the table, bumping a forlorn-looking map holding court in the middle of the untidiness. Lines bisected crumpled paper over what must be an island, but the array struck a chord with her, teasing her mind. From where?
“A treasure map?”
Her fingers traced faintly familiar patterns on yellowed foolscap, leading to an X . On one corner, fingerprints left red-brown paint, smears more like it, unlike any pigment she’d ever seen. The table’s edge bit into her midsection as she hugged the drink to her chest in one hand and leaned over for a better look. With her other hand, she brushed the red-brown tincture. Tiny flecks clung to three fingers.
“What is this?” She brought her hand closer for examination, rubbing her thumb over the color. “Dried blood!” she cried, jerking back as if the map had turned into a hissing snake, almost spilling her drink.
Lydia scrubbed her fingers up and down her skirt, but like all things exotic, the slashed X and scribbled notes bewitched her. Numbers, longitude and latitude most likely, made neat rows on one corner. Where was this mysterious place? And the faintly familiar design bothered her, hanging on the periphery of recall. She sipped her drink and hugged the glass to her chest.
“’Herein lies the…the”—she squinted and leaned closer, angling the paper for the best advantage—“heavens, the poor soul who scrawled this needs to learn the King’s English. The clero…clerodendrum…clerodendrum thom—”
“ Clerodendrum thomsoniae . A bleeding heart vine.” Lord Greenwich’s voice shot into the room. “And that’s Latin you’re reading, the language of science and intellectuals.”
Lydia whipped around, facing the direction of the cultured voice. As she whirled, a golden arc of scotch sprayed from the glass, raining wetness. To stop the spray, she jerked abruptly, overcorrecting, and the glass tilted, sloshing liquid on her dress.
The earl filled the doorway, leaning against the doorjamb, arms folded loosely, as if finding a woman snooping in his room was a common occurrence. A cringing chill scraped her skin, the same as when she was a child caught in the thick of wrongdoing. Fire sparked in his lordship’s eyes and the way his scarred jaw ticked. What would he do? That molten stare of his raked her bodice.
“Your dress.”
“My dress?” She shook her head, befuddled, until she followed the cant of his glare. “Oh dear.”
A wet spot blossomed, the strong, smoky peat of scotch marking her with its stain like some kind of immoral woman. Grim-faced, his lordship moved across the room with long, quick strides. He reached for the glass she clutched to her chest in a death grip.
“I’ll take that.”
His chill tones sent goose bumps down her spine. Long masculine fingers slid over hers.
“I know this looks bad,” she said, swallowing the lump in her throat, not letting go of the glass.
“Yes.” Hard brown eyes stared back, giving no quarter. “Very bad.”
“Awful…for many reasons,” she whispered, dry-mouthed.
He pulled on the near-empty glass. She held fast. Her fingers pinched fine crystal as if the glass were some kind of talisman. Lord Greenwich’s jaw muscles flexed.
“Give. Me. The. Glass.”
Some strands of dark blond hair had gone awry of his queue, flanking his jaw. Lydia stared wide-eyed at the masculine hand covering her own, then met his hard stare.
“You won’t hit me, will you?”
His eyes flared wide, as if the idea were ridiculous. “I don’t hit women. But you will give me the glass.”
“Yes, of course.” Numbly, she followed the exchange of her hand curving in his, and stinging embarrassment made her study the carpet. That’s when she saw the puddle at her feet.
“Lud! Look what I’ve done.” She dropped to the floor, using the hem of her underskirt to alternately rub and dab the spot.
“The rug is the least of my concerns,” he said, extending a hand. “Up with you.”
Lydia knelt at his feet. She
“A treasure map?”
Her fingers traced faintly familiar patterns on yellowed foolscap, leading to an X . On one corner, fingerprints left red-brown paint, smears more like it, unlike any pigment she’d ever seen. The table’s edge bit into her midsection as she hugged the drink to her chest in one hand and leaned over for a better look. With her other hand, she brushed the red-brown tincture. Tiny flecks clung to three fingers.
“What is this?” She brought her hand closer for examination, rubbing her thumb over the color. “Dried blood!” she cried, jerking back as if the map had turned into a hissing snake, almost spilling her drink.
Lydia scrubbed her fingers up and down her skirt, but like all things exotic, the slashed X and scribbled notes bewitched her. Numbers, longitude and latitude most likely, made neat rows on one corner. Where was this mysterious place? And the faintly familiar design bothered her, hanging on the periphery of recall. She sipped her drink and hugged the glass to her chest.
“’Herein lies the…the”—she squinted and leaned closer, angling the paper for the best advantage—“heavens, the poor soul who scrawled this needs to learn the King’s English. The clero…clerodendrum…clerodendrum thom—”
“ Clerodendrum thomsoniae . A bleeding heart vine.” Lord Greenwich’s voice shot into the room. “And that’s Latin you’re reading, the language of science and intellectuals.”
Lydia whipped around, facing the direction of the cultured voice. As she whirled, a golden arc of scotch sprayed from the glass, raining wetness. To stop the spray, she jerked abruptly, overcorrecting, and the glass tilted, sloshing liquid on her dress.
The earl filled the doorway, leaning against the doorjamb, arms folded loosely, as if finding a woman snooping in his room was a common occurrence. A cringing chill scraped her skin, the same as when she was a child caught in the thick of wrongdoing. Fire sparked in his lordship’s eyes and the way his scarred jaw ticked. What would he do? That molten stare of his raked her bodice.
“Your dress.”
“My dress?” She shook her head, befuddled, until she followed the cant of his glare. “Oh dear.”
A wet spot blossomed, the strong, smoky peat of scotch marking her with its stain like some kind of immoral woman. Grim-faced, his lordship moved across the room with long, quick strides. He reached for the glass she clutched to her chest in a death grip.
“I’ll take that.”
His chill tones sent goose bumps down her spine. Long masculine fingers slid over hers.
“I know this looks bad,” she said, swallowing the lump in her throat, not letting go of the glass.
“Yes.” Hard brown eyes stared back, giving no quarter. “Very bad.”
“Awful…for many reasons,” she whispered, dry-mouthed.
He pulled on the near-empty glass. She held fast. Her fingers pinched fine crystal as if the glass were some kind of talisman. Lord Greenwich’s jaw muscles flexed.
“Give. Me. The. Glass.”
Some strands of dark blond hair had gone awry of his queue, flanking his jaw. Lydia stared wide-eyed at the masculine hand covering her own, then met his hard stare.
“You won’t hit me, will you?”
His eyes flared wide, as if the idea were ridiculous. “I don’t hit women. But you will give me the glass.”
“Yes, of course.” Numbly, she followed the exchange of her hand curving in his, and stinging embarrassment made her study the carpet. That’s when she saw the puddle at her feet.
“Lud! Look what I’ve done.” She dropped to the floor, using the hem of her underskirt to alternately rub and dab the spot.
“The rug is the least of my concerns,” he said, extending a hand. “Up with you.”
Lydia knelt at his feet. She
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