Double Deceit (20 page)

He’d missed quite a bit of conversation. “But you will take care of her,” he murmured.

“As best I can.”

“What would you recommend for rheumatism? I know several people who suffer from it.”

She sighed. “Nothing relieves it for long, but I’ve had positive results using powders of devil bit – the root of the devil’s claw – and a tonic containing willow bark tea and St. John’s wort. Soaking the hands in warm water helps local stiffness,” she added unnecessarily. Everyone knew that effect.

His eyelids grew heavier. “How long until Ton-Torwell returns?”

“Two or three hours, at least. You know they always use every minute of daylight.” She picked up a piece of needlework and settled back into her chair. “Did you enjoy visiting Mr. Torwell’s friend?”

“Very much. Both of them.” She made a soothing picture that banished the last of his embarrassment.

“Were they traveling together?”

“No.” He blinked, forcing his mind off the needle sparkling between long, elegant fingers. “The second lives near Gloucester. His library contains records from an ancient abbey. Torwell had hoped to find references to the temple Miss Merideth is excavating, but his brief search was unsuccessful.”

They talked for at least an hour. He took pains to describe Tony in the best possible light. She would need that image to counter the shock of learning Tony’s identity. With luck everything would be settled by evening, including the wedding.

The special license was in his valise. Getting it had been easy once he’d found the information the application required. But he’d had to search half the library to learn Miss Vale’s full name. Sir Winton did not keep the family Bible in plain view.

Alexandra Merideth Vale. A pretty name for a beautiful lady. Her family must follow the same custom as his – using the mother’s family name as one of the child’s Christian names.

Anthony Torwell Linden.

Jonathan Concord Linden.

Alexandra Merideth Vale. So Miss Merideth’s father would have been Lady Vale’s brother. The portrait in the gallery must depict a young Lady Vale, for she bore a startling resemblance to Miss Merideth. Family likenesses were often quite strong…

He slept.

* * * *

Tony gouged his tunnel deeper, feeling for the uneven surface of mosaic tiles. His other hand scooped the loosened soil into the trench behind him.

He was having trouble breathing. The more they uncovered, the more complex the design appeared. And it was in better shape than anything he’d ever seen. The villa’s size had not been his only miscalculation. Mud must have flowed inside before its collapse, cushioning the floors. Or at least this one…

That would account for the double fan, he realized, pausing to shovel the accumulated dirt from the trench. Heavy rainfall could wash vast quantities of mud from the hills. The temple had been on a rise that might have deflected the flow through the villa. Even if it were liquid enough to leave walls intact, it would have piled mud and debris in every corner and carried possessions away. It might even have filled the hypocaust and knocked down rickety outbuildings, battering bricks into dust as it tumbled downhill. Stone walls surrounding the grounds could have deflected everything toward the east. Had the paving stones in the test hole actually been the top of a wall?

Then the hill itself had collapsed, dropping mud and rock straight onto the hapless villa, folding the northern edges atop more protected areas – much like his test slide had scraped away some of the mound. But most of the debris would have been swept straight south.

At least part of this room had been deep in mud by then. A foot of soil lay between the mosaic and the artifacts they had been uncovering. How much of the floor had survived?

His mind raced with the implications of this discovery. Once word leaked out – as it was bound to – the estate would be overrun with scholars, fortune hunters, and the curious. Sir Winton would dig out the floor and sell it to the highest bidder. That might be the best solution for its ultimate preservation, of course, for protecting it here would be nearly impossible. Unscrupulous people had been known to sneak onto a site and chip away sections of mosaic, especially mosaic of this quality. Even guards were not immune to greed.

The artist had been an exquisite craftsman. Many mosaics were quite crude, especially in the border areas. But not this one.

His fingers jammed against stone. Had he hit the foundation of the wall that had once enclosed this room, or a bit of debris?

Shifting to allow as much light as possible into the hole, he brushed the floor. More design, but in a simpler pattern. Brown and red. Probably the outer frame. Thus the stone would be a foundation block.

“I just hit the wall,” he announced, abandoning his digging, “so unless this was a walkway, the center of the room is on your side.” As soon as they had a better idea of the room’s size, they could stake out the edges and work their way in. With luck, mud had filled the hypocaust without damaging the floor supports. But even if this was the only intact piece, it was the find of a lifetime.

“The pattern is changing,” she confirmed. Instead of tunneling as he had done, she had been shaving the trench walls.

“To brown and red?”

But the question was unnecessary, for he was already clearing loose soil from the mosaic. It was a room. And, at least at this point, the floor was unbroken.

He worked back along the trench, deepening it to this new level. When he’d cleared enough space to work, he turned toward the room’s center. Occasionally, he brushed against Miss Merideth’s arm or leg, but he hardly noticed in the excitement of uncovering a masterpiece. He
did
note how his donated shirt clung to her breasts, though. But even that could not distract him for long.

An hour later, he stared at the result. “Incredible.”

A cat snarled, one paw poised to strike, though its body was still buried. A circular frame curved beneath the second paw.

“The corner panel,” he said softly.

“Corner panel?” Awe thickened her voice. Her eyes never strayed from the mosaic.

He used the point of his trowel to carve a quick sketch into the trench wall. “Rooms in the Glevum region were usually square. The brown and red outer frame I found would have run along the edge, about a foot wide. The panel frame is two feet wide, forming a square that should contain the circular main picture, also framed.” He pointed at the frame under the cat’s paw. “These triangular sections filled the corners between the circle and the square. Judging from the curve, this room might be as much as eighteen feet across. We came in near the center of one wall.” He stood, his eyes already noting the probable locations of the other walls. If the entire floor was intact…

“The cat looks alive.” She stroked the raised paw.

“Exquisite workmanship,” he agreed. “I hope the entire mosaic was executed by the same artist.”

“Why wouldn’t it be?”

“I’ve seen several mosaics that show different levels of expertise. Maybe an impatient owner hired a dozen workmen – laying mosaic is a slow process. Or perhaps he ran out of money and had to finish with an apprentice. Or the artist may have died, or been lured away by a more influential patron. Or someone might have fixed a damaged floor a century after it had originally been laid. Who knows?”

She stood to gaze around the clearing, seeming not to have heard him. But her hands trembled.

“Are you all right?”

“Yes. No.” She shook her head to clear it. “I can’t seem to take it in.”

“Shock.” He grinned as his own euphoria broke free. “This is the best-preserved floor I’ve ever seen.”

“I’ve never seen a Roman mosaic. I had no idea. The tiles we found the other day gave no hint of their potential.”

“They wouldn’t. Pieces were shaped as they were laid. And a true artist used gradations in color and even inclusions to heighten the impact of his work.”

She again stared at the cat, her smile broadening until it matched his own grin. Suddenly, she laughed and threw her arms around his shoulders. “It’s real. The villa is real. It’s fabulous. I can’t believe it was just sitting here, waiting for us. I could have found it two days ago if I’d only dug a little deeper.”

His own excitement flared, bursting in a wave of exhilaration. He twirled her around, nearly knocking her feet against the trench wall. Without thought, he hugged her close and kissed her.

The first touch of her lips drove the villa from his mind. Heat rampaged through his body. Scorching heat that burned away memory of every kiss he had savored in thirty-two years of living. Pulling her closer, he prodded her lips, drinking in her taste as she responded. What had started as a simple act of celebration rapidly turned to searing passion.

She tightened arms strengthened by hours of digging, dragging him into her skin. He’d been drooling since the moment she’d removed her jacket, revealing nipples pinched tight from the chill air. Now they dug into his chest, separated only by two thin layers of cambric.

Mine.
His hand slid down her hip, kneading, stroking, calling forth the moans that sang like a Siren’s song in his ears. Her legs tangled with his, lacking the usual bulk of skirts and petticoats that formed so frustrating a barrier.

Mine
, echoed his body as fire swirled into his groin and excitement sizzled along every nerve. He could not be more aroused if she lay naked beneath him.

Not yours!
his conscience screamed. He froze.

* * * *

Alex’s emotions had shifted so often in the last hour that she hardly knew what she was doing. Guilt. Pain. Shock. Excitement. Euphoria. When Torwell’s mouth crushed into hers, it set off an explosion that drove every rational thought from her mind.

His body was as hard as she’d remembered, and far hotter. He radiated heat, excitement, passion…

She clung, amazed to feel almost fragile in his arms. Her hands roamed freely over his back, around his shoulders, into his hair. She opened her mouth to him, the exchange of breath raising desire that weakened her knees.

I actually feel normal!

He was tall enough that kissing was not awkward – for either of them, though that was a stupid thought. He was far too good at this to ever feel awkward. His tongue twisted around hers in an erotic dance that melted her bones. She pressed closer to keep from falling, reveling in the feel of his body, shocked to realize she was grinding against him as if she were trying to crawl inside his skin.

He stiffened.

Dear Lord!
She was on the verge of ripping the clothes off a man she could never wed.

She stepped back.

“Forgive me,” he begged woodenly. “The excitement of the moment carried me away.”

“And me,” she said shakily, though all her senses protested the lost contact. “Since I started it, it is I who must beg your pardon. One does not discover so rare a treasure very often.”

“True.” He retrieved his spade and trowel. “Let’s see how much of the cat remains. Then we need to discuss how to protect it.”

“From the weather?”

The last trace of pleasure drained from his face. “From men. Do not mention this to anyone, even Miss Vale, until we secure the site. Looters have destroyed even amateurish mosaics. Once word of this leaks, it will become the target of every treasure hunter in England and beyond.”

That sobering thought kept her silent for the rest of the afternoon.

He was right to raise the issue, but she could not escape the conclusion that doing so now was deliberate. He had sensed that her reaction transcended mere celebration. As he’d done last week, he was reminding her that they were colleagues only. He had no interest in her as a woman, so unless she got her unruly passions under control, they could not even work together.

A moot point. After tonight, he would never allow her near one of his digs anyway – assuming Linden was recovered enough to receive her.

Chapter Eleven

Alex paced her bedchamber, oblivious to the spectacular sunrise outside her window.

The evening had been a worse disaster than the afternoon. Linden had remained in his room. His valet never left his bedside, so she had no opportunity to talk to him. And Sarah had insisted on sharing his dinner, claiming that he would feel neglected if he had only servants for company. Thus Bessie had also been there.

She should have joined them, she admitted, pounding a well-worn circuit from fireplace to window to dressing table and back. Dining with Torwell had been the most uncomfortable experience of her life. Their stilted conversation – if a few terse exchanges separated by interminable periods of silence could be termed conversation – demonstrated how far she had stepped across the line. Gone were the easy repartee, the sparkling wit, the enjoyable debates when they argued opposite sides of a question. Gone were the smiles, the relaxation, the anticipation of the next day’s dig.

Every gesture revived memories she was trying to forget – his hand curling around a wineglass as it had curled into her thigh; his eyes glinting green in the candlelight when he turned to speak with Murch; his tongue sliding along his lip in search of a wayward crumb…

Her body had burned with recollection. She’d barely stifled a moan. Thank God his attention had remained firmly on his plate, leaving him unaware of her reaction. She had escaped even before the dessert course, pleading fatigue.

He’d been relieved.

How could she have been so stupid? Throwing herself at him was bad enough – and she could only thank fate that he was an honorable, trustworthy vicar; Linden would have taken advantage of such an opportunity – but losing control of herself was beyond comprehension. She’d nearly ripped his clothes off! He’d been appalled, though he was gentleman enough to take the blame.

Not that it mattered who was at fault. The incident had destroyed their partnership, to say nothing of her peace of mind. She couldn’t sleep. Even lying down was impossible, for it brought a surge of memory so strong, she could actually feel him against her – deepening his kisses, crushing her closer, sucking and biting and moaning…