A small crenellated wall was drawn near the coast, directly east of York. At least, it was drawn that way. And another one of the Templar heads was nearby. Dorothea wondered at the significance of these faces. Did they truly signify something sacred to the Templar Knights, or did the faces represent something else? Jack could be entirely wrong in his assumptions.
Still, if this map was somehow related to the Mandylion, and the Mandylion had been in Templar possession, then Jack’s reasoning made sense. The mapmaker could very well have had some connection with the Templars.
Dorothea ate from the tray and pored over the words on the map and key. She looked at them from every angle, checking the translations repeatedly, in case there was some nuance, some word that they had misinterpreted.
There wasn’t.
She read the nursery rhyme again, looking for clues in the words. Was there a location indicated here? Certainly, there was no mention of a specific place, but two of the lines made her think of the sea. Perhaps the writer lived by the sea. Or was fond of the sea. Or had buried the map by the sea.
Frowning, she studied the map. The third Templar head was closer to the sea than the others. And it was drawn near the crenellated wall. They had assumed the wall represented a castle, but if the castle…
Wait, Dorothea thought. A castle was usually a family seat. It would have been a nanny or a mother who recited this rhyme, perhaps at the castle drawn on the Mandylion map.
This was the first glimmer of insight Dorothea had had since she’d started translating. And she didn’t think Jack had any idea.
He seemed to believe the cloth would be hidden at a monastery or an abbey. Which made sense, of course. It was a religious relic. Why would he assume that it would stay in the possession of an individual family?
Unless he was investigating the least likely hiding places first. Maybe Jack had already come to Dorothea’s conclusions. He’d been at this sort of thing a lot longer than she had and probably had a much better system of sifting through clues.
Dorothea stood and stepped away from the table. She knew she was right. The nursery rhyme was the only clue here.
Jack shifted in his sleep. Dorothea guessed he hadn’t gotten much sleep these past few days, but he had only himself to blame. If circumstances had been different, and he had not brought her along….
She ran her hands up her arms. If Jack had not brought her to York, she would still be in London, trying to sort out some kind of life for herself in that dusty, dreary, neglected house of her father’s. She’d have been sweeping, dusting, scrubbing every corner of the place in order to make it into a home. Trying to turn Creighton into a trustworthy employee.
Was that what she wished for herself?
For the first time in her life, she was free to choose, free to make her own decisions. She doubted they’d all been the correct ones, but she had survived. And become stronger for it.
Dorothea was beginning to realize that she and her mother were of very different temperaments. She did not know if she could ever be content again, sitting at her desk, in a dry and barren atmosphere, translating ancient Prakrit texts into modern English.
It was the adventure of life that made it worthwhile—the possibilities and uncertainties that intrigued her. She wanted to travel to the boundaries of York and beyond. She wanted to see the ancient statues and buried village sites that she’d only read about.
Her heart sank. Once Jack was gone, her adventure would be over.
Perhaps she could convince her father to take her on his next expedition. If she managed to find the Mandylion before Jack, it would be a strong argument in her favor.
Dorothea knew she would have to do something to impress on him her value. She was not going to stay in that dreary old house in London.
Jack could not believe he slept the whole night through. He was ravenous when he awoke, but Dorrie was not in the room and that was worrisome. He groaned with the discomfort in his ribs when he pushed himself out of the bed to take stock of things.
His bag lay on the floor at the foot of the bed. His spare trousers, jacket and shirt had been removed and were hung up so they wouldn’t be too crumpled when he put them on. Dorrie had to have done it. One side of Jack’s mouth quirked in a smile. It was just like Dorrie to think about his clothes.
Her bag stood next to the door, packed and ready to go. There were no other signs of her presence in the room. Jack even had to wonder if she’d spent the night there with him.
One glance back at the bed told him that she had. There was a depression on the pillow that answered that question. But where was she now?
In a flash, his hands were searching his pockets to see if the map and key were still in place.
They were.
Why hadn’t she taken them and left? She wanted to find the Mandylion for her father, and last night would have been the perfect time to take the map and key and return to London. Jack smacked the heel of his hand on his forehead. He could not believe he’d allowed himself to be lulled to sleep by the soothing touch of her hands on his back. Not when so much was at stake.
Within minutes, he was in the lobby, the map in his back pocket and the key in his jacket.
“Did my…wife leave any message for me?” he asked the clerk at the desk.
The man nodded toward the dining room doors. “She said she would meet you at breakfast. Are you feeling better, sir?”
“Er, yes. Thank you.” Before joining Dorrie, he checked them out of the hotel and gave instructions for their carriage to be brought around to the front entrance.
Jack went through the door to the dining room and found Dorrie sitting near one of the windows, drinking tea and reading a newspaper. Her new hat was perched atop her burnished mahogany curls. She wore the blouse she’d purchased the day before under her jacket, hiding all the lush curves he knew she possessed.
He closed his eyes and took a deep breath. He’d been an idiot to give her so much leeway when she was the enemy’s daughter. In all his travels, from India to darkest Africa, there had been nothing, there’d been no one who’d posed a greater danger to him.
God almighty. He enjoyed being with her.
And if that wasn’t unsettling enough, he wanted her, too.
Everything had changed since yesterday, after lunch, when he’d heard her scream. He hadn’t gotten into the brawl for the fun of it or to prove anything, as might once have been the case. His only care had been for Dorrie. Making sure she was safe. Taking care of her. Thrashing the ruffians who had put fear in her eyes.
He looked at her now, sitting so prim and proper in her traveling clothes. He didn’t need the complications a woman would bring. He liked his life the way it was, with the freedom to do as he chose, whenever he chose to do it. He could drop everything on short notice and go on an expedition whenever he pleased, with the best group of fellows a man could want.
He wasn’t going to let Dorothea Bright interfere with it, either. Once the Mandylion was safely in the hands of the curator he knew at the British Museum, Jack would return to New York. A visit with his family was long overdue, and he would have time to research an intriguing Egyptian legend before autumn and the return of all his academic responsibilities at the university.
He had no room in his life for a woman like Dorrie, but as he watched, her cheeks took on a captivating pink tinge. He thought of her smooth skin and the ripe curves she hid under her corset and bustle. She took a sudden deep breath and placed her hand gently in the center of her chest. Her eyes drifted closed.
Jack felt an answering throb in his own chest, a thud that didn’t stop with one beat. And it annoyed him to think that his heart might beat in time with hers.
Chapter Thirteen
Dorothea didn’t see why Jack had to be so surly this morning. It was another beautiful day, and they had all the time in the world to search for the Mandylion.
She poured tea into the cup at his place.
He scowled and waved the waiter
to their table.
“Coffee,” he said to the man. “Black.”
“I’m sorry, Jack,” she said. “I’d have ordered—”
“Are you ready to travel?” he growled.
“Yes, I—”
“As soon as I drink this, we’ll go.”
She did not reply to his bad-tempered speech, but finished her tea, folded the newspaper and placed it on the table beside her plate. Her palpitations had passed, even if Jack’s temper had not. She imagined he must be in pain for him to act this way.
“How is your bruise?” she asked.
“Which one?”
She moistened her lips and refused to take offense at his treatment of her. Most of those bruises were the direct result of his fight to defend her, and she would not complain about his ill humor this morning.
His cheek was swollen and bruised, and the gash at its crest looked awful. She longed to reach over and caress him, but would not dare. Besides being in a public place where such a gesture would be entirely inappropriate, Jack would surely bite her hand off.
He left money on the table and stood, helping Dorothea to ease her chair back. In a short while, they were once again on the road.
Dorothea looked down at the modern map and frowned. “I think you should veer east,” she said.
He did not reply.
That was all right. Dorothea enjoyed the ride in spite of him, taking in the scenery, smiling and greeting the few passersby. She had yet to determine how she was going to get away from him to find the Mandylion alone. If he had any idea that she had figured out the clues, he would never let her out of his sight.
She sighed. She didn’t particularly want to be out of his sight.
Something must be wrong with her. He was no different from the brash American who had burst through the front door of her father’s house in London less than a week before. Well, he was cleaner now, but he was still an irresponsible adventurer.
And in the short time since they’d met, she had experienced more of life than she had in her twenty-five years in Oxford.
“Jack, look!”
She took hold of his arm and pointed into the distance, where a grouping of dark clouds hovered over neatly tilled ground. Bracketing the clouds were two rainbows.
“I’ll be damned,” he said, slowing the carriage and coming to a stop.
“I’ve never seen two rainbows at once,” Dorothea remarked.
“They’re rare, all right.” She heard awe in his voice and knew he was impressed, in spite of himself. Then he became cool again. “The rain’s headed this way.”
It suddenly became windy and Dorothea was reminded of the night when they’d been caught in the rain. They hadn’t been far from this spot, and they’d found shelter in a barn. She wondered if Jack would look for it again.
“What will we do?”
He looked at her then and she knew he was also thinking of the first time he’d kissed her. It made her breathless when his glance grazed her lips and returned to her eyes.
He cleared his throat. “It’ll be a while coming. Let’s keep going.”
It was just as well. He was going to despise her when she slipped away and claimed the Mandylion for her father. Jack might even feel as if she’d betrayed him, though they’d never had more than a tenuous partnership. She had made it clear from the start that her loyalty was to her father. He could not possibly think she would help him to take such a discovery away from Alastair.
Jack continued to drive south while Dorothea kept an eye on the coming storm.
“There’s a church near here. I visited it once with MacElroy, years ago,” Jack said. “It might even be the site marked by the cross on the map.”
Dorothea agreed that it might very well be one and the same, but she also knew that he would not find the Mandylion there.
They drove another mile, but the wind picked up and it was obvious that the storm was nearly upon them. Jack drove into a farmyard where a few plump chickens pecked at the dusty ground. A pretty young woman came out of the house, wiping her hands on her apron.
She smiled broadly at Jack and glanced at the sky. “Ye come just in time, I’d say. Drive yer carriage into the barn if ye like and wait it out in the house.”
“Thank you,” Jack said. “We will.”
When they returned to the house, the woman was waiting at the door.
“It’s going to be a downpour,” Jack said.
“American, are ye?”
Jack nodded.
“Come in, then,” the woman said. By her expression, she was glad to have company on this dreary day. “I’ve got tea and a few biscuits to offer.”
Dorothea felt Jack’s hand at the small of her back as she followed the woman into the cottage. She liked the way it felt, even as she admonished herself not to get too accustomed to it. If she ever saw him again after finding the Mandylion, she was certain it would not be on good terms.
“Is your husband at home?” Jack asked when they stepped into the kitchen.
“My—? Oh, I’m not married,” the woman said. “I keep house for my father. He’s out in the field, looking for a place to wait out the storm, I’m sure. What’s yer name, then?”
“I’m Jack Temple and this is—”
“Pleased to know you, Mr. Temple,” she said before Jack had a chance to introduce Dorothea. “I’m Alice Trevain.”
To Dorothea’s supreme annoyance, Miss Trevain smiled sweetly at Jack and batted her lashes at him.
“This is Miss Bright,” Jack said, finishing the introductions.
“Miss Bright,” Alice said, speculatively, dismissing her. The farmer’s daughter barely gave her another thought while she focused all her attention on Jack.
Jack seemed oblivious to her blatant flirting, but leaned casually against the table with his arms crossed over his chest. He obviously enjoyed looking at the woman, and Dorothea could not blame him. Alice Trevain was quite beautiful. In an old-fashioned, country sort of way.
A loud rumble of thunder sounded in the distance, and a sudden gust of wind blew dust and light debris at the window.
“Miss Trevain, do you know of a church nearby? A old stone place with a—”
“Sure,” she said, lifting the kettle from the stove.
“Let me help you with that,” Jack said, taking the heavy kettle from her. She beamed at him and pressed her bosom against his arm. Intentionally.
Dorothea gritted her teeth and said nothing. They were warm and dry and would be staying only until the storm was over.
“It’s Saint John the Baptist Church, about two miles east of here. But it’s not used anymore. They’ve got a nice church down in Selby and most go there.”
“No, I’m thinking of John the Baptist,” Jack said, returning her smile warmly while Dorothea stewed. How could Jack’s mood change so drastically in such a short time? He was as friendly to Alice now as he’d been hostile to Dorothea only moments ago.
Alice took off her apron and reached into a cupboard for a tin of biscuits, showing her assets to great advantage. She put the biscuits on a plate, then gathered three cups and set them on the table, brushing Jack’s arm or shoulder every time she came near.
“I visited there a few years ago,” Jack said. To Dorothea’s dismay, he didn’t seem to mind the close contact. “Are there any interesting stories about the church?”
Dorothea put her nose into her teacup. She sipped the hot brew and tried to ignore Jack’s easy banter with this stranger. He could barely be civil to her, yet he hung on Alice Trevain’s every word, soaked up every flutter of the woman’s long eyelashes.
The rain came suddenly and in a downpour. It rattled the rooftop and ran down the windows in sheets. As annoying as Alice Trevain was, Dorothea was glad she’d opened her door to them.
“—abbess and the priest at Saint John’s, ye mean?”
Dorothea looked up and paid attention to the woman’s words. It was obvious to her that Jack didn’t know what she was talkin
g about, and he urged her to continue.
“They’re just stories,” Alice said with a shrug. “Who knows what happened five hundred years ago. And who cares? I’m much more interested in…Americans.”
She laughed, and Jack smiled indulgently at her. Dorothea leaned back in her chair and studied the woodwork. She forced herself not to concern herself with the mutual flirtation going on in the room as if she weren’t there. As if Jack were not her escort, her companion, her…As if he were not the man who’d kissed her breath away as recently as yesterday.
Jack told Wild West stories to pass the time. As far as she knew, Jack was from New York. She did not think that had anything to do with the American West, but admittedly, she knew little of him. Only that he was an explorer like her father. That he dealt in antiquities.
“Tell me about the abbess and the priest,” he finally said, at which point Dorothea decided to listen.
“There’s nothing much,” Alice replied. “Surely nothing as interesting as Jesse and Frank—”
“Where, exactly, is the abbey?”
“Holywake?” she asked. “Why, it’s about a quarter mile from the church, I suppose. The ruins, anyway. Everyone knows it burned some time after the wars, during Henry VII’s reign.”
“There must not be much left of it or else it would show up on the map,” Jack said.
“Ye’re right,” Alice replied. “Nary a wall standing. Only the foundation still in the ground.”
“Any other stories, besides the one about the abbess and Saint John’s priest?”
“Now, that’s a wicked story,” she said.
Dorothea put her elbow on the table and her chin in her hand, and absently drummed the fingers of her other hand on the tabletop. Alice’s cloying was more than a little irritating, and Dorothea doubted she had anything of value to impart.
“The abbey provided fare for the priest’s table,” she said. “And, of course, he got to know the abbess…intimately,” Alice added suggestively.
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