She reversed direction and descended. Ignoring his outstretched arms, she jumped down, landing nimbly in the sand.
“What were you thinking?” he bit out over his thundering heart. “You could have broken your neck—”
“Only if Ifell,” she said, smug as you please, “which I never do because I’m an excellent climber. Billy Pinkleton—he’s ten—challenged me to a tree climbing contest, and I bested him. He wasn’t too happy about it.” A flicker passed through her eyes, before she lifted her chin again. “Anyway, what do I care what Billy Pinkleton thinks? He has bacon for brains, just like you said. I showed him that girls can climb as well as boys. Mama says women might be smaller than men, but we’re more flexible and agile. Which makes us perfectly suited to fossil hunting.”
Rhys continued to glower at her…although he had to admit that she had a point. Womenweresmaller and more flexible, and given that Horatio could have hidden the second clue anywhere in the cave, those qualities could come in handy. And if the mother’s acrobatic skills were anywhere near the daughter’s…
“Where can I find this mother of yours?” he asked.
The girl’s glance slid over him again. He could practically hear coins tipping onto a scale as she took the measure of his Bond Street garments. He found himself reluctantly amused by her clearly conniving mind. Like recognized like, after all.
“Because Mama is sought after,” she said, tapping her chin, “she isterriblybusy. But since I am introducing you, I am sure she’d be willing to take you on an expedition for a discounted price. Say, one hundred pounds?”
He had to give her points for her brazenness. Before he’d gone on the run, he’d sold off the remainder of his personal possessions and had a thousand pounds left in his stash. He’d planned to live off that money for as long as he could. The fact that he was worried about spending a hundred of it—a paltry sum that, in the past, he’d lost on a hand of cards without blinking—was galling.
If you find the jewels, you’ll be living like a king. Who gives a damn about a mere hundred quid? This Mrs. Foley could be worth her weight in gold.
He pictured an older version of the girl. Lean and tough, a plain, masculine woman with a no-nonsense air about her. One who’d have no qualms entering a cave to fetch him the next clue.
“You have a deal,” he said.
The girl’s breath came out in a whoosh. He blinked as her smile transformed her skinny little face, showing the unexpected promise of beauty. A pair of rather charming dimples peeped out.
She beamed. “You won’t regret it, sir!”
“I’d better not,” he muttered. “Now where can I find Mrs. Foley?”
“You can find her right here.” The girl pointed to a pair of women marching toward her, their cloaks and black skirts whipping in the ocean breeze. “Here she comes!”
“Gloriana Foley, I want to speak to you!”
At the pleasantly husky female voice, Rhys’s blood quickened. There was something oddly familiar about those cultured tones. He gazed intently on the approaching pair, one tall and narrow, the other shorter and curvier, both of their faces hidden by their bonnets.
“I’m going to get it now,” the girl—Gloriana, apparently—muttered.
“Chin up,” he advised. “And let me do the talking.”
As the women neared, he summoned his most debonair smile, the one that never failed to make a lady’s fan (and other parts, he’d been told) flutter. Mrs. Foley might be a hardy, pickaxe-wielding cave explorer, but she was still a female, and it never hurt to pour on the charm.
“Good afternoon, madam…” He trailed off as recognition slammed into him.
Cinnamon curls peeped beneath the bonnet’s black brim. Tip-tilted emerald eyes stared at him. And below…his gaze locked on a pair of breasts, which possessed an exquisite roundness even a shapeless cloak couldn’t conceal. They surged upward as if in invitation, and heat shot into his groin, his body reacting before his mind could piece together words.
“Maggie?” he asked stupidly. “What are you doing here?”
4
Maggie’s heartknocked against her rib cage.
Blooming hell…it can’t be…
The brilliant leonine eyes that had haunted her dreams and nightmares stared at her now. The years had not diminished Rhys Jones’s looks, she saw numbly. Indeed, his boyish perfection had been honed into the potency of a man in his prime.
His face was leaner, with hollows that highlighted his sculpted cheekbones and golden skin. His thick brown-black hair was still worn a bit long, and her fingers tingled with the memory of those liquid-silk waves slipping between them. He now sported a mustache and trimmed scruff on his jaw. The dashing ring of hair emphasized the sensual shape of his mouth and made him look more piratical than ever.
His physique was tougher, more muscular than she recalled. The breadth of his shoulders strained his tobacco frockcoat, the sinewy line of his long legs extending into tall, polished boots.
He was still the most beautiful man she’d ever seen. The devil in disguise.
