But it was foolishness. She felt sorry for him, that was all, and naturally she wished she could ease his pain. Any decent person would feel the same.
She licked her lips, checking quickly over her shoulder to be certain Rolf was out of sight in Russell's study. Between the two of them, they'd restored the living room to order. No sign of his presence remained. She gripped the doorknob in a white-knuckled hold.
"Miss O'Shea?" The officer on the right bobbed his head at her. "Anything wrong?"
"It's chilly out here. Why don't you two come on in for a coffee break?" They hesitated. "The house is so empty with Russell in the hospital."
That did it. Flanders and Morgan couldn't have been more willing to share a cup of coffee with her. She led them straight to the kitchen where the machine was just gurgling its last few drops into the carafe. Miranda casually closed the door that led to the living room and proceeded to pour the coffee. She rattled the cups and silverware, walked heavily, and deliberately scraped the chairs over the kitchen floor, all to cover any noise Rolf might inadvertently make slipping outside.
She thought she'd covered everything. She'd told him step by step what to do, what to say. Knock on the door, act like a friend she hadn't seen in a long time, shake the officers' hands when she introduced him. She'd even given him one of her old suitcases, stuffed with enough towels to give it convincing weight. Nothing could go wrong. What cause would anyone have to doubt her?
Still, when his oversize paw thumped on the front door as if trying to knock it from its hinges, she came out of her chair as if it had suddenly burned her. Both officers, she noted in alarm, leapt up as well, hands on their pistol butts. A little breathlessly, Miranda attempted, "I wonder who that could be?" Weak, pathetic and ineffective.
"Whoever it is, he doesn't sound friendly," Flanders said.
"Better let us get it, ma'am," Morgan added.
They made their way cautiously toward her front door. Flanders stood to the side, while Morgan reached for the knob. They glanced once at each other. Flanders nodded and Morgan jerked the door open.
Rolf's brows arched up. He'd obviously been expecting Miranda to open the door. She quickly inserted herself between the two officers. "Rolf! Why, it's only Rolf, my dear old friend from Iceland." The officers looked quizzically at each other, then at her.
Meanwhile, Rolf stepped inside, dropped the suitcase and swept Miranda into his arms, lifting her off her feet so high she found herself looking down into his face with her hands braced on his shoulders. He whirled her in a circle, moving forward as he did, stopping only when they were in the center of the room. "How good it is to see you," he blustered. He lowered her slightly. "Have you no kiss for your dear old friend?"
She fumed. The officers had heard him, of course. They stood near the door, which was still wide open, wearing amused expressions. "Damn you to hell," she muttered through grated teeth. She lowered her head and brushed her lips over his. He caught the back of her head with one hand and captured her lips between his, holding them there with gentle suction. His hand on her head exerted minimal pressure and she could have easily pulled away, except that it would look strange to the police. His lips moved against hers, around them, in an oddly sensual way. He sipped at them as if they expressed some succulent fluid, as if he were thirsting for it. Then he broke the contact and set her on her feet.
As she slid down the front of his hard body, Miranda felt a bit light-headed and breathless, though she wasn't sure why. Nerves, she supposed. It wasn't often she tried to pull one over on officers of the law. Rolf kept one arm around her shoulders, an act she was simultaneously angry about and grateful for. She wasn't sure she'd be too steady on her feet just now without the added support.
Facing the officers, she tried to keep her voice even. "Officer Morgan, Officer Flanders, this is Rolf Magnusson, a friend and, uh, colleague."
Morgan stepped forward and extended a hand. Rolf looked at it blankly for a moment and Miranda jabbed her elbow into his ribs. He held her so close to his side she was certain neither of the other two noticed. Rolf extended a hand and clasped Officer Morgan's. Morgan grated his teeth through a forced smile and his jaw went tight. After he took his hand away, he repeatedly flexed and bent his fingers. With a studious frown at Morgan, Flanders refrained from offering his own hand for similar punishment.
God, she wished this were over. "More coffee, anyone?" Oh, beautiful. That would speed things up. Why not invite them for breakfast?
"We'd better get back outside, ma'am. Thank you, anyway."
"Nice meeting you, Mr. Magnusson," Morgan added. They both nodded at Miranda before ducking out the door and closing it behind them.
She pulled herself from beneath the weight of Rolf's arm, and faced him with her fiercest scowl. "I didn't say anything about kissing me! What did you think you were doing?"
"You did not vomit this time." The man had the audacity to grin, twinkling those dimples at her until she felt like slapping him.
"Where did you learn a word like 'vomit'?"
"I looked it up," he quipped, still grinning.
The oversize jerk. "Not that it's any of your business, but I only vomit when I'm assaulted."
"I do not know 'assaulted.'"
"Mauled," she clarified. When he still frowned at her, she added, "forced."
"Forced?" His face changed. The smile died utterly. "I have no need of such methods. And you—" he stopped midsentence, his frown deepening, his gaze boring into hers "—you speak as if you—"
"It's time to go. Visiting hours begin soon." She reached for her jacket, a casual black suede one with brown leather patches at the shoulders and elbows. "I've explained to you about the car. Just follow my lead, and remember, act like you've been getting into cars your whole life. All right?" She glanced up at him, but he still had that speculative look in his eye.
"Have you had a man before me, lady?"
Miranda stiffened, averting her gaze. She didn't like the question and it was the second time he'd asked it. She had no intention of answering, no matter how many times he asked. Moreover, she'd like to know what the hell he meant by that "before me" part. "Do you want to ride in the car, or not?"
"I wish to know the answer to my question." He waited, but she turned her back and strode out the door. He followed her in silence, but she felt those piercing eyes on her the whole time.
She leaned over to open his door, then moved around to the driver's side. He settled himself on the small seat, dwarfing the car with his size. A Toyota simply wasn't designed with the Viking warrior in mind, she thought. He stiffened a bit when she fired up the engine. She'd explained what to expect, but she supposed riding in a car was still quite an ordeal. He must feel the way she would if she traveled by way of the space shuttle.
"Watch me," she told him as she reached for her seat belt, pulled it around her and snapped it in place. "Now you."
He glanced over his right shoulder, pulled the belt around him and snapped it in easily. He lifted his brows. "This… car. It moves so fast one needs be restrained?"
She chuckled in spite of herself. "No, Rolf. These are for safety, so if I have to stop fast we don't crack our heads on the windshield." She tapped the windshield when she said the word. "Are you ready?"
He nodded, his jaw still tight, and watched her as she shifted into gear and pulled out of the driveway. His hand clutched the small armrest as the car began to move forward, but gradually he relaxed. By the time they reached the hospital he was asking questions. Was the pedal what controlled the speed? Did the wheel choose the direction? What was the meaning of the numbers behind the glass on the dashboard? Why did she stop at the red light? He had extracted a promise from her before they entered the hospital corridors. That she would teach him to drive. And soon.
The Intensive Care waiting room hadn't changed overnight. She led Rolf to a padded seat and pressed him into it. "I'm going just beyond those doors." She pointed. "I won't be long." She hated leaving hi
m alone in the waiting area while she went in to see Russell, but saw no alternative.
"Do not trouble yourself, Miranda. Go, see your faŏir. I will wait."
She nodded her gratitude and hurried through the double doors and to her father's room. Dr. Fenmore hadn't been available for an update and she had little idea what to expect. She braced herself and walked in.
"Miranda." Her father tried to sit up when she entered, but she quickly went to his bedside, pressed her hands to his shoulders, and kept him from completing the motion. He looked terrible, his face a sickly gray, his skin drawn, bloodless.
"Easy, Russell. I'm right here."
He shook his head slowly. "Go home. Stay with the find. I told you—"
"It's under guard. Stop worrying."
He relaxed, but only slightly. "Did you do as I said… read my journal?"
She pressed her two fingers to the center of her forehead. "Actually, not just yet. I was planning to do it right after this visit."
"Not the blue one, Miranda." He spoke very slowly, taking deep, uneven breaths between the words. "The real one. The real one."
She frowned. "I didn't know you had more than one."
He only nodded.
"Russell, what are you talking about?"
"I… kept it secret. I wasn't sure. Didn't want to be… laughingstock… but I thought he might be… the one… they called… Plague. You know. We had no proof."
He stiffened and drew one arm up to his chest. Miranda's heart leapt and she reached for the call button on his pillow.
"No… listen." He touched her hand, stopping its progress. "I'm… not going to… make it. Been… like this all night. Exhausted."
"Don't you dare say something like that to me, Russell O'Shea!"
He shakily held up one hand to silence her. "Can't… talk so much. Can't breathe well." Again, he drew the deep, unsteady breaths that so frightened her. "It's all in the journal… the real one. So much more. Th-the plunder. Still hidden." He grated his teeth, seemingly forcing himself to continue despite her protests. "So much more to do, Miranda. You have to… finish. Finish it!"
She closed her hand around his and reached for the button with the other. "I'm calling a nurse. You're getting worse by the minute." She depressed the button with her thumb and released it as panic seeped into her heart.
"I waited for you," he rasped. His eyes brimmed now, watering from the force of whatever pain he must be in. He sighed, shook his head. "Wish that damned… elephant… would get off… my chest."
She thumbed the button once more, holding it down this time. "Hold on, Russell. Someone will be here any—"
He winced suddenly and the EKG monitor leapt unnaturally.
"To hell with it, I'll get them myself." She rose to go to the door, to shout the halls down until someone came to help him.
"Wait!" He gripped her hand with surprising strength.
She faced him just as the door burst open and three people in white seemed to rush through at once. One gripped her shoulder. "Daddy?" She couldn't help calling out to him like that. She did so now as his grip on her began to relax. She did so in a voice choked with emotion and with eyes suddenly blurred by tears.
"Remember…" He gasped the words now, and Miranda struggled against the hands that were pulling her from his bed. Her hand slipped from his. "Jules… Verne." His hand went limp. His eyes closed. The EKG's intermittent beep became a steady tone, and as she was pushed toward the corridor, Miranda lurched toward him, fighting the hands that held her back.
"No. Don't make me leave him," she heard herself plead. "Daddy!" None too gently, she was forced into the corridor despite her loud protests. "No! Let me go!" The door was closed in her face. Miranda cried her father's name as if she could somehow hold him to her, even though she felt him being torn away.
Chapter 7
Neither the heavy double doors nor the countless men and women in white coats stopped him when he heard her cry out. In less than a heartbeat, Rolf skidded to a stop before her. She stood beside a closed door, her back pressed to the whitewashed wall. Her eyes were dilated to an unnatural degree the gray no more than a narrow band around the black of her distended pupils. She stared straight ahead, but he was certain she wasn't seeing. Her breaths came quickly, as if she'd just run a great distance. Her lips trembled and her skin was pale.
Confused, Rolf looked around her. He'd thought someone must be attacking her when he'd heard her scream. Now, though… He looked through the small pane of glass in the door beside her, and he became aware of the steady, high-pitched tone emanating from within that room. More of the white-garbed individuals hovered around a bed, so that the still body upon it was barely visible.
Rolf stepped closer, eyes narrowing as he watched the urgent movements of the people in the room. Then the activity slowed. One man's gaze lifted to that of his colleagues and he slowly shook his head. A woman turned, touched a button, and the irritating bleat halted, leaving silence in its wake.
Beside him, Miranda emitted a low, anguished groan, barely audible though he stood very near her. Her knees seemed to dissolve, and with her back still pressed to the wall, she began to slide downward. Rolf stooped quickly, catching her beneath the arms and hauling her up. Even that effort did little good. All of her bones seemed to have melted. Her head hung as if no longer connected to her body.
He knew without being told that the man in the bed was her faŏir and that he had died. Despite the animosity he'd felt between them, he experienced a stabbing pain in his chest solely on her behalf. Without thinking about it, he pulled her limp body tight to his hard one, and he held her.
He felt her trembling in his arms and he wished in vain for words of comfort to spring to his lips. Instead he remained silent, for there were no words that might help her now. He understood her grief. He still felt his own, spawned by her revelations this morn. For the moment he thought the best he could do for her was to take her from this place. But as he stepped away from her, her arms shot around his waist and her face pressed once more against his chest.
His shock at her action was exceeded only by his shock at the response it stirred within him. A rush of emotion shot up from his toes to the nape of his neck, shaking him. For just an instant, he felt an instinctive urge to protect her. Normal under the circumstances, he presumed. His size and strength alone would be enough to stimulate this protective instinct. Was it not natural for the strong to defend the weak? With her in this heightened emotional state, the impulse became even stronger. But it was nature working. Nothing more.
He battled the sensation and won. He managed to hold her tightly to his chest, to press soothing hands to her trembling shoulders and back without feeling a thing in his heart. He had no intention of allowing himself to fall prey to the wiles of another Adrianna. The feminine weapons of weakness and tears, be they genuine or false, would no longer work upon Rolf's emotions.
The man he'd noticed before, doctor, he reminded himself, came through the door, his expression grim. When his hand touched Miranda's back she stiffened. Her chin rose slowly and she squared her shoulders as she turned to face him. To Rolf's surprise, her eyes remained dry. Wide, yes, and overly dilated. But dry. She had not shed a tear.
"I'm sorry, Miranda. We did everything we could."
"I know." Her voice was low, but level. "I'll make arrangements for—" she cleared her throat "—everything as soon as possible."
"Are you all right," the doctor asked. "Do you need anything? A sedative?"
Rolf didn't know what a "sedative" was, but Miranda shook her head indicating she did not require one. When she turned to start off down the corridor, her hand closed on Rolf's upper arm. She held to him tightly, though he had the impression she was not aware of doing so. She kept that rigid posture all the way through the double doors and into the waiting area he'd previously occupied. Then she froze and her grip tightened still more, as four men rose from their seats and approached them.
Without intendin
g to, Rolf took a step that put him between her and the group. They certainly looked harmless enough. An aging gentleman with a dignified air and snowy hair and beard, a skinny youth who wore eye shields like Miranda's and an adult male, of average size, with brown hair and eyes. On second thought, that third one had a decidedly belligerent gleam in his eye. The fourth man was dark of hair and powerfully built. It was he who came forward, moving past Rolf as if he had no fear… or no sense. As Miranda stepped from behind Rolf, the man put his hands upon her arms and searched her face.
Rolf cursed himself for acting hastily and on instinct yet again. Next he'd be doing battle on her behalf.
The two other adult men eyed him warily, while the youth seemed to turn to stone in his tracks as his jaw dropped.
"It's all right, Rolf," she said in that deep, calm tone she had no business using after what she'd just witnessed. She stepped away from the dark-haired man's touch, and nodded to the one with the pointed white beard and snowy hair. The man was too thin, save a paunch at his middle. "This is Professor Erwin Saunders, head of the archaeology department at Beaumont," she told Rolf. "I've told you about him." She smiled shakily toward the youth. "And Darryl Watters, a student. He is, that is, he was…" Her voice seemed to thicken and she stopped speaking all at once.
Rolf's gaze left the youth to focus on Miranda. Despite her determination to stand tall, she was slipping. "Your father's assistant. You spoke of him, as well." Rolf nodded toward the boy, who still gaped. His skin had gone milky and he looked as if he would faint. "I am Rolf Magnusson. I am visiting from Iceland." He recited the lines Miranda had taught him, giving her time to recover her composure. This latest revelation of her character stunned Rolf. Tears and weakness he could witness and remain unmoved. But steely strength and stubborn pride? These were qualities he'd become accustomed to finding in warriors, not women.
To his surprise, the one called Saunders extended a hand to him. Rolf lifted his own hand, to find it gripped firmly and pumped twice. "Good to meet you, Mr. Magnusson."
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