Onora unpinned her hat and threw it upon the armchair. Her gloves followed, then her jacket.
Shepaced the room, wanting something to tear or break. Splashing water on her face helped somewhat but she needed to get out of the room—to escape its walls, even if she couldn’t escape herself.
Snatching up her hat once more, she peeked out into the courtyard and was relieved to find it empty. Hurrying, she took herself through the archway, out onto the veranda, then across the grass, skirting around the edge of the villa heading westward.
Out of breath, she reached the edge of the gardens. Green petered out and golden sand began. The sun had more than an hour before its descent but there was yet power in it, and her body felt weak under its glare.
A cluster of tents sat a few hundred yards off. The subterranean temple was sited upon the other side, close to where the cliffs rose from the desert. A squeezing in her chest brought her up short. Was she really going to go down there again? Could she do it? Not today, but soon?
Onora set off again briskly, wanting to get closer—as if to prove to herself she was unafraid, but her knees lacked strength tohold her upright. With a cry of dismay, she fell forward, her fingers sinking into the scorching sand.
“Hey there! What the devil!” someone called out.
She saw his boots first, stoutly made yet well-worn, rising almost to the knee, then buff britches covering a long length of thigh. The face that looked down was familiar, though she couldn’t quite place it: a jaw rough-stubbled, firm lips, skin browned by the sun, and eyes as dark as his unruly hair.
“You’re coming with me.” Strong arms lifted her, to her feet then off them altogether, swinging her upward.
Her gaze was level with the open shirt of the man carrying her. A bead of sweat ran from the base of his neck, downward, disappearing beneath the soft linen.
She tried to tell him that she didn’t need help, but the desert heat robbed her of speech, and her eyes closed.
CHAPTER 7
You had to do it.
You couldn’t leave her out there!
He’d laid her on the camp bed, for want of a better place, and taken off that ridiculous hat—though not before it had gotten half-crushed underneath her.
She wasn’t hurt, as far as Jack could tell. He’d checked above her ankles for any indication of a bite. Not that it was likely. If a snake or scorpion had struck, she’d have screamed for sure. Instead, she’d fallen into a faint of some sort.
He flicked closed the flap of his tent’s canvas and tied it shut. He could do withoutthe complication of one of the others looking in and seeing her.
Fortunately for the current situation, Seton had sent away Fortescue and Browning, who’d been sharing the generously sized tent with him. Once they’d finished copying the temple frescoes, Seton had put them on half-pay and packed them off to Cairo on an extended break.
Of the local men—fellaheenwho received a daily wage for their labors on the dig site, outside of the busiest farming seasons—no more than three remained to act as guards, now that the shoring up of the sand around the perimeter was complete. The rest had returned to their villages.
Hassan was down by the gateway, while Anwar and Fawzi had gone off to the villa to wash, then to bring back supper from the kitchens. That was one thing he couldn’t fault Seton on; the staff quarters, built as a separate annex not far off from the main residence, were well-thought out.
The young woman on the bed murmured butdidn’t wake. He needed to do something about that, before their luck ran out. If someone came looking for her from the villa it wouldn’t do either of them much good for her to be found here.
Casting through his things, Jack found a neckerchief that hadn’t been worn yet and wetted it, passing the cloth over her forehead. She turned at the coolness, and a strawberry-blonde curl fell over her cheek.
That hair! Even in the shaded interior of the tent, it was an astonishing hue. She was a beauty, all right—a true English rose, or should that be Irish? It hadn’t taken much sleuthing to discover she was the daughter of Sir Herbert Montague—the very same who’d been working with Seton when they’d first unearthed the site.
Jack had always regretted not having had the chance to meet him, for everything he knew of the man pointed to him being an accomplished scholar. The ravishing young woman lying upon his bed had been here too, when the discovery had been made, though she’d have been barely more than a child at the time.
Hard to imagine what effect it must have had on her, losing her father as she had. He’d heard it had taken two days to dig out the poor chap, after the bank of sand on one side of the entrance ramp had given way. She’d been the one to raise the alarm, having been at the top when the accident had occurred.
Wetting the cloth again, he took it from her temple to her cheek. A trickle ran downward, traversing her throat, disappearing beneath the frilled collar of her blouse.
The temptation to bend his head and follow its path with his tongue was almost unbearable.
What would her skin taste like?
Sweat and sweetness in equal measure?
Would she moan if he kissed her there, upon her pale, elegant neck? Would she know it was him, despite her half-sleeping state?
