She eyed him cautiously. “I suppose that’s true.”
“You’re damn right it’s true. Now, tell me what you know about Barra and I’ll stop asking questions.” For now.
She looked down at her hands clasped in her lap, her thick lashes casting shadows over her cheeks. Finally, she looked up at him, her expression reflective. “I don’t really know that much. It’s been a long time since I’ve been there.”
“I can’t imagine things have changed much in the time since you left. You’re not that old, you know.” He rubbed his chin. “Or are you?”
She chuckled. “No, I’m not. And I can see your point. Nothing much changes in that region of the world. It always seemed frozen in time.” She nodded thoughtfully, her eyes the rich brown of brushed velvet. “I suppose some of my recollections might be of help, after all.”
Why haven’t I noticed her eyes before now? I’ve seen them hundreds—no, thousands—of times and yet I’ve never really paid attention to the color.
She frowned. “Why are you staring at me like that?”
Inwardly, he cursed, but then said, “Was I? Sorry. I was thinking. Let’s begin with the caves, for you seem to remember them quite clearly. Are they well known to the island’s inhabitants?”
“I suppose so. Why?”
“Because if the final clue to the Hurst Amulet was in those caves, then it is possible that some treasure hunter has already discovered it and spirited it off.”
“I don’t think so. The caves are very remote and difficult to reach. You can access them only at low tide, and then only for an hour or so at a time.”
“So they’re underwater most of the time.”
“The entryway is, yes, and the bottom of some of the caverns as well.”
“That’s inconvenient.”
“And treacherous. I doubt many people have been in the caves.”
“It would only take one, and you did say there’ve been rumors of a treasure for centuries.”
“Yes, but everyone knows how dangerous the caves are, and I’m one of only a few people who’ve seen the markings on the wall inside the cave.”
Her voice had softened, and he detected the faintest hint of a Scottish burr buried among her usually crisp vowels. Bloody hell, she has an accent! Has it always been there and I never noticed? Or is it just audible when she’s reminiscing about her home? “The locals avoid the cave?”
“Oh, yes.”
There was a hint of “och” in her “oh,” something he was certain she’d never done before.
She continued on, unaware of his locked interest. “When I was young, about ten or so, there were two local lads who entered the cave. They were strapping lads those two, but young, and they dinna—” She stopped. Her surprised gaze found his before she closed her mouth firmly, her lips white.
“So you hear it, too, that touch of a Scottish brogue,” he said with satisfaction.
“I don’t know what you mean,” she returned stiffly, her accent back to its normal clipped tone.
“Unbelievable. All of this time, I thought you were English—but you’re a damned Scot.”
Her hands clasped tightly together, she said nothing more.
Michael crossed his arms. She didn’t appear any different. She was sitting in her usual prim and proper fashion, her sensibly clad feet planted firmly on the floor. Everything was the same except her expression, which was guarded. Hidden. Whatever she was hiding, he wanted, needed, to explore it. “Out with it, Jane. You might as well make a clean breast of it and tell me everything.”
“Michael, stop it! Just leave things as they were, comfortable for us both.”
Michael crossed his arms and glowered at her. Damn it, he wished this mystery were a simpler one, where all he had to do was crack an ancient text or dig in just the right spot in a vast desert to unearth the treasure he sought. This was far more complex and delicate, and he could tell from her tight expression that he was bungling it badly.
She was right in saying that things would be more comfortable if he’d leave well enough alone, but he couldn’t help himself. Something had happened last night when he’d seen that bumpkin eyeing her like an art collector seeing a breathtakingly beautiful painting.
Somehow, over the years, she’d become his. His and no one else’s. And he’d be damned if he’d allow anyone to know more about her than he did.
Yet there she sat, stubborn-mouthed and closed to him, her stiff posture challenging him to ask questions she wouldn’t answer.
It was infuriating beyond belief. He wasn’t used to people telling him no. His irritation bubbled, rising to the surface. She was his assistant, damn it. He paid her wages, saw to her safety, and shared her with no one. How dare she keep secrets from him?
Caught between a rising tide of anger and the same flush of excitement he always felt when on the verge of a new discovery, Michael reached across the carriage, picked up his plain no-nonsense assistant, and plopped her onto his lap. “There,” he said, ignoring her outraged gasp. “Now you’ll tell me what I want to know.”
CHAPTER 4
From the diary of Michael Hurst:
London is good for two things—excellent Scotch and leaving. I miss them both, especially as I often partake of one while doing the other. I find the company stifling, the streets foul smelling and overcrowded, the houses bland and without architectural merit, and the people banal and filled with their own consequence.
No matter how often I leave London, I cannot wait to leave it again. My home is in my explorations. Those always welcome me.
Shocked, Jane’s gaze locked with Michael’s. Surely he hadn’t just plucked her up and plopped her into his lap . . . surely she was imagining this and— But no. Here she was, caught in the circle of his strong arms like the veriest strumpet.
She should be angry and demand to be released that instant, but for some reason, Jane just blinked at him.
She’d worked in some of the most difficult and uncivilized places in the world, and for some of the roughest and least civilized explorers, too. She’d made a name for herself by practicing a tough, unflappable professionalism in the face of all circumstances by never revealing herself as a woman in any way.
Yet here she was, sitting in Michael Hurst’s lap and not uttering a single word of protest. The truth was, she didn’t know what to say—an unusual circumstance indeed. In her entire life there was only one other time she’d been bereft of speech, and that had involved Hurst, too.
It was the first time she’d met him. She’d heard of him, of course; one couldn’t live in Egypt without hearing about the great explorer Michael Hurst. And whenever she could get her hands upon The Morning Post, she’d read of his exploits in his serial.
But it was more than that. Hurst was well thought of by other explorers, which was unusual, since they were an unyielding, jealous group. From things her different employers had said over the years, she knew that his work was highly regarded because of his meticulous research and his intuitive way of seeing connections between seemingly unrelated artifacts. But what really drew the admiration of his fellow explorers was the undeniable fact that the expeditions he led always uncovered the most spectacular artifacts. His instincts were exceptional.
It was that flawless reputation that had led Jane to leave her comfortable post with an older, prosy, but secure French explorer and answer the advert that Hurst had posted at an embassy in India. She’d been thrilled when he’d summoned her to an interview.
She’d had no illusions when she’d answered that advert; Hurst was also well known for his sharp-edged temperament. She knew he was an imperious sort, an exacting exploration leader, rude to those he considered inferior, and inordinately demanding. Such was his reputation that, even though he’d offered a superior wage, no one had answered his ad, frightened off by his rudeness. No one, that is, except her.
But what Jane hadn’t known about Michael Hurst until the day she stepped into his tent was that this adventurou
s, driven, gruff, brilliant explorer was also handsome. Blink-twice-and-try-to-breathe-and-still-think-you’re-seeing-an-angel handsome.
He was well over six feet tall, with black hair worn a bit too long so that it fell over his brow and emphasized his brilliant blue eyes. Added to that lethal combination was a strong jaw, lionlike grace, and a muscled physique that made every word in her head freeze in place.
Fortunately, Michael’s overbearing attitude had quickly melted her frozen-in-place admiration, so she had regained her ability to speak and was quite prepared when he snapped a rude “Sit down!” and then offered her a ridiculously low salary and a list of unacceptable conditions.
But Jane relished bargaining, a strength that had stood her in good stead in her profession. By the time they were done, she’d forced Hurst to double her usual wage, which had left him in a towering rage, but with a new respect in his gaze. She’d found both quite satisfactory.
Thus, their relationship had begun. The respect he’d shown after their first altercation had never wavered in the years they’d worked together. It had offered its own protection, too, as it defined them as employee and employer, boundaries neither of them had crossed—until today.
She put her hands against his chest and tried to rise, no small feat in the rocking carriage, but Michael held her fast. “What is this?” she demanded.
“I’m tired of your evasions.”
“My personal life is just that: personal. You don’t ask me questions and I don’t ask you. That’s our arrangement.”
His blue eyes narrowed, and he tilted his head to one side.
It was disconcerting to be examined at such close quarters. She was in his lap, her face so close to his that if she leaned forward even the slightest bit, their lips would touch.
The thought created tremors of—amazement? Trepidation? Uncertainty? Whatever it was, it was uncomfortable and to be avoided at all costs. I know the danger of this, she told herself. And I’m no longer a child of eighteen to make such a silly error. She wiggled, trying to loosen his hold. “Michael, release me this inst—”
“Stop that.” His voice was so strained that she instantly froze.
His eyes were closed, his brows lowered, and he bit into his bottom lip as if in pain.
“I’m sorry. Did I hurt you?”
He swallowed hard. “No. But you shouldn’t squirm like that.”
“Why not— Oh! Your—” Her cheeks heated. “I didn’t mean to—”
“I’m sure you didn’t.”
She was instantly aware of how his voice rumbled in his chest and thus against her arm when he spoke.
He met her gaze now, as bold as ever. “If you don’t stay still, I won’t be responsible for my reactions.”
“You won’t be—” She cocked an eyebrow. “Balderdash. You are responsible for your actions, aroused or not.”
“I said I wasn’t responsible for my reactions, not my actions. Of course I can control my actions; I’m not a barbarian.”
“Then let me up.”
“Will you answer my questions?”
“No.”
“Then you’ll stay right where you are until you do. Just stop wiggling.” He settled farther into the corner, pulling her with him, and then tucking her head under his chin, as if it were the most natural thing in the world.
It would be a lie to say she had never wondered what it would be like if he embraced her. How could one not wonder with such a handsome employer? But she’d worked hard over the years to make sure that aimless wondering would never become reality. I am undoing years of hard work. “Michael, this is ludicrous.”
“You’ve forgotten who pays the wage.”
“My private life isn’t covered by my wages.”
“Yes, it is.”
Her jaw tightened. She didn’t wish to tell him anything, blast it, but she supposed that, since they were headed to the Isle of Barra, she’d eventually have to. She sighed her frustration but pulled back to look at him. “Fine. I was born there. I grew up there. And I lived there until I was sixteen.”
Michael blinked. Of all the things he’d thought to hear, that wasn’t it. “You were born on the Isle of Barra?”
She nodded. “My mother was English, which is why I don’t have as strong an accent as you might expect.”
“Until today, you haven’t had any accent at all. At least, none that I’d noticed.”
Jane flicked him a dismissive glance and said in a perfectly soft brogue, “She dinna ken to a brogue and thought it undistinguished.”
“I’d have to agree with her.”
Jane’s eyes flashed fire as her jaw firmed. He offered bluntly, “I’d never heard of Barra before last night.”
“You’re not Scottish,” she returned promptly, with a strong flicker of pride in her voice. “I’ve answered your questions, Hurst. Now may I return to my seat?”
Michael had pulled Jane into his lap on a wild impulse, but now that she was here, her trim rump pressed to his groin, her wide brown eyes framed by her spectacles, her lush mouth thinned in irritation—suddenly, he could think of no good reason to release her.
Of course, he really should. Decency demanded it.
He sighed and loosened his hold to allow her to stand.
But the second her trim bottom lifted from his lap and she rocked forward to stand, her face came directly even with his.
Their gazes locked, and she froze in place.
If he leaned forward less than an inch, his lips would brush hers. And there was something intensely erotic about the wide fullness of her lips that begged for a kiss. So he did it.
The second their lips met, a shock raced through him, making his scalp tingle, his heart thunder, and his cock rise and harden.
The world stood still, as if uncertain how to handle this new development. Michael’s gaze locked with Jane’s, neither moving, their lips barely touching.
And then, with the most sensual moan he’d ever heard, Jane closed her eyes, slipped an arm about his neck, and pressed against him.
Desire erupted with a suddenness that would have shocked him if he could think, but he could only feel as roaring passion thundered through him. He grasped her hand, which now rested on his chest, and deepened the kiss, slipping his tongue across her lips.
Jane’s eyes flew open and she gasped as if burned, breaking the kiss.
Blinking at him through her spectacles, she pulled away. “Oh, my,” she breathed. “That was— I mean, I’ve kissed someone before— But not like— That was—” She bit her lip. “But it mustn’t happen again. We can’t confuse things and— No. We can’t do this.” Her gaze locked on his mouth and a wistful look entered her eyes. “Still . . .”
Michael’s mind buzzed from the explosion of sensations. All he knew was that he was damned glad they’d kissed and that she was back in his lap, her bottom pressed to his throbbing cock. I’ve never had such a reaction to a mere kiss. And with Jane, who is a perfect innocent—
She whipped off her spectacles, grabbed his lapels, and kissed him again, only this time it was her tongue that slipped across his lips.
For a full two seconds, Michael didn’t react. He couldn’t believe that this was his quiet, efficient, unremarkable assistant. But Jane was in no mood for hesitation; she slid her hands to his shoulders, clutching him closer as she opened her lips beneath his in invitation.
Michael was pulled into the kiss like a fish reeled to shore. His resolve to resist her fled completely and he grasped her to him, his hands greedily exploring the flare of her hips and the delicate curves of her waist. She was just as active, slipping her hands beneath his waistcoat and lower, touching, stroking, driving him mad.
Her passion was as contagious as malaria, and Michael could no more stop her than he could stop himself. He slid his hand over her skirts to the hem, sliding his fingers up her leg to her knee, stopping there, aching to move forward but knowing he dared not.
Not yet.
He deepened the k
iss until he was once again the one in control, fanning her desires until she moaned against his mouth and stirred restlessly in his lap. It felt so good, so right, so incredibly—
Her teeth bumped into his, and she giggled.
The gesture and her reaction were so innocent that he closed his eyes and his hand fisted where it had rested against the enticingly warm skin of her knee. He couldn’t continue this. For all of her enthusiasm, Jane was as awkward as a colt. And just as innocent, damn it.
Michael broke the kiss with a muffled curse. “Jane. No. We can’t.” He lifted her off his lap and to the ends of his knees, giving his aching cock the room it needed to calm.
She frowned, a wounded look in her brown eyes. “Michael, please.” The name was more moan than word, and she reached for him again.
“No.” His voice croaked like a rusted fence as he fought the heat that burned through him. Gathering every ounce of reserve he possessed, he slid his hands around her waist, lifted her, and then set her on the seat across from him.
For a moment, they stared at one another. The coach rumbled on, rocking from side to side. Jane’s hair had come down and hung like rich, chestnut brown silk about her pale skin. The sheen of her hair added to the thick sweep of her lashes made her look as exotic as a harem girl. She looked young and sensual and achingly beautiful.
Bloody hell, when did that happen? I can’t think of her that way. It will complicate everything.
She cleared her throat. “If you don’t mind, Hurst, I’d like to try that again.” Her voice was faintly husky, a tremor threading through her words. “I—I was just getting a feel for it and—”
“For the love of Ra, I don’t want you to get ‘a feel’ for that! Jane, you— I can’t— This isn’t what should— Damn it!” Michael shook his head, trying to clear his numb mind. “I should have never held you.”
“But you did hold me,” she said in her usual prosaic tone. “And once you’d done that . . .” She tilted her head to one side, regarding him with interest. “I’ve never been kissed quite like that before.”