She stared at him, trying to discern whether there was aversion in his expression. She saw only compassion.
“Milton told you about their divorce,” she guessed.
“Yes. But why didn’t you tell me, Venice?”
“It wasn’t for me to tell,” she said simply. “And by the time you had come to live with us, I had all but convinced myself that my mother really was dead. And, too, I thought that you, being Catholic and all, would despise me if you knew my parents were divorced.”
He shook his head. “Tell me about her, Venice.”
“About my mother?”
“Why do you sound so surprised?”
“I don’t know,” she said truthfully. “I . . . I’ve never talked about her before.”
“Never?”
“Only a few times with Uncle Milton. No one was allowed to mention her name. It became a habit I just sort of kept.”
“What do you remember about her?”
“Nothing. No, don’t look so skeptical. Really. She and my father were divorced when I was barely two.” He looked so sad and concerned, she raked her memory for something to offer him. “I think she used to dance with me. I remember being spun around and around in circles and giggling.”
“Go on.”
“There’s nothing more to go on about,” she said uncomfortably. “I don’t even recall what her voice was like.”
“What about letters?”
“There were no letters,” she said flatly. “I don’t even know whether she could write.”
“Oh, Venice surely—”
“I’m sorry, Noble. All I know about my mother came from Milton or the occasional comment from my father. Both were adamant about one thing—my father and mother should never have wed.” Maybe she could make him understand. “Uncle Milton said they were like oil and water, that Juliette needed freedom like some people need air.”
“And Trevor?”
“Father only said that if he had no affection left for me, I should blame it on my mother since she destroyed his ability to love.”
“And you believed him?” Noble asked incredulously
Venice threw up her hands, exasperated by the same questions that had hounded her youth. “I don’t know what to believe. I used to think that I’d see her one day,” she went on in a wistful voice, “but after some years, I realized she wasn’t coming back. And then, she died. Uncle Milton told me.
“He came to the house for Christmas one year. I was sixteen. One evening, when father was out, he took the opportunity to express his condolences. I hadn’t any idea what he was talking about. He was so uncomfortable, so upset. Poor Uncle Milton. My mother, he explained, had died six months previously.”
“Lord, Venice.” Noble reached out and she stepped easily into his embrace.
“I sound so self-pitying,” she said against his shirt. His arms were warm and strong, and she sighed deeply.
“No, you don’t.”
She looked up at him, a note of surprise in her voice. “I should have told you. It all seems rather silly now. You wouldn’t have thought any the less of me, would you?”
“There are a lot of things that would seem silly if you gave them ample thought. Like your reasons for not marrying me.”
“Please, Noble. I’ve just tried—” she stepped back.
“‘Please, Noble’ what? ‘Please, Noble, love me’? ‘Please, Noble, spend your life with me’? I shall.”
He curved a finger beneath her chin, pulling her face up to meet his gaze.
“Venice.” He caressed her throat with the back of his fingers, moving his knuckles lightly across her sensitive skin, his gentleness overpowering her where strength would have failed.
Angling his head, he brought his mouth close to her throat. She closed her eyes. She heard him inhale, deeply, felt the soft swoosh of his breath on her neck.
“Exotic and innocent, rare and familiar,” he murmured. His lips grazed her throat. “Want me, Venice.” It was a demand, a plea.
She looked up into his golden eyes. The dark fire smoldering in his eyes leapt to life, burning with pure desire. She recognized it easily. It was kindred to her own. His mouth was so near. Lord, she wanted to taste him again, to feel his lips moving over hers, to stroke his tongue with hers.
“Lord, how I dream of you touching me,” he murmured. “Let me taste you, hold you.”
She should close her ears to the siren images he wove, the erotic memory of their one night together, the memory that was always waiting just beneath the surface, catching her unawares, stunning her with the intensity of the desire it aroused.
“But it’s not just the physical pleasuring, the heat and scent and dark velvet of your embrace. I want you, Venice. After the burning, after the physical need is satisfied. It’s not just your body— though, God knows, just standing here breathing your scent, almost kissing you, swells me to the point of pain.”
She had to make him stop. He was too seductive, too sure. And she was suddenly not sure. Not at all. And she’d thought she was so determined to refuse him.
Is this how her mother had felt? Knowing she was moving inexorably along a path toward heartbreak but unable to stop?
She was torn, part of her wanting him regardless of what the future offered, regardless of the terms. But part of her couldn’t barter her heart any further. Part of her was terrified.
The terrified part won. She pulled away from him, her breath jumping in her throat, her heart hammering madly in her chest, and stared at the crushed grass beneath her feet.
“Take me back. Please. I want to go back.”
“Venice—”
“Please, Noble. Do you want me to beg?” she asked. He must have heard the desperation in her voice.
“No, Venice. I never want you to plead with me for anything. Everything I have, I gladly give you. Everything I am is yours. I’ll take you back, Venice. But I’m not going to give up. I’m never going to give up.”
And with no further words spoken between them, he did.
Chapter 24
“Venice! Why don’t you ride up here?” Noble called out. In answer, Venice, trailing fifty yards behind him on the narrow path, dropped back another ten feet.
Dammit, thought Noble. They were only a day or so out of Salvage and, though he’d paced their trip as slowly as possible, unless they crawled on their hands and knees, they would arrive before sundown the next day.
Despite what he’d told Venice, their snail’s pace wasn’t because of his saintly concern for the comfort of the two old scholars. Every day’s unhurried, leisurely trek was for one reason alone: Noble wanted time. Time to court Venice and convince her that together they could overcome any obstacles. But time was running out and he was getting desperate.
“I know of a clearing just ahead. We’ll camp there,” he called to the others.
“You are getting to be an old woman, McCaneaghy,” Trees-Too-High said, reining up alongside Noble. “There is many, many hours of sun left.”
“Yup.”
Disgusted, Trees-Too-High and Crooked Hand turned the pack mules they’d commandeered. “We go and see if the trout are spawning in the waters up ahead.”
“Great,” Noble said. “Don’t let me slow you down. Take your time. See ya later. And best watch out. I saw some bear scat a ways back.”
Crooked Hand’s expression spoke volumes about Noble’s well-intentioned warning. “You are making a joke, yes?”
“Ah, yeah.”
Noble looked over his shoulder to where Venice plodded along on her mule. Each day the mauve stains beneath her eyes looked a bit darker, she ate less, and she grew quieter.
And she wouldn’t let him near her at all.
At the clearing where he planned to camp, Noble slipped from the saddle and went to help first Milton and then Carter dismount. By the time he was done, Templeton and Venice were already starting to set up camp.
Though the morning air had been so cold that he could see his brea
th, the afternoon sun beat down fiercely. Hefting the packs from the mules and then setting up the tents, Noble felt sweat trickle down his back. An evil notion tempted him. What the hell? he thought.
The only way he’d been able to tease any reaction from Venice at all was with the method he’d tumbled on the morning when she’d watched him shave.
Venice, Noble thought, liked his body and he was more than willing to shamelessly put it to use. Casually—well, he hoped it looked casual—he unbuttoned his shirt and yanked it off, tossing it over a granite rock. He felt her watching him.
Unfortunately, in tormenting Venice, he had to torture himself, too. It was enough to make a man go absolutely mad, knowing she was watching. She tried so hard to be nonchalant. Venice, who told the bawdiest stories without a hint of embarrassment, couldn’t look at his naked chest without getting all breathy and agitated.
Within five minutes, she disappeared around the back of the tents. Worried she was heading into the woods—a disconcerting habit he’d discovered she had—and concerned about the bear sign, Noble followed.
He rounded the corner of her tent just as she came out.
He couldn’t help his big, fat grin. She had donned a thick wool jacket over her corduroy shirt and union suit, as if sweating under three layers of cloth somehow made up for the fact that he was bare-chested. She did it every time Noble took his shirt off. It was fascinating phenomenon.
“You’re going to catch a cold,” Venice said.
“Darlin’, it’s hot out here under the sun. You’re going to get overheated wrapped up in those heavy things. Here, let me help you out of that.” He’d love the opportunity to take off each one of those layers, real slow.
He reached out to take her jacket from her shoulders and she darted back, her eyes gleaming. She was perspiring, the sheen of her pale skin reminding him of when they’d . . . God, in heaven. This was worse than torture.
“Listen, Venice,” he said, dropping all kidding, “we are going to talk. You can keep running away, catch a train to New York, visit friends in Munich, sail for Egypt. But, I swear to God, I’ll be one step behind you. There are some things you just can’t stop, run from, or buy your way out of and I, lass, am one of them.”
Surprisingly, Venice smiled. “You sound so threatening, Mr. McCaneaghy.”
“Threatening? I feel threatening. Every time you call me ‘Mr. McCaneaghy,’ I want to wring your lovely little neck. I want to hear the names you called me when you lay beneath me, cluricaune.”
“Cluricaune. You used to call me that all the time.” Venice’s hand fluttered to her throat.
“Past and present, Venice. They’re bound up together so tightly you’ll never be able to separate them.”
“How very true,” said Carter, rounding the corner of the tent. He paused, scowled into the bowl of the pipe he was carrying, and banged it against his open palm. He looked up at them, as though surprised to find them there. “That’s what makes the past so fascinating to study.”
Noble stared at the dapper little man.
“Was I interrupting something?” Carter asked, suddenly selfconscious.
“No,” Venice said.
“Yes,” Noble growled.
“No,” Venice said more forcefully. She glared at Noble. “Now, what were you saying about the study of artifacts, Mr. Makepeace?”
“Oh.” Carter popped the pipe into his mouth, biting the mouthpiece and making a sweeping gesture with his hands. “Not just artifacts, m’dear. Any study of the past is worthwhile. And necessary.”
“Necessary?” Venice asked politely.
“Of course. The study of the past will ultimately be our salvation. Only by contemplating past errors can we hope to avoid future ones.”
Venice shot Noble a telling look.
“We can’t live our lives looking behind us,” Noble said urgently.
“History,” Carter said portentously, “repeats itself.”
“So I’ve been told,” Venice said. There was no triumph in her voice.
“Venice. He’s talking about political events, not individual lives—”
“Indeed, I am,” said Carter cheerfully. “Look back in history and you’ll see that the errors in judgment that plagued the ancients are the same ones to which modern man so often succumbs.”
“Carter,” Noble said. Carter looked over at him, all bright inquisitiveness. “Would you do us the kind favor of shut—”
“Noble!” Venice broke in, sounding terribly shocked and just a little amused. It was this last that gave Noble hope. She hadn’t wanted to hear Carter’s assertion any more than he did. And that meant that she wanted to believe in their future together.
“Carter! Venice! Noble!” Milton’s voice echoed in the camp. “Come here! Quickly!”
“We have to see this,” Milton said as he bustled about the campsite, collecting tape measures and calipers and folding spades. “Noble, please saddle mounts for yourself and Venice. I have already seen to mine and Carter’s.”
It was impossible for Venice to tell if he was excited or worried. He just sounded flustered.
“See what?” Noble asked, obligingly throwing a saddle on his pony.
“Trees-Too-High and Crooked Hand just told me there is another dig site being excavated!”
“What?” gasped Carter.
“That’s right, old man.” Milton paused in his packing and shook his head morosely. “And apparently it is the site of a prehistoric being.”
“No!”
“Yes. They were quite clear on the matter. No more than a few hours down this trail, not half a day’s ride out of Salvage itself, there are some men excavating.”
“Crooked Hand actually saw this prehistoric being?” Noble asked suspiciously. Having finished saddling his pony, he’d thrown a saddle over Venice’s mule and was tightening the cinch.
“No. Not quite. But he spoke to one of the townspeople who had and apparently it is quite a sight. It is being maintained in situ.”
“What are the townspeople doing there?” Venice asked.
“Apparently, whoever is heading the team is not above a bit of gross commercialism Already they are charging a fee to view the being.”
“Where is Crooked Hand?” Noble asked slowly. “I’d like a chance to talk to him myself.”
“They’ve left. Didn’t want to get any closer to Salvage,” Milton said, struggling up onto his mule. “Come along, come along. Daylight is wasting.”
“But our things—” Venice started to protest. Carter was already pulling himself into his saddle.
“Templeton will stay here with them. We’ll return to camp for tonight.”
“What’s the hurry?” Noble asked.
“The hurry? We are scientists, dear boy. We owe it to the scientific community to ascertain whether this . . . find is being properly excavated.”
He kicked his little mule forward and set off at a trot, Carter close behind him.
Noble raised an eyebrow at Venice, who shrugged and mounted her own mule. Noble followed suit.
Soon they caught up to Milton and Carter and settled into a bone-bruising trot. They jostled along on the backs of the pack mules for nearly three hours, most of which Milton spent muttering to himself. “I can’t quite believe it’s true.
“Trees-Too-High is so reliable though,” he continued. “I wish he had agreed to stay. We may well have two teams of paleontologists working out of Salvage this summer. Both camps will need to be provided with fresh game.”
“You won’t see those two for a while,” Noble said.
“Why not?” asked Carter.
Noble shrugged. “They don’t need the money and thanks to a certain member of our party, they’ve gathered enough dirty stories to last them through the next five winters.” He could see the bare outline of Venice’s profile. It looked like she was biting her lip to keep from smiling.
“Just think, Carter,” Milton said, ignoring Noble. “These fellows might have found the a
ctual remains of a prehistoric man.”
“I wouldn’t be all too sure of that, Milton,” Noble said. “You said Trees-Too-High never got a look.”
“That’s right.” Milton bobbed his head. “Trees-Too-High said there were twenty to twenty-five people gathered ‘round the place, all paying what was apparently admission to the site.”
Noble frowned. “What the hell are twenty-five people doing a half day’s ride out of Salvage? Something’s not right.”
“Apparently news of this find has already spread. If people will cross oceans to see a poorly engineered building—”
“Pisa.” Carter kindly offered Noble an explanation.
“Thank you.”
“—they will certainly ride a few hours to see a prehistoric man!” Milton finished. “Probably brought picnic baskets! And as for paying, men will invariably pay money for the privilege of viewing an oddity or a rare specimen. Museums, my lad, are nothing more than permanent medicine shows. Just think of it! And I was so close!”
“I agree with Noble, Uncle Milton,” Venice said. “Let’s wait until we are there before we get excited. So many times appearances are deceptive.” She shot a deliberate look at Noble.
“Ouch,” he said.
She started to laugh. That was her biggest problem. She found Noble’s straightforwardness, damn-to-all-obstacles, and ability to laugh at himself absolutely captivating.
She frowned.
“Uh-uh,” Noble said.
He must have been watching her. Well, he was always watching her. She should be used to it by now.
“No frowning allowed,” he said. “Save your scowls for the suspect fossil. We’re almost there.”
“There!” Carter shouted from a little distance ahead. Kneeing their mules into a faster trot, the group broke through a stand of aspens into a basin-shaped meadow. At the far end of the field, hard against the forest, huge boulders jutted out of the ground. Poles strung with Chinese lanterns formed a semicircular enclosure around the smallest boulder.
A couple of boards, painted with red barn paint, were nailed between two trees near the entrance of the enclosure.
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