“I’d rather marry the daughter of a leading scientist.”
She let out a brittle laugh. “Who just so happens to steal other people’s work and publish it under your own name. Excuse me for not feeling more flattered.”
Her words echoed through the rain, and Mikhail pressed his eyes shut.
The field guides. All those carefully detailed works Richard had paraded as his own for the past five years—they were Bryony’s work?
A chill ran through him, colder than the rain falling around him.
Bryony chose that moment to turn and stomp away from Richard.
Richard only laughed at her retreat. “Storm off now if you like, but there won’t be anywhere to run once we get back to Washington, DC.”
She was heading deeper into the woods, and Mikhail knew he needed to move if he wanted to stay hidden. But he couldn’t bring himself to take so much as a step. All he could do was stand there seething, his gaze boring into Richard Caldwell.
The fact Richard didn’t sense that he was being watched proved just how poor of a frontiersman he was.
The sound of feet trampling underbrush grew louder, and he shifted slightly, hiding himself behind a tree half a second before Bryony came into view.
She tromped straight by him and headed toward a creek. She didn’t bother to find a log or rock to sit on, just sank to her knees in the mud beside the stream in a way that was sure to soak the dry clothes she’d just put on.
She yanked the journal from inside her parka, and he nearly turned around. She was clearly expecting privacy, and he should give it to her if she wanted to sketch.
But she didn’t pull out a pencil. Instead, she fisted one of the journal pages in her hand as if she was about to tear it out and throw it into the stream.
He started toward her. “Don’t.”
She jerked, her head whirling around to reveal eyes streaked with tears. “Leave me alone.”
“Only if you promise not to tear up your work.” He crouched beside her in a way that kept his weight balanced on his feet so his trousers wouldn’t get muddy.
“You don’t understand.” She fisted the page in her hand again, and he had to set his own hand atop hers to keep her from tearing it.
“Your sketches and writing are lovely.” Or at least, he assumed her writing was lovely, even if he wasn’t able to read it. “And I know half a dozen cartographers back in Washington, DC, who would love to get their hands on these maps. Don’t destroy any of it. Please.”
“He’ll steal it if I don’t, and I’d rather have it end up in the river.”
“If you really want to see it published, I bet you could do so without giving it to Richard.”
She stared down at the journal again, and he found himself reaching out and tucking a strand of red hair behind her ear so he could see her face.
That was probably a mistake, because it brought the bare skin of his fingers into contact with the softness of her face.
And it also allowed him to notice the fresh tear streaking down her cheek.
“I don’t want it published under your name either.”
His stomach twisted. Was she so used to having her work taken for granted that that was the first thing she assumed? That he wanted to take it from her rather than help her? “That wasn’t what I meant. You don’t need to publish any of it if you don’t want to. You could just keep it for yourself as a memory of your time here. But please give copies of your maps to some of the cartographers back home. You’ve got a knack for drawing them, and I know they can be helpful.”
She swiped at the tear. “How much of that conversation did you overhear?”
“Enough.”
“Is that your way of saying you heard all of it?”
He shifted, then plopped himself into the mud beside her, never mind that his trousers would need a good washing now. “I heard the part about your journal, and his mistresses, and you not wanting to marry him.”
“Did you hear the part about the other books?”
