Scoundrel's Daughter

by Margo Maguire

He felt humbled and touched, all at once.

  He looked over at her and saw that she was flushed. And her shoulders were shaking. No wonder, either. That had been as close a call as he’d had since Tanganyika. She had every right to break down and…

  She glanced over at him and burst into laughter.

  Jack was astonished. Her mirth was not the polite, well-modulated merriment he would have expected from a lady as demure as Dorrie, but an all-out gale.

  He felt himself smiling as their carriage rapidly covered ground. Dorrie had lost her hat, so her hair was loose and blowing in the wind. She held her bodice together with one hand and hung on to the carriage seat with the other while she laughed until tears streamed down her face.

  When they were far enough away from their fateful encounter, he slowed the carriage, pulled off the road and stopped.

  “Oh, Jack!” she cried, but could say no more because of her continued laughter. Somehow managing to keep the edges of her blouse together, she held her sides and laughed until her hilarity diminished to a few hiccups.

  She wiped her eyes with the back of her hand and looked up at him with moist, green eyes. Her lashes were dark spikes that glistened in the sun. “That was the silliest…Oh, Jack, I don’t know when I’ve ever been so ridiculous.”

  She was delightful, and Jack was speechless.

  “Those men…they were just suddenly there,” she said. “They grabbed me and—”

  “They must have seen us by the pond and waited for us to split up.”

  She nodded. “I don’t think I’ve ever been so frightened.”

  “You sure didn’t show it,” he said, using one hand to snag a lock of her hair. It was so silky, he wanted to bury his face in it.

  “I don’t know what got into me,” she said. “I just…It all seemed so absurd.”

  “What are you going to do with the knife?” he asked, gesturing toward the weapon she’d brought along.

  She reached down to the floor and picked it up. “Keep it,” she replied. “Maybe in my boot like your little gun.”

  Jack shook his head and laughed, then jumped down from the carriage and assisted Dorrie to do the same. “You’ll need some other clothes,” he said, reaching in for her bag. “I’ll wait over there while you change.”

  He needed some space.

  Leaning against a tree twenty feet from where Dorrie was removing her clothes, he allowed himself a moment to savor her reaction to their little misadventure. He realized he’d never seen her laugh, and she’d looked entirely unfamiliar with the experience.

  He guessed she hadn’t had much cause for gaiety in her life, judging by her usual starchiness, though he’d had more than a few clues that she possessed a fire beneath her cool and controlled surface.

  He knew she liked to sing. He’d heard her humming several times, always quietly, always when she thought no one was near. And though her clothes could not have been more proper, Jack had seen what she wore underneath. Tantalizingly delicate cotton and silk caressed her skin all day and all through the night.

  And when he kissed her, Jack did not think there was a volcano in the world as potent as her response to him.

  He reached down and picked a flower—a weed, he guessed, though it was pretty. He got another and another, and soon he had a whole handful of them. Catching a glimpse of Dorrie, he saw that she was mostly finished dressing. She had only one more button or two to go when Jack started walking toward her.

  Without thinking, he handed the flowers to her.

  “Bluebells,” she said. She took them and held them to her breast, tipping her nose to them. “They’re…they’re wonderful, Jack.”

  Jack wondered why, if they were so wonderful, she had tears in her eyes. Backing away from her before he did something even more foolish than gathering flowers, he said, “We’d better get going.”

  She bit her lip. “Not until I clean that cut on your cheek,” she countered.

  Dorothea could see that Jack wanted to argue, but she was having none of it. He had a gash on his cheekbone, just under his eye, and she had a ruined cotton chemise that she could use to wash it.

  She poured water from one of the bottles they’d brought from the Boar’s Head Inn and soaked the cloth. “Lean toward me,” she instructed.

  He eyed her warily, then rested one hand against the side of the carriage, backing her into it.

  “I don’t think it will hurt,” she said, ignoring the close quarters.

  “That’s not much of a guarantee,” he protested.

  “Well, I wouldn’t know,” she said flippantly, “since I’ve never been scraped like this.”

  Jack grumbled and winced when she touched the cloth to the spot and began to rub.

  “Ow.”

  “You’re going to have a bruise here.”

  “Yeah, well, you should have seen the other guy.”

  Dorothea shook her head and continued cleaning his injury. She’d been this close to him before. Closer, even. She could feel his eyes on her, feel his breath on her cheek, see the muscle clench in his jaw.

  Her knees suddenly felt weak and she had an odd feeling in the pit of her stomach. Jack had probably saved her life this afternoon. He’d taken on two—no three—men single-handedly in order to keep her safe.

  She stopped swabbing the cut and met his eyes. A fly buzzed past, and a wren cheeped nearby. Bees worked over the field, and a light breeze hushed through the trees. Dorothea swallowed loudly. “Thank you,” she said, “for being there today.”

  “Come here,” he said, his voice husky and low. Dorothea went into his arms.

  He whispered something she could not hear and touched his lips lightly to her forehead. Dorrie felt comforted by his embrace. She slipped her arms around him and stood still while he rubbed one hand across her back.

  “Dorrie,” he said. “You’re all right now.”

  “I know,” she replied quietly. “I guess it just now struck me how serious—”

  “Don’t think about it now. You’re safe. I won’t let anything happen to you.”

  She knew it was true. In all their travels, he’d seen to it that she was safe and comfortable, even if he did interfere with her privacy.

  Somehow, though, he was always there when she needed him.

  He handed her up into the carriage and Dorothea was glad there was no vase to put her bluebells in, because she wanted to hold them to her breast and savor this moment as long as possible.

  She had never received flowers before.

  They rode in silence again, though it seemed uncomfortable this time. Dorothea didn’t know what had gotten into her, laughing like a madwoman when she’d just been accosted and might even have lost her life. Jack must think she was out of her mind.

  Perhaps that was why he’d given her the flowers. It was nothing more than a gift meant to soothe her ragged nerves.

  That thought deflated her, though why she should care was beyond her comprehension. They were still rivals, and she had every intention of finding the Mandylion without him and turning it over to her father.

  Besides, once the Mandylion was discovered and she dealt with it, Jack Temple would be on his way to his next adventure. He probably had no roots other than a few loose ones in America, where his parents and siblings lived.

  Dorothea wondered how it would be to live like Jack, like her father, traveling from place to place, on expeditions like this one…or even more exotic. How she would love to travel to Greece, to Rome, to Arabia! She felt her pulse rise at the thought of such adventures, though she knew she would never be able to go.

  She had been warned about the weak condition of her heart too many times to indulge in such silly fancies as these. Travel would be too difficult. Extremes of temperature would be damaging. Foreign foods would upset her system and too much exercise would further weaken her damaged heart.

  Some part of her objected to these arguments. She’d been traveling with Jack for several days and had suffered only the slight
est discomforts related to her bad heart. Surely she could convince her father to take her on his next expedition. If she was careful, she would be all right.

  Besides, she did not think she could stand to return to her solitary, sedentary life.

  “There’s York up ahead,” Jack said. “We’ll just circumvent the city and keep going south.”

  “Why not go through the city?” Dorothea asked. “Wouldn’t that be the more direct route?”

  Jack hesitated for a second before replying. “I’d rather not go through the city.”

  “Actually, I need to stop and replace my—Replace the items that were ruined this afternoon,” Dorothea said. She had not brought many clothes with her, and when her assailant slashed through her chemise, corset and blouse, her wardrobe had been seriously diminished. Surely Jack would not begrudge her the opportunity to replenish what she’d lost.

  “Dorrie, can’t you—”

  “We’re right here, Jack,” she countered. “It will only take a few minutes and then we can be on our way.”

  Dorothea could tell that Jack was not happy with the decision, but he agreed to take her to a shop in York.

  “I’ll need money,” she said.

  When he turned and cocked his head to look impatiently at her, she said, “Well, you did drag me from London against my will.”

  “You came along willingly enough,” he said. “In fact, it was your idea to come along. Why didn’t you bring any money?”

  “Don’t be petty, Jack,” she said, glad of the argument. Not once had Jack been stingy with her, but this discussion helped Dorothea to put her relationship with Jack back into some reasonable perspective. “Besides, I’ll see that you are reimbursed.”

  In a short while, they were driving through the city gates. Jack stopped once to ask for directions to the merchant’s district and soon had her out of the carriage and into a ladies’ apparel shop.

  “Make it fast, will you, Dorrie?” he said as the shop girl approached. “I’d like to be on our way.”

  Dorothea did not understand his hurry. There was still a good bit of time before dusk. They would be out of the city and into their country inn well before dark.

  “May I assist you, madam?” the clerk asked.

  Embarrassed for Jack to overhear their discussion of her unmentionables, Dorothea stepped away and told the clerk what was needed.

  “We have a good selection of ready-made lingerie, if you’ll step this way.”

  Dorothea glanced back at Jack, who sat scowling in a pink brocade boudoir chair at the center of the shop. Smiling at his discomfiture, she followed the woman to the front of the store and looked over the fine linens and cottons displayed there.

  In the midst of choosing her merchandise, she felt an odd prickle at the back of her neck. Placing her hand on the spot, she turned around.

  In the window was a huge man with cocoa-brown skin and a completely bald head. His odd light-colored eyes lit upon Jack and stayed there. Dorothea didn’t think Jack would have been oblivious to the man’s scrutiny, but the difficult day had finally caught up to him.

  He had fallen asleep on the chair.

  Chapter Twelve

  Jack let himself be convinced that a night at the Ainwick Arms wouldn’t hurt. It was late afternoon, and he was tired. In reality, he was exhausted, having slept only fitfully the night before, then doing battle with those three villains near the pond. He’d gotten more battered and bruised than he wanted to admit, but he’d driven on, ignoring the ache that had settled in his ribs and the crick in his shoulder.

  It was so unlikely that Alastair Bright would find them here in the city, Jack figured it had to be safe to stay here one night before moving south to the next site on the map.

  He wasn’t so worried about Dorrie sending a wire to her father anymore, but if they returned to the Ainwick, they would have to share a room again, if only because the hotel knew them as husband and wife. What did worry him was that he was starting to become accustomed to thinking of them as a pair. A partnership. A couple.

  Jack had known her less than a week, but he could not imagine the day when they would part ways. And that was a thought that had him jabbing his fingers through his hair. He didn’t need to be entertaining ideas about Alastair Bright’s daughter.

  What he did need was a good night’s sleep.

  “Mr. Adams!” cried the hotel clerk when they entered the lobby of the hotel. “What happened?”

  “We met with a mishap on the road,” Jack replied. “Have you got a room?”

  “Why, yes sir,” the clerk replied. They quickly took care of business and registered. For once, Dorrie did not complain about the arrangements. When they reached the staircase that led to the guest rooms, she stopped abruptly, then returned to the desk.

  “We’ll have a meal sent to our room, if that’s possible,” she told the clerk, then proceeded to order the dishes she wanted.

  “Yes, madam,” the clerk said, writing on a pad.

  “And I’d like you to send up some clean cloths so that I can tend Mr. Te—Mr. Adams’s injuries.”

  “Right away, madam,” he replied.

  A few moments later, they were in the same room they’d shared before. The bags were placed on the floor near the bed and a pitcher and a bowl of clean water were brought in.

  Jack couldn’t believe his eyes. Gone was the prim little kitten he’d brought from London. In her place was a tigress.

  “Take off your coat, Jack,” she said, once they were alone, “and sit here on the bed.”

  Amused, he did as he was told. He didn’t have the energy to argue with her anyway.

  “You’re hurt,” she said, unbuttoning his shirt. “I saw you wince every time you moved.”

  “It’s not bad, Dorrie,” he said, enjoying the sensation of her fingers trailing down his chest to his belly.

  “I should not be doing this,” she muttered. “I should have asked to have a physician sent—”

  “No,” Jack countered. “No doctor.”

  “Of course,” Dorrie said, removing his hand from where he’d grabbed her wrist. She finished unbuttoning his shirt and pulled it out of his pants. “I knew that would be your reaction, so I didn’t even suggest it.”

  Jack dropped his suspenders and pulled the shirt off.

  “Oh heavens!” she cried.

  “I don’t think you’re supposed to let the victim know how dire his condition is,” he said dryly.

  “I’m sorry, Jack,” she said contritely. “It’s just that it’s so purple. And scraped.”

  “I don’t think any of the ribs are broken,” he said, looking down at his side. “Just bruised.”

  “I am going to call for a physician.”

  “Don’t bother,” he said. “He’ll only bind my ribs and give me some laudanum…which I won’t take, by the way.”

  “Why not?” she asked. She took a clean cloth and dipped it in the water, then touched it tentatively to his side.

  “It makes me sick,” he replied. “I took it once when I broke my arm.”

  She washed away the blood that had smeared across his abdomen. “How did you break your arm?”

  “Hmm?” Jack did not want to talk. He closed his eyes and savored her touch. When she was finished cleaning the dried blood from his belly, she made him turn so that she could look at his back.

  “Sore?”

  “My right shoulder,” he replied as she began to rub it. “I landed on it in the first round.”

  “First round?”

  “Boxing.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “Prizefighting,” he said. He stretched out on the bed and Dorrie kept rubbing his back. “Men fighting…for a purse.”

  “I’ve never heard of anything so ridiculous,” she said. “Are you teasing, Jack? Because if you are…”

  Jack couldn’t remember the last time he’d felt so good.

  But as he drifted off, he knew perfectly well that he’d felt even bett
er, just that morning, when he’d kissed and caressed Dorrie Bright.

  Jack was asleep when the tray arrived.

  Dorothea considered waking him, but he was so peaceful, she decided against it. She was certain he would take a short nap and awaken refreshed and hungry. The tray could wait.

  She picked up his coat and searched for one of the precious documents he always kept there. It was the key. Laying it flat on the table near the window, she went over to the bed and looked down at Jack. He was sleeping soundly. She should be able to slip the folded map out of his back pocket without waking him.

  Carefully, she used both hands to unbutton the pocket, then slid one hand in. With two fingers, she drew out the map. Opening it up, she lay it next to the key and sat down to study them both.

  What did they mean?

  Obviously, the writer wanted to confound any but the most educated reader. Why else would the key have been written in three obscure languages?

  Herein lies the precious cloth.

  Did he mean that the cloth lies there at the abbey? The document was addressed to the abbot, so why not? Herein lies the precious cloth.

  Jack’s interpretation made sense, too. This document might only be a letter or key for the abbot, indicating some clue that only the cleric would understand when he saw the map. Dorothea wondered if the mapmaker and the abbot had been friends. If she and Jack could figure out who the abbot was, they could determine who his friends were and then they might be able to make some sense of the clues.

  She held the key up to the light and scrutinized it carefully, looking for a date inscribed somewhere. That would help them to determine who the abbot was at the time the map was created. But there was nothing hidden within the ornate borders of the page.

  The map itself was plain. There were no flowery borders, no cherubs drawn anywhere. Nor was there a date. Only the child’s rhyme and a circle of mangled geography.

  Even Dorothea, who hadn’t been anywhere in her life, knew that this map was horribly inaccurate.

  Jack wanted to travel south of the city tomorrow. She traced one finger along the route from the city walls to the cross that was drawn just southeast of the city. One of the faces—a Templar head or not—was drawn nearby. It seemed a likely enough place to explore, though Dorothea could not understand how Jack thought he would find anything of value. The map was imprecise, and he couldn’t just start digging somewhere with the mere hope that he would discover the cloth.