in greeting. “Something smells good. Doesn’t it, sweetheart?”
“I’m not particularly hungry this evening,” she said, still annoyed with him and with herself.
Jack took her arm and made it impossible for her to leave him without making a scene. He ushered her into the common room, where a table had been laid for them. The innkeeper’s wife and daughters were bringing out bowls and platters from the kitchen, and as the volume of food mounted, Dorothea wondered who else would be dining with them.
“Come in, come in! Sit!” called the older woman.
“Such a feast, Mrs. Atwater,” Jack said, holding a chair for Dorothea, but giving the woman his rapt attention. “All for us?”
“Nothing too good for our guests,” the woman replied, beaming back at Jack and his captivating dimples. Dorothea did not care for the surge of wifely possessiveness that shot through her at the interchange. She needed to put some space between them, and soon.
“What part of America is your home, Mr. Adams?” Mrs. Atwater asked, calling him by the name he’d used when registering.
“New York,” he replied as he handed serving dishes to Dorothea. His manners were impeccable, and he exuded charm.
“Do you have family there, then?” she asked.
Jack nodded, and Dorothea listened to his reply with interest. She knew next to nothing about him—other than the fact that he was an adventurer like her father. “My parents live in the city, along with my two sisters.”
“Oh, you come from a small family, then?”
Jack winked. “Not if you count my three brothers,” he said with a grin.
Mrs. Atwater poured ale in their mugs, while Dorothea tried to recover herself. She had not thought of him in the context of a family. He was a son. And a brother.
“And have you had a chance to visit New York, Mrs. Adams?” Mrs. Atwater asked.
Jack took her hand and spoke before she could reply. “Not yet, but she’ll be coming home with me after our honeymoon.” He turned and looked in her eyes, and it seemed to Dorothea that the room went silent. She could no longer hear the barking dog outside or the landlady’s daughters chattering in the kitchen. The fire in the grate went silent.
There was only Jack, and he had her hand in his, his eyes on hers.
The smile slipped from his face as his gaze became more intense. Dorothea felt her blood pounding in her temples. Her corset felt tighter than usual, and her collar was choking her. Jack looked at her as if she were one of the courses set before him.
Dorothea should have been outraged, but she could not find any indignation in her. All she wanted was to feel Jack’s arms around her, his lips on hers. She wanted to lie in the bed upstairs and feel his weight next to her, his warmth surrounding her.
And she wanted something more.
Jack tore his eyes away, to answer a question asked by the landlady. “No, this will be more than enough, Mrs. Atwater,” he said, though his voice sounded odd to Dorothea. He released her hand and began to eat, avoiding her eyes.
Dorothea looked down at her plate and tried to make sense of what had just happened. Had she recognized the expression in his eyes? Did he want to kiss her as badly as she wanted him to?
She swallowed. This was so very improper. She could not allow him to kiss her. Albert Bloomsby had been limited to a mere touch of his lips on the back of her bare hand, and he’d been a frequent visitor. She and her mother had known him for years. Yet Dorothea had already given Jack Temple—a stranger—leave to kiss her intimately.
She needed to get control of herself and remember the lessons of propriety taught by her mother. Honoria would be aghast to know that her daughter was traveling alone with a man. She would never have permitted such a thing.
But Dorothea did not regret her adventure. She had seen and done more in the last three days than in her entire life. It had been wonderfully liberating to forget about her weak heart, to walk among the ruins of Rievaulx and up the hill beyond the inn. She had ridden in an open buggy—something her mother had never allowed—and was drinking ale with her supper!
She could not even consider how her mother would have reacted to the knowledge that her daughter had slept with a man.
Nothing about her life in Oxford could compare to the last few days or to the sensations she experienced when she was with Jack. Still, she knew she had to guard against such foolishness. Jack Temple was a wanderer like her father. Irresponsible, unreliable, reckless. What would any sane woman want with a man like him?
She refused to think of the dimple that appeared in his cheek when he smiled. Or the strength of his arms when he’d held her. She would not dwell on the comfort he’d given so freely when her grief had overcome her.
No matter what some of his gentler qualities might be, he was not a suitable man for her at all.
Dorothea ate a few bites while she dreaded the coming night. As exciting as her days had been, she did not know how to manage Jack. It was entirely possible that he would expect to share the bed with her.
Dorothea could not allow that again. It would never have occurred last night, except for that terrible chill she had taken in the rain. Tonight, she would insist that he take his own room or remain here in the common room, finding rest any way he might for the night.
Concentrating on her meal, Dorothea wondered how she would enforce her decision. Surely Jack would not allow himself to be put out of the room so easily. He was in possession of the key, and he knew how to get around the chair propped under the knob, so she could not lock him out.
Up until now, Jack had relied upon Dorothea’s sense of decorum to get her to comply with his will. What if she simply refused to behave? What would he do then?
This was an idea that was as frightening as it was compelling. To her knowledge, she had never acted inappropriately in her life. Her mother would not have tolerated it, and Dorothea didn’t know if she could actually do it.
But what if she tried something now? What if she created such a scene that Jack Temple was forced to retreat?
She nearly laughed at the thought. Instead, she glanced up at him and watched for a moment while he put his energy into his supper. His jaw was square and solid, with the shadow of evening whiskers. A lock of his hair had fallen over his forehead, and her fingers itched to push it back.
She refrained and toughened her resolve to remain indifferent and distant.
“Are you finished?” Jack asked.
Dorothea was taken by surprise by his question. She had expected him to finish his meal quietly, then lead her to their room for the night. “Yes,” she said.
“Why don’t you go on up?” he asked, pushing away from the table and helping Dorothea from her seat. “I’m going to get some air.”
“B-but…”
He gave her a captivating smile. “I’ll be up later.”
&nbs
p; Feeling duly dismissed, she watched as Jack left the room and tried to think of something to say.
“Your mister gone out for a smoke?” Mrs. Atwater asked, coming into the room with her daughters to clear up.
“He—”
“That’s what my man does after supper,” she continued, placing bowls and platters on a large tray. “Has his smoke and his whiskey before bed. I wouldn’t be concerned, now. The girls have turned down your bed, so it’s all ready for you. Just go on up.”
Jack felt rather smug. He’d seen the light of mischief in Dorrie’s eyes and managed to blindside her before she could act on whatever plan she’d concocted.
He’d sent her to their room, secure in the knowledge that she couldn’t get to her father without riding back to York. There was no telephone here at the inn, nor were there any telegraph offices nearby. The Boar’s Head Inn was about as isolated as it could possibly be.
Besides, Jack thought, she looked done in. It had been a long day, and he could see that she needed rest.
Jack inhaled tobacco smoke and stood in the yard alongside Mr. Atwater, who’d come out for the same reason. They walked to a low, wooden bench and sat down, looking at the clear, black sky. Jack decided to take the opportunity to ask questions about the abbey and any lore associated with it.
The landlord was a garrulous fellow and had many a story about the abbey. But there was nothing relevant to Jack’s quest. Other than tales of a ghost or two over the centuries since the abbey’s dissolution, there was no mention of anything of interest to Jack. No hidden treasure of any kind, no word of a sacred cloth hidden on the grounds.
He had no more information now than he did when they left York that morning. Jack wondered why Rievaulx had been so prominently marked on the map. Then he wondered if the other markings would be equally disappointing.
Even with no news of the cloth, Jack did not believe the trip here had been wasted. Though the Mandylion remained as elusive as ever, he’d spent the night and a full day with Dorrie, and there was nothing that could compare to the range of expressions on her face as she’d walked around the ruins. She’d been completely immersed in the peaceful setting, intrigued by the majestic columns and the flying buttresses that remained.
Scoundrel's Daughter Page 10