for a discussion of woman’s rights. Just stick to the facts, Germaine, she reminded herself.
“Well, Lord Dorset charged Sir Aubrey with directing this site and, in his absence, I am in charge.” She felt the heat of anger rush through her body.
She was not going to give in. The bronze scabbard with its extraordinary engravings, the skeletal remains and broken sword, were signs that something rare lay beyond this wall. Whoever was first in could claim historic notoriety. The world still remembered the drama of archaeologist Howard Carter being the first to enter the fabulous tomb of Tutankhamun in Egypt and she wanted that kind of spotlight on her. Her jaw set a bit tighter.
Conan was smiling; one cheek had a beguiling dimple. It was quite charming and she felt sure he knew how to use it—she had watched him charm Moira at the conference. Was she overreacting? Perhaps. She still remembered Julian’s way of using his charming smile from her distant marriage.
But something significant was in the balance here, and she was not about to give up. Germaine silently cursed her quick tongue again. The thought of her grievous response to Nigel Mallory about the Celts burned in the back of her mind. Damn! Would she never learn?
She had reacted to Conan’s challenge without thinking. It would have been better to talk this over in private. She looked at him and then tilted her head, looking up at the fading light, as though thinking about what he said. She didn’t want to alienate him. It would create an impossible work situation, if they were constantly arguing and vying for power.
She drew a deep breath and smiled in a benign way.
“You may be right. I’ll think it over.”
It was a somber group that climbed out of the site. Germaine had never felt this excited and worried, all at the same time.
“Are you staying up here tonight, Dr. O’Neill?” Nicholas asked.
“Yes, I need to be where I can quickly hear how Aubrey is doing. We have an army field phone, and they promised to call as soon as the doctors made a diagnosis.”
They sat at a small table outside the main tent and watched Conan speaking to Ian, the tall shovel bum who seemed to be in charge of the tea kettle and kitchen—a primitive camp setup. Two Coleman lanterns cast a warm, yellow light that lured pale, delicate-winged night flyers to immolation; a faint buzz marked each fatality as it fell in the flame. A small generator provided a limited amount of electricity. There were two hot plates, and several ice chests served as refrigerators; nothing more elaborate was needed yet. The smell of coffee drifted in the air.
Conan’s voice raised and though they could not clearly hear his words, the tone sounded angry, like an argument. Then he raised his arm and shoved Ian back against a table! There was a mild scuffle, mostly pushing, and Ian stomped out of camp, over the path to the rampart.
“I guess Ian did something wrong,” Germaine said.
Nicholas’s head straightened, alert. He drew a loud, sharp breath. Germaine glanced at him. She was shocked by the look on his face. For a second, he looked as though he could attack Conan. Then the fearsome expression vanished.
He stood up and moved around the tent, casually testing the ropes, looking inside, watching the crew mill around the kitchen area fixing dinner.
Fascinated, Germaine watched him. He acted like a loyal guard on patrol. Somehow, that was reassuring. His shoulders were surprisingly large; he could easily hold his own with any man here. For someone who walked with a cane, his body looked muscular. Maybe he worked out to compensate for his leg? She considered asking, but decided it would be rude. If he wanted to talk about his leg, he could choose the time, not her.
A night breeze had picked up, and it grew chilly. They moved inside and sat at the work table, still covered with Aubrey’s books.
“It’s getting late, I’ll stay here to keep you company if you like. You must be
“Well, Lord Dorset charged Sir Aubrey with directing this site and, in his absence, I am in charge.” She felt the heat of anger rush through her body.
She was not going to give in. The bronze scabbard with its extraordinary engravings, the skeletal remains and broken sword, were signs that something rare lay beyond this wall. Whoever was first in could claim historic notoriety. The world still remembered the drama of archaeologist Howard Carter being the first to enter the fabulous tomb of Tutankhamun in Egypt and she wanted that kind of spotlight on her. Her jaw set a bit tighter.
Conan was smiling; one cheek had a beguiling dimple. It was quite charming and she felt sure he knew how to use it—she had watched him charm Moira at the conference. Was she overreacting? Perhaps. She still remembered Julian’s way of using his charming smile from her distant marriage.
But something significant was in the balance here, and she was not about to give up. Germaine silently cursed her quick tongue again. The thought of her grievous response to Nigel Mallory about the Celts burned in the back of her mind. Damn! Would she never learn?
She had reacted to Conan’s challenge without thinking. It would have been better to talk this over in private. She looked at him and then tilted her head, looking up at the fading light, as though thinking about what he said. She didn’t want to alienate him. It would create an impossible work situation, if they were constantly arguing and vying for power.
She drew a deep breath and smiled in a benign way.
“You may be right. I’ll think it over.”
It was a somber group that climbed out of the site. Germaine had never felt this excited and worried, all at the same time.
“Are you staying up here tonight, Dr. O’Neill?” Nicholas asked.
“Yes, I need to be where I can quickly hear how Aubrey is doing. We have an army field phone, and they promised to call as soon as the doctors made a diagnosis.”
They sat at a small table outside the main tent and watched Conan speaking to Ian, the tall shovel bum who seemed to be in charge of the tea kettle and kitchen—a primitive camp setup. Two Coleman lanterns cast a warm, yellow light that lured pale, delicate-winged night flyers to immolation; a faint buzz marked each fatality as it fell in the flame. A small generator provided a limited amount of electricity. There were two hot plates, and several ice chests served as refrigerators; nothing more elaborate was needed yet. The smell of coffee drifted in the air.
Conan’s voice raised and though they could not clearly hear his words, the tone sounded angry, like an argument. Then he raised his arm and shoved Ian back against a table! There was a mild scuffle, mostly pushing, and Ian stomped out of camp, over the path to the rampart.
“I guess Ian did something wrong,” Germaine said.
Nicholas’s head straightened, alert. He drew a loud, sharp breath. Germaine glanced at him. She was shocked by the look on his face. For a second, he looked as though he could attack Conan. Then the fearsome expression vanished.
He stood up and moved around the tent, casually testing the ropes, looking inside, watching the crew mill around the kitchen area fixing dinner.
Fascinated, Germaine watched him. He acted like a loyal guard on patrol. Somehow, that was reassuring. His shoulders were surprisingly large; he could easily hold his own with any man here. For someone who walked with a cane, his body looked muscular. Maybe he worked out to compensate for his leg? She considered asking, but decided it would be rude. If he wanted to talk about his leg, he could choose the time, not her.
A night breeze had picked up, and it grew chilly. They moved inside and sat at the work table, still covered with Aubrey’s books.
“It’s getting late, I’ll stay here to keep you company if you like. You must be
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