Authors: Olivia Waite
ColorMeBad (11 page)
“It’s a map,” he breathed.
“The paintings are my mother’s bequest,” Hecuba explained.
“I was to receive them when I came of age at twenty-one, along with her recipe
book, including the formula for Hecuba green. And my father was a thief who was
never caught—he had a small store of jewels when I was younger, some pearls and
other stones he used to let me play with. None of those appeared when he died
either.” She pointed at that blob of Hecuba green. “It’s all waiting right
there,” she said. “I needed all four paintings to reconstruct the map.”
Rushmore leaned on his hands. “You mean I’ve had a treasure
map this whole time and never knew it?” He groaned. “Simon is never going to
let me live this down.”
“Simon never has to know,” Hecuba replied.
“Let’s not tell him then,” Rushmore agreed. He pulled Hecuba
tight against him—not that she was resisting. She sighed and breathed in the
warm, faintly earthy scent of him. “Shall we get married tomorrow?” he asked.
“So soon?” Hecuba answered. “I was hoping you’d say yes a
few more times first.”
Rushmore’s eyes danced as he said, “Jones, I promise
you—I’ll say yes every day for the rest of my life.”
* * * * *
“Is that it?” Rushmore asked, squinting under the cover of
his hand.
“No, you idiot,” Hecuba replied. “To the
east
of the
pond. That’s left.”
“Left, east—who can tell in all these trees? Good thing I
brought you along, wife,” he said. “A treasure map is no good if you can’t understand
where it’s telling you to go.”
Hecuba muttered something about telling him
precisely
where to go, which only made him laugh. In truth she was just irked by the
blisters on her feet and the scratches on her arms. They were out in the
country, two miles north of Hecuba’s native parish, and certain paths had
become much harder to navigate since her father first traversed them so many
years before. The harder she cursed, the more amused Rushmore became. He knew
she enjoyed a certain amount of grumpiness.
If she hadn’t already married him the week before, she’d
marry him again.
They found the right tree, an ancient oak keeping court over
a circle of young and lovely birches. Rushmore pulled out the spade they’d
brought with them and began to dig.
And dig.
And dig some more.
Just when Hecuba was thinking of
possibly
suggesting
that
maybe
she’d been wrong, the spade went
thunk
. Rushmore’s
dirt-streaked, sun-reddened face broke into a grin.
A few more minutes work and they had between them a small
iron box, thoroughly corroded. The shovel’s blade was sturdy enough to break
the old lock off the front and Rushmore sat back on his heels. “Would my lady
care to have the honors?”
Hecuba knelt, heedless of stains on her skirt or the damage
to her stockings. The box’s lid opened on the second try to reveal a fold of
weathered black cotton.
Both Hecuba and Rushmore held their breath.
Her hands peeled back the cloth to reveal two small gold
bracelets, an enamel brooch and a pendant with a stone that might or might not
have been an emerald.
Rushmore dropped the spade, which bit angrily into the
earth. “That’s it?” he asked.
“He must have sold the others while I was growing up,”
Hecuba said. “I half expected that. We never had much money—every penny would
have been welcome.”
“Well,” Rushmore grumbled. “That isn’t the most important
part of the treasure anyway.”
“No, it’s not.” Trust an artist to think of color as
treasure. Hecuba smiled and pulled out the cloth, revealing a rough nailhead on
the bottom of the metal box. She pressed on it, and on the outside of the box a
small drawer snicked open. There were no jewels there at all, not even tawdry
ones. Instead there was a slim black notebook carefully wrapped in oilcloth.
With reverent fingers, she turned to the first page. “Umber,”
she read and flipped a bit farther. “Chrome orange. Lead white. And—yes, here
it is…” She presented one page to Rushmore with an air of triumph. “Hecuba
green.”
Her husband gave a whoop and threw his arms in the air. “You
said the recipe had been lost!”
“It had been,” Hecuba laughed. “Mother knew it by heart and
I’d learned many of the rest—at least the ones we could make with limited
equipment—but not all of them. There are some quite good ones in here as well
as the green.”
“Hecuba, my dear,” Rushmore grinned, “we’re going to be
rich.”
“Rushmore, my love,” she retorted, “we already are.”
Olivia Waite wishes she could tell you she had an
adventuresome childhood, full of last-second rescues and pirate treasure and
victories over evil. Alas, in reality her childhood was happy and normal.
Perhaps this is why her imagination entices her with tales of intrigue, heroes
and heroines.
She loves nothing more than a cup of tea, a rainy afternoon
and a sizzling good read.
Olivia welcomes comments from readers. You can find her
website and email address on her
author bio page
at
www.ellorascave.com
.
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Olivia
Waite
Ellora’s Cave Publishing
Color Me Bad
ISBN 9781419943409
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
Color Me Bad Copyright © 2013 Olivia Waite
Edited by Rebecca Hill
Cover design by Dar Albert
Cover photography by Decisiveimages/Fotolia.com and
Commonswikimedia.org
Electronic book publication April 2013
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