Near the dig site, a couple of large metal barbecues had been set up. Several long tables and white plastic chairs had been arranged in small clusters, most of which were now filled with the crew and archaeology people sitting bathed in the light of the setting sun. Voices laughing and talking happily drifted across the field, and the scent of the sun-warmed earth mingled with that of grilling meat. Normally, the latter would have me salivating, but I hadn’t been lying to Cressida when I told her I didn’t have much of a stomach for food.
Lying to perfectly nice people did that to me.
Roger and Paul were a short distance away, the former holding a wineglass filled with inky wine. I headed straight for them, trying to look as if there were nowhere else I’d rather be.
“—think it went very well for the first day, the disaster with the waterline notwithstanding. Gunner assures me that the baron won’t take action since we weren’t alerted as to the presence of the pipe in that field.” Roger paused to give me a friendly nod.
Paul leered in my direction.
“That said,” Roger continued, “I’d like to see more actual trenches opened up tomorrow. I realize we had limited time today what with the disappointing field walk and opening of the second pasture, but I’d like to see more results tomorrow.”
Paul frowned at Roger. “The field walk was anything but disappointing. We recovered several medieval bits of pottery, a handful of pipe stems, and a couple of chips of what surely are Samian ware. So all in all, I’m quite pleased with the results of today’s work, and have no doubt my team will continue to produce excellent results.” He turned to me. “Good evening, Lori. You look charming in that dress. Dare I hope you are wearing it to please me?”
Roger and I both stared at him in surprise, but at least I managed to change my expression from slight shock to one that I hope passed for coy interest. “Of course, Paul. Don’t I do everything with you in mind?”
He smirked to himself. Roger, with a murmur about getting some dinner, went off to collect a plate of barbecued meat.
“At last. I thought the old windbag would never take himself off. Now, my dear—” Paul took me by the arm and steered me in the opposite direction. “I take it you haven’t had supper yet? Excellent. I prefer to have my meals in a place where I can think, not be drowned out by a lot of chat from the diggers. They’re nice people, you understand, salt of the earth, but once they get talking . . . erm . . .”
We stopped at Paul’s RV. Outside of it sat a small table covered in a real linen tablecloth, complete with two chairs, and a champagne bucket to the side. On one of the chairs Fidencia lounged, her arms crossed, and her toe tapping in an annoyed manner. She was wearing a short flame red dress with plunging neckline, a copious amount of makeup that was totally unnecessary since she was a very pretty woman to begin with, and an expression that turned to anger when her eyes lit on me.
“What is she doing here?” she demanded to know.
“Fidencia, my dear one. Did you perhaps confuse your evenings?” Paul’s fingers tightened on my arm when I tried to pull away. “You were to dine with me tomorrow, not tonight.”
“Like hell I was!” she snapped, jerking to her feet, and throwing down the napkin that had been in her lap. “I’m not playing this game with you, Paul. Either you want me to have dinner with you, or you want her, but you can’t have both of us. So make up your mind.”
“My dear, I assure you that I made this appointment with Lorina yesterday—no, no, Lorina, don’t leave—we’ll clear up this unfortunate misunderstanding. My dear Fidencia . . .” Paul released me, leaving me to rub my poor abused arm. I knew I’d have bruises there in the morning.
He hustled over to where Fidencia stood in a posture of tense anger, and spoke in a lowered voice that all but dripped honey. “I assure you that I have nothing but the most innocent of interests in Lorina. She is the press, as you are very aware, and it doesn’t do to anger them, not when we count so much on her goodwill to promote Claud-Marie Archaeology to the world. You are an understanding woman, so you will realize that we must all make sacrifices occasionally. This is one of those times.”
“Sacrifices,” Fidencia snorted, casting me a black look. “Oh yes, I can see just how much you’re sacrificing. Well, it’s your loss.” She whipped around, giving me a wide berth as if I were tainted, pausing long enough to say to me, “I really hate people who abuse their power.”
I watched her leave with a sick feeling in my gut that had little to do with Paul, and a lot to do with the sort of person she believed me to be. I’d be lying if I didn’t admit that I came very close to calling off the whole thing right then and there, but a look at Fidencia angrily striding away quelled that thought. “There’s no way on earth,” I said softly to myself, “I will let him destroy another woman’s life.”
“Pardon?” Paul asked, turning to me.
“Nothing. Paul, if this is a bad time, I can come back—”
“No, no, just a little miscommunication.” He held out a chair for me, making sure to touch both the back of my neck and my arm as he scooted my chair in. He shook Fidencia’s napkin and draped it across my thighs. “You know how it is with these young girls—they would die before they admit to hero worship, but that’s really all it is.”
“But she works for Claud-Marie Archaeology with you, doesn’t she?” I asked, confused about their relationship. “Are you two . . . er . . . for lack of a better word, together?”
“We have an understanding,” he said with a tight little smile. “We enjoy many things together, but not exclusively, if you know what I mean.”
“I think I do.” The last thing I wanted to do was discuss his relationship with Fidencia, not when I was trying to get him into a romantic mood. My stomach twisted at that thought, so to distract myself, I said, “You know, I don’t think I understand how a private company can make a profit on archaeology, since you have to give any treasure you find to the government. How does the CMA do it? Do you sell the other finds, the nontreasure ones?”
“No, we donate all finds to appropriate museums and universities. Most of our work is paid for by various private companies who represent entities involved in development projects, such as housing construction, or rezoning properties, or dealing with roads being widened and such. An archaeological assessment must be conducted, which is where we come in. Without our clearance, construction couldn’t begin.”
“Is the baron going to have something built here?” I asked, confused.
“No, in this instance, we were approached by the Dig Britain! people to conduct the dig while they televised it.” He gave a little shrug. “It’s not an ideal situation, since we are having to modify our practices in order to suit the needs of the film crews, but as they are footing the bill, the board decided it would be worthwhile.”
“I can see that. I thought the digging today was very exciting, even if we did only find a beer mug rim.”
“Indeed. Now, I do hope you’re hungry. I had my assistant pick up a few things from town. Not that the catering isn’t delightful, but I prefer to pamper myself when I’m out on a dig—we give up so many creature comforts that it helps to keep the spirits up, you know. Allow me to pour you a glass of wine. Ah, I forgot the bread. I will return momentarily.”
He popped into the RV before I could protest that the last thing my stomach wanted was alcohol. I swore and reminded myself that I might be about to do something despicable and desperate, but I had a good reason for my actions. I stared at his wineglass, sitting there so open and unprotected.
It was there. Right in front of me. The moment that I had been waiting for, the culmination of my plan. All I had to do was reach out, drop the drugs in the glass, and my job would be done.
I sat as frozen as a block of marble, my palms sweating, and my brain shrieking that the end didn’t justify the means.
I swallowed hard when my
stomach seemed to turn over. Now that I was so close to achieving my goal, I just wanted to leave. My innards felt cold and clammy, and the air was suddenly too thick to breathe. My hands, unpleasantly damp, were shaking. I clutched them together in my lap, and told myself to get a grip.
No! my inner voice shrieked. What you’re doing is wrong!
I shivered despite the heat, fighting bile as it started to rise, panic filling me, as did piercing doubts that tore my confidence to shreds.
Why was I doing this? Surely there was another way, something that wouldn’t involve me staining my soul! There had to be another way. I just couldn’t do this.
I tried to ignore the word “coward” as it echoed around in my mind, but it was small comfort to know that it was better to be a coward than to do what I’d planned. Just when I thought I was going to either burst into tears or start shrieking, a low humming buzz caught my attention.
I turned around to see Gunner zipping along on his scooter, heading straight for me.
The look on his face was truly chilling. He stopped, and gave me a long, level stare. “Cressy told me you were feeling queasy and couldn’t come to dinner. We were worried that you were still suffering from too much sun, so I said I’d check on you in case you needed something.”
“Oh, Gunner . . .” I swallowed hard, trying desperately to think of something to say. “I . . . I just . . .”
“She simply would rather dine with me than you.” Paul emerged from the RV with two covered plates, and a basket of rolls. He set them all down on the table, and cocked an eyebrow at Gunner. “I’m sure no more need be said.”
Gunner looked from the plates to me. His eyes, those pretty blue eyes, were as cold as polar ice. “No, nothing more need be said.”
“Wait,” I said, standing up. Earlier panic turned to despair in my gut at the sight of Gunner’s cold expression.
“Don’t bother, my dear.” Paul blocked me from going after Gunner, although I hadn’t the slightest idea what I would say to the man if I did follow him. “I think the facts have been made clear to him at last. He won’t be pestering you any longer.”
“Gunner, wait.” I shook off Paul’s confining hand, my mind warring a battle of desperation and self-loathing.
Gunner stopped and looked back. “Yes?”
“There’s . . . I don’t want you to think . . . it’s just that . . .” I swore to myself, wanting more than anything to explain it all to Gunner—from Sandy’s horrible betrayal, to my plan to save others, right on down to the fact that I had a hard time keeping my hands off him—but the memory of Sandy had me clamping my lips closed. That and the knowledge of what he’d think of me should I tell him the truth.
“It’s just what?” Gunner asked, his voice as arctic as his eyes.
“I’m sorry,” I finally managed to say. “I’m just . . . sorry.”
“Indeed,” was all he said before he resumed his trip back to his castle.
My stomach gurgled, warning me that swallowing all that emotion was going to have dire consequences if I didn’t relax.
Paul, smirking at Gunner’s back, pushed me back into the chair. “There, now. We can have a quiet dinner without any further interruptions, just you and me, and your fascination with archaeology . . . and archaeologists.”
He gave me a smile that I was fairly certain he thought was seductive, and whipped the covers off the plates with a flourish. Rich, hearty scents wafted upward. I stared down at what was probably a nice coq au vin, but appeared to me to be a nauseating blob.
“Bon appétit.” He lifted his untainted glass to me. It was a banner of both my failure and my triumph of sorts. “And can I add that it’s been a long time since I had such a charming dinner companion?”
My throat hurt from keeping things down when they wanted to come up. I fought my stomach, almost shaking with the effort to sit in the chair.
“Now, then. I expect you have a good many questions about what it is I do. But first, a bit about my background. I went to the University of Exeter more years ago than I care to admit.” He gave a light little laugh and shoveled a forkful of food into his mouth. “I was named promising young archaeologist for three years in a row during my college years—which no doubt was why Monsieur Claud-Marie snatched me up as soon as I graduated.”
My stomach turned over on itself a couple of times. I focused on breathing, taking one little sip of water to see if that would help the situation.
“I headed up a dig in Turkey my first year with CMA, and was responsible for leading the team that uncovered the temple at Ankara.”
The water was a mistake. My innards all seemed to lurch to the left. I turned to the side, panting slightly in hopes that it would ease the nausea.
“You’re not eating, my dear. Is something the matter?”
I opened my mouth to excuse myself, but things started moving of their own accord, so I leaped to my feet and dashed around the front of the RV, hoping to make it away from the row of vehicles before my stomach unloaded itself.
“Are you all—oh.” Paul stood at the front of the RV. “Erm . . . yes. Just so. I can see you are unwell. I had no idea. . . . You should have told me. . . . Perhaps it would be best if we put off dinner for another night?”
I looked up from where I was on my hands and knees retching into the still-warm earth. With the back of my hand, I wiped a tendril of slobber from my lips, and said simply, “Good idea.”
To my relief, he didn’t stay around and try to help me—although I was willing to bet if I puked up my guts in front of Gunner, he would have at least offered to get me a glass of water. Paul simply wished me well, and took off at a fast walk, heading in the direction of the archaeology team.
It looked like Fidencia would get her fancy dinner after all, I thought with a wry twist of my lips. Assuming she forgave Paul.
What the hell was I going to do now that I had clearly failed my one goal? Despondently, I staggered back to my tent, brushed my teeth, brushed my tongue, brushed my teeth again, and then lay down on my air mattress and wished I were dead.
“Self-pity,” I told the tent rails, “is never as satisfying as you think it’s going to be. Dammit. I’m not going to get any sleep until I go fix at least one thing I’ve screwed up.”
All the way to the castle I lectured myself, pointing out that people who had intended on conducting an illegal act upon another person—no matter how well-intentioned—did not get to claim finer feelings toward those they’ve hurt. “Which means, you idiot, that it’s only right and proper for you to apologize to Gunner for hurting his feelings, but no, you don’t get to feel noble about doing it. You shouldn’t have hurt him in the first place. Own your mistakes—that’s what Dr. Anderson always said.” I took a deep breath, marched up eight stairs, and considered the castle’s wide double doors. “Awkward. How are you supposed to enter a bona fide castle? Do I knock? Is there a doorbell? Will there be a butler, and if so, do I have to tell him I want to apologize to Gunner because I was an ass?”
I faced the doors, took a deep breath, and then, before I lost courage, opened one of them and poked my head inside. “Hello?”
In front of me was a large room that pretty much fit all my ideas of what a grand hallway should be. Across the big stretch of black-and-white tile stood a fireplace large enough to roast the tent that Cressy and I inhabited. There were also several antique-looking chairs, banners, crossed swords on the walls, and murky paintings of indistinguishable scenes—pretty much everything that you’d expect to see on a movie set of a medieval castle. There were also blue rope barriers with little signs at various spots. “Clearly the tourist section of the castle. Hmm.” I entered the hall and, after a quick look around for any directional signs (This way to the master of the house’s hunky brother would have been handy, but, alas, did not appear to have been installed), began my search.
I tried to kee
p myself to the public rooms as much as possible, feeling for some reason that it made my presence less intrusive, but after going through four rooms with no sign of life, I branched out and headed down a hallway that had been roped off.
From there, it was simply a matter of following my nose. Little wafts of onion and garlic kept me pointed in the correct direction until I rounded a corner and found myself at the entrance to a surprisingly small kitchen. Seated at a table that had been pushed up against one wall were Gunner, Cressy, and Salma, all of whom bore identical expressions of surprise when I came to an abrupt halt.
“Oh. Here you are. Um. I’m sorry if I’m trespassing, but I wanted to explain about earlier.” I summoned up a smile for all three of them. “It was nice of you to check on me, and I thought it was only right that I explain what happened.”
Gunner set down a fork loaded with salad. His face, which had been wearing a happy expression, iced over. “I think the explanation of what happened is fairly clear. You preferred to have dinner with Thompson rather than us.”
“No, honestly, I didn’t. I don’t. He’s . . . he’s . . .” I stopped, aware that once again I was about to bare my conscience, and that would never do. I might be a horrible person and a coward to boot, but I didn’t have to let Gunner know all that. “Oh, it doesn’t matter what Paul is. What does matter is that I asked Cressy to tell you I was not having dinner with you, when I should have had the balls to do it myself.” I paused, distracted. “I really hate that expression. Why do balls signify courage? Women have just as much courage as men. Why isn’t it ‘I should have had the uterus to tell you’? Why are balls the standard of bravery?”
“Ovaries,” Cressy said around a mouthful of garlic bread.
I waited for my stomach to lurch at the sight and smell of it, but it seemed to have settled down. In fact, I felt the faintest gurgles of hunger around the edges. “‘Ovaries’ is better. You should have had the ovaries to tell Gunner that you’d rather have dinner with Paul than us, although honestly I don’t know why you would. Do you fancy him?”