A Wedding Story (14 page)

Her smile was warm, hinting at the intimacy of shared amusement, and he thumped his chest with his fist, just to remind his heart to keep beating.

“Shall we go, then?” she asked.

He nodded. “Gather your things. I’ll fetch the horses and meet you by your tent.” As she turned to do as he asked—not one single protest, he thought, would miracles never cease—he said, “And actually, I thought you looked very nice all blushing-red.”

The color bloomed again, softer this time, along with the shy, uncertain smile of a young girl who’d just received her first compliment from a stammering suitor. For that moment, as she stood in the strong morning light, even with the few lines that had etched themselves in her skin, even with the deeper curves of her body and the more sophisticated style to her hair, she reminded him so strongly of the girl he’d kissed that night long ago that he nearly reached for her now without thinking, because he had so many times in his dreams.

He abruptly bent to sort through his pack, and so he missed how her smile faded when he brusquely turned his back to her.

“Get going,” he ordered her roughly.

It took Kate only a few moments to ready her things. She’d done most of it in advance, as she’d told Jim, but she was also impressed at just how efficient she’d become at packing. The last time she visited Emily, she thought, it had taken her nearly two weeks of dithering to decide what to pack in her trunks.

She tried, and nearly managed, to shrug off Jim’s rudeness. It wasn’t as if she shouldn’t be used to it by now. If he wanted to keep her on her toes by being alternately friendly and downright hostile, well, she wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of showing that it bothered her.

Though she wouldn’t bet that it wasn’t calculated and the man was merely horribly moody. No wonder he spent so much time stumbling around in the wild. No civilized human would put up with him for long.

She waited impatiently for him to bring the horses around. Why was it that the morning she was anxious to be gone, he was taking absolutely forever?

Finally she gave up. Perhaps he was having trouble with the horses. God knows he’d never ask for her help, even if he needed it, and she was becoming quite proficient at dealing with her mare if she did say so herself.

If they didn’t hurry up, Mrs. Latimore and Ming Ho were going to be…finished. She sped around the corner, prepared to do whatever was necessary to get the man moving, and pulled up short when she saw him.

He wasn’t ready, wasn’t even near ready. Was further from ready than he’d been when she left him. He was kneeling on the ground beside the tent and he must have dumped nearly every single thing in his pack and his bag on the ground. Now he was pawing through them. As she watched, he tore through a pile of clothes, throwing each one over his shoulder after he examined it, punctuating each toss with words the likes of which would get him thrown out of every parlor in Philadelphia.

“What in heaven’s name are you doing?”

He sat back on his heels and the potent snarl on his face had her taking an involuntary step backward. “Our map’s gone.”

“What?” She flew to his side and tore through a pile of blankets. “I’ll help you look.”

“There’s no point in it. I’ve checked everywhere. It’s gone.”

“Where’d you keep it?”

“Pack. Side pocket.”

She dragged his limp canvas pack near and burrowed into the pocket that tied with a thin leather strap. “It’s empty.”

“I told you that.”

“Where’d you leave it last night?”

“Right there with the rest of my stuff.”

“Outside?”
She couldn’t believe it.

“Yeah, well.” He would not shift guiltily, damn it. “That’s where it was this morning, so it figures that was where it was last night, doesn’t it?”

“You don’t remember?”

“Of course I remember.” Barely. Foggily. “I left it right there.”

“You
left
it?”

The woman sounded as if he’d abandoned a baby in the middle of a busy street. “Well, it would have been rude of me to insist on bringing all my stuff into Ming Ho’s tent, wouldn’t it? It was tight as it was. It’s a little tent, and I’m a big guy.”

“Oh, yes, I know that not being rude always takes complete precedence for you,” she said dryly.

He tossed aside the small leather pouch he was pawing through, stood, and wheeled for the woods.

“Where are you going?”

“Going to find out who stole our map.”

“Just a minute.” She pressed her fingers to her temples. “I have to think.”

“Thinking takes time.”

“And how are you going to explain that you knew where they were? If you go in there, they’ll guess that I saw them.”

“So?”

“Jim, if they’ve stolen the map, they’re hardly going to tell you just because you accuse them. They’re not that weak.”

He flexed his fingers, balled them up into a fist. “Oh, I think I can convince them.”

“You are
not
going to beat it out of them, Jim,” she ordered him.

“Why not?”

She stared at him, incredulous. “Even if you could—”

“Oh, I could.”

“It’d likely get us disqualified.”

He couldn’t admit that she had a point.

“Besides which, I really don’t believe Mrs. Latimore’s the one who took the map.”

“Know her so well, do you?” He kicked at a ball of rope in his way, sending it wheeling across the clearing, unraveling all the way. “I should have known there was something odd about their inviting us here last night. Mrs. Latimore was never known for her hospitality.”

Despite everything, a smile flitted at the corners of her mouth. “Jim, they invited us to rescue me.”

“From what?”

“From you, of course, the overbearing, vile, and violent cretin who was obviously taking wicked advantage of me.”

“What?” His laugh was loud enough to startle a crow from a nearby tree; it winged away, squawking in complaint. “If there’s anyone taking advantage here it’s you.”

“Yes, well, you just keep comforting yourself with that thought, all right?”

Arms crossed, foot tapping, she waited impatiently for him to finish whooping.

“It still could be them,” he suggested. “Their kind concern could have been merely a clever diversion to throw you off the trail.”

“I don’t think so,” she said darkly.

“Ming Ho could have been acting on his own. Obviously got more initiative than apparent at first glance.” He’d been damn fine company, though. Jim was really rather reluctant to beat the truth out of him. Not to mention those little Asian fellows had a tendency to know all sorts of sneaky moves, as he’d once discovered, to his immense pain, in a saloon in Macao.

“That boy in the robes was lurking around near the edge of the road last night,” Kate offered. “I saw him when I was returning from washing up. There’s something odd about the way he keeps appearing and disappearing.”

“That’d be an interesting tactic, considering he gave us the map in the first place.”

“Maybe he changed his mind,” she said defensively. “It makes as much sense as thinking it’s Mrs. Latimore.”

“It doesn’t really matter.” Much as he’d like to know whose neck to wrap his hands around, it wasn’t terribly productive. “Might as well get packed up.”

“Are you giving up?” He shot her a look that would have sent most men screaming. “All right, silly question,” she said. “What are we doing next?”

“Figure the quickest and simplest thing would be to steal one back.”

He bent to gather up the garments he’d scattered in his haste while she regarded him with open and hostile suspicion. “Not from Mrs. Latimore.”

“It’d be expedient.”

“No.”

It might be fun to tangle with Kate over it, he thought. It was always a bad policy to give in to her about anything without a fight. Start giving her ideas that maybe she was in charge. But it’d take time they didn’t have to argue with her. Unless he bound and gagged her to ensure she didn’t go shrieking to Mrs. Latimore and give him away.

“Why are you looking at me like that?” she asked warily.

“No reason,” he told her. “Actually, let’s pinch it from Major Huddleston-Snell. He owes me anyway, and a lot more than a map at that.”

“Do you know where he is?”

“I’ll find him.”

“I might have a quicker idea,” she ventured, more unsure than he’d ever seen her, tentative enough to spark his interest. Kate was always so blithely confident. This was something else entirely.

“Do you…” She hesitated briefly, then squared her shoulders and plunged on. “Do you have any paper? And something to write with?”

“I did.” He looked around at the mess he’d made, locating his notebook beneath his shaving kit. He unearthed it, tossed it at her, along with the stubby pencil he dug from the pocket of his jacket.

“Thank you.” She caught them with the ease he’d come to take for granted. Then she glanced around before settling delicately into the folding chair that Jim had spent the better part of the previous night in, before he’d finally slipped to the ground. She frowned over the paper for a moment, then quickly drew the pencil down the length of the page.

“Kate—”

“Hush.” She made two more quick strokes, then looked up at him, her eyebrows lifted in graceful arches. “You might as well begin packing up. This will take a moment.”

It didn’t take him long to stow everything away. He’d had plenty of practice, and the mess he’d made was no worse than the time a band of apes had invaded his camp. But he couldn’t help sneaking a peek at her now and then.

Her head remained bent, her neck an elegant curve. Sunshine flowed over her, as if the light had been made for her alone, gilding her hair and the line of her cheek as she tilted her head and studied the notebook thoughtfully.

She was frowning in fierce concentration, her mouth puckered, her brow furrowed. It was not a pretty expression. But it was fascinating, both more vibrant and far more powerful than one of her lovely, empty smiles.

The pen scratched over the paper, the movement of her hand quick and fluid. Then she stopped, tapping the pencil against the pad in agitation as she studied what she’d done.

“Finished?” he asked, unable to wait any longer.

“I think so,” she said slowly. When she made no move, he went over to her. She lifted the notebook against her chest, blocking his view.

“May I?” He held out his hand. For a moment he thought she would refuse. And then, grimacing, she handed it over.

She’d reproduced the map. It was better drawn than the original, the lines flowing, a suggestion of movement in the representation of waves off the shore. She’d produced an exceptional amount of detail in a brief time, down to the spiky compass wheel in the upper right corner.

“Kate,” he murmured, amazed.

“I know the detail of the interior is missing,” she said quickly, her hands fluttering in the air like a nervous moth. “I hadn’t paid as much attention to that. But the coastline…”

“How close is it?”

“I don’t know…it should be…close, I think.” Then she paused, nodded briskly as if trying to convince herself. “It should be very close,” she said firmly. “I should know it, as much time as I spent staring at the damn thing.” He smiled at her language; it was the first time he’d heard her swear. Nice to know spending so much time together was having some effect on her. “I have an excellent visual memory.”

“You certainly do,” he murmured, his gaze tracing her sketch in admiration. “Ready to go?”

“Does that mean you’re going to…”—she gulped, as if she wasn’t quite sure what answer she wanted—“depend upon my sketch?”

He folded it up with all the care of jeweler wrapping up his most prized ware and tucked it safely away in the pocket of his shirt. “It mostly certainly does.”

“W
ell, Webb, what do we do?”

In the fifteen years Irvin Webb had been the city editor for the Sentinel, he couldn’t recall Fitz Rafferty ever asking him that question before. Which only goes to show what a mess this whole thing had turned into.

“What do you…want to do, Rafferty?”

“What do I want?” He dropped a sheaf of paper on his desk and leaned back in his chair, which shrieked as though it was going to collapse beneath him at any moment, a sound which it had been making for a good ten years. “I want Hobson to send me something other than crap, that’s what I want. I want him to be the one digging up such good dirt on the competitors that I can print the damn story and be done with it.” He slapped his hand on the top paper. “But I’m not gettin’ what I want, am I?” He tapped his finger, a death knell, and Irvin tugged at the tight band of his starched collar.

“You got any idea who sent you that article, Fitz?”

He scowled. “Not a one. I have the best reporters on earth in my employ, and not a one of ’em can figure out who dropped it on our lobby desk in the middle of the day.” He made a sound of disgust that must have dislodged an egg-sized clump of phlegm. Fumes curled furiously from his cigar.

“The thing’s well written, though.”

“Wouldn’t be having a crisis of conscience if it was a piece of crap, now would I?”

Irvin’s own throat clogged. “Guess not.”

Fitz shoved his chair back—there had to be grooves deep as a grave in the wood floor by now, Irvin thought, for all the times Rafferty had done just that—stood up, and started pacing. Irritation rolled off Fritz, and Irvin started plotting escape routes.

“It goes against my grain to print a piece that I don’t know the author of. A newspaperman knows where every word in his paper comes from, Webb. I’ve always believed that.”

“A newspaper doesn’t generally start a contest just so’s it’s got somethin’ to report, either,” Irvin said without thinking, and then nearly bit his own tongue off because it had been dumb enough to spout that out loud.

Fitz turned one squinted eye in his direction and Irvin shrank down into his chair. Not that Rafferty ever did anything but yell, but at that he was world-class.

And then Fitz chuckled, surprising them both. “It’s a different world, isn’t it, Webb?”

“That it is,” Irvin agreed.

“I wonder how long…” Rafferty sighed. “Guess we’ll find out soon enough.” He contemplated the papers on his desk. “How much confirmation
do
we have?”

“The priest wouldn’t talk.”

“They never do. How many stories we lost because of that, do you think?”

“Oh, hundreds. But I’m betting the police superintendent regrets it even more than we do.”

Fitz stretched his mouth into something resembling a smile. “That he does.”

“But we got two witnesses in Brazil. Lucky that Mac was down there already and we could put him on the story. He dug up some church records, too. They weren’t in great condition—damn jungle—but he said the names looked right to him.”

Fitz nodded. It was as much confirmation as they were likely to get, and he’d made calls on less. “Run it, then.”

Irvin got up, wondering just when his knees had started creaking every time he moved. Too much time behind a desk. “Just how mad’s Hobson going to be, do you think?”

Rafferty chuckled. “’Bout as mad as he deserves to be. Mad enough to get off his ass and give me a good story.”

From the churning gray ocean off the coast of Maine, three islands punched through, too small to shelter anything but a few nesting terns. All that remained of them after years of abuse by wind and sea were battered boulders nearly the color of the water and scraggly pines that clung to them with the determination of a true nor’easter.

Kate shivered on a rocky stretch of shore. Behind her stretched uncounted acres of forest, a riot of the blazing autumn color that had swept inland from the coast a week ago. The tide slapped at her feet, and the fifty yards or so that lay between her and her destination looked far wider than that, packed with waves that rose up toward the slate sky before falling back, defeated.

These were the last of the five possibilities they’d originally chosen. If the clue could not be found here, they’d be back to square one. And though Jim had not hinted at such a thing, Kate knew it would be her fault. She had not remembered the map well enough, or portrayed it accurately enough.

“Kate!” She glanced down the shore. Jim strode toward her, towing a small rowboat in his wake. The air had a distinct, salty chill, the kind that was only found within sight of an ocean, yet he was barefoot, his pants rolled up to his knees, strong legs pushing through the waves. The rope was looped over one broad shoulder and he leaned into the weight of it. The wind caught the long waves of his hair and tossed them back, cool, muted light glancing off it, and, once again, just the sight of him stole her breath and settled into her memories the way no one ever had.

It had taken her years to get over him the first time. Or, if not exactly over him, to put him into the nice, neatly labeled box in her memories where he belonged.
Sweet, romantic young foolishness.

She was terribly afraid it was going to be a hundred times harder this time.

He gave her a brief, cocky wave, pleased with his prize. It wasn’t unusual for him to disappear and return with something they needed, from the horses to boats, dinner, or nicely dried and split firewood. She’d stopped asking where he got them. He never told her anyway, and she decided she didn’t really want to know. At least her funds were holding up, though she suspected, if they won, she was going to use half her winnings tramping up and down the coast paying people back.

He dragged the boat around, pointing the prow toward the tiny trio of islands, only a foot of the stern on shore. Dubious, Kate peered at the battered vessel. A few streaks of red paint remained on the graying wood and the crossbars looked like they’d snap in two if she leaned on one.

“There’s water in the bottom,” she said. “Is it leaking?”

“Maybe a little,” he admitted with annoyingly good cheer.

“And you don’t believe that’s a problem?”

“I’ll row fast.” He gripped one side of the boat with both hands, holding it steady. “Are you coming?”

He’d offered her the same option every single time. Though she’d tried mightily to put on a good front, he had to know that she’d rather shave her head than get in another one of those creaky, scarcely-better-than-a-toy-raft things he kept digging up.

It would be immeasurably wiser to stay behind. A few hours apart might allow her to shake off the effects of his potent appeal.

But the simple truth was she’d much, much rather be tossed around in a rickety boat on the verge of sinking with him than remain on nice, safe dry ground without him. She gathered her skirts and climbed in.

They started on the farthest island out, on the assumption that the newspaper would want to allow the greatest opportunity for capsizing or blowing out to sea or whatever interesting story they might luck into. But despite combing every square foot of the first two islands they came up empty yet again.

The sun was threatening to go down before they began searching the third island.

“Cheer up,” Jim told her as he looped the line around the twisted remains of a pine trunk after he’d handed her out of the boat. He gave the rope a jerk, tying it off with practiced ease. “We’ll find it.”

She scowled at him. It really was rather freeing, she thought, to be able to frown at him without worrying how unattractive the expression was. She’d avoided anything that even slightly resembled a reflective surface since they’d left the Rose Springs, but she could guess only too well how bedraggled and downright unkempt she looked. So she figured she could make any face she wanted at him; she couldn’t possibly look any worse.

“My sister is a devoted optimist,” she told him. “And she has survived thus far only by blind luck, and because I love her enough to overlook such an extreme flaw. You, however, have no such advantage.”

He chuckled. “Shore or sea?”

“I’ll take the shore side,” she said. At least on that half of the island she could be in sight of the land. And maybe that clump of stunted trees that perched on top of the boulder passing for an island might blunt the wind that whipped in from the sea.

An hour later, Kate was so discouraged, so cold to the bone, that she nearly missed it. A dark smudge lurked beneath the sharp edge of a ledge of rock that jutted toward shore, nearly lost in the growing shadows that slid across the face of the island as the sun sank toward the horizon.

She squinted at the dark blotch, trying to make out the outlines. It was impossible to tell if it was a shallow depression, capable of providing shelter for nothing more than a baby gull, or something more promising.

What she could tell was that scrambling down there was going to be a pain in the bustle.

Kate briefly debated calling for Jim. What was the use of having a fellow like him around if he didn’t handle the uncomfortable tasks? But the fact that he saw her as such a useless fribble—something he didn’t even attempt to hide—was beginning to disturb her greatly. She was accustomed to such things; nearly every man she’d ever met, including her husband, viewed her exactly the same way. But she couldn’t help feeling that, by now, he should know better. Even worse, this entire escapade was making her see herself that way. With the single exception of drawing the map, she’d contributed exactly nothing to their venture.

She made it, though not without earning two scraped palms, one large rip in her skirt, and a good smear of dirt across her shirt for her trouble. So she stood at the entrance to what proved to be a decent-sized cave and peered down at the water, perhaps six feet below, inordinately proud that she was only slightly dizzied by the perch.

She turned, inspecting the inside of the cave. It smelled of seawater and rot, the walls slick and dark. What remained of the daylight gave out only a few feet from the entrance and she allowed her eyes to adjust before venturing farther. The walls narrowed abruptly, folding into sweeps of darkness. She edged forward hesitantly—who knew what sorts of things could lurk in here? She didn’t know enough about where snakes and bears lived to rule it out.

After two weeks of diligent searching and disappointment, it was almost anticlimactic. A neat, careful stack of books piled right in the center of the small cave, no more than ten feet inside.

“Jim!” The cave slapped the sound back at her, set her eardrums to vibrating. She snatched up one of slim volumes and dashed back to the entrance before screaming at the top of her lungs. “Jim!”

The wind carried her call toward shore. She’d give him a few minutes, she decided, before going to find him herself. She’d just earned the right to stay put and let him do the climbing.

“Kate?” His voice was muted, hard to locate.

“Down here!” she called.

She edged out to give herself a good view of the slope and narrow ledge she’d used to clamber down the face. And then jumped and shrieked when a body swung down no more than a foot in front of her.

Jim hung there for a moment, backlit by the setting sun and gleaming water, before he gave a kick that swung him into the cave and released the ledge above. He hit the ground hard, stumbling nearly to the ground before regaining his balance. He straightened, grimacing.

“For heaven’s sake.” Kate pressed a hand to her racing heart. “You scared me nearly half to death.” She gestured to the path she’d taken. “Coming down the side’s a lot easier.”

“Not nearly as fast, though.” He gave her a quick once-over. “You’re fine?” he asked flatly.

“Of course I’m fine,” she said. “Oh. You were worried about me?”

“The screaming’s usually a hint, yes.”

She tried not to be flattered. Likely he’d have come running for anyone who shouted. But for the first time that day, she felt warm.

“Look what I found,” she said, and handed him the book.

“Well, well, look what we have here.” He turned it over and ran his finger down the binding. “Open it yet?”

“Would I do that without you?”

“Here. You do the honors. You found it.”

“I need more light.” She moved into the lone wedge of light that remained in the cave, near the right front, and tilted the book toward the weak coppery glow. Jim followed her with a halting half step. “Are you limping?”

“No,” he shot pack. She frowned at him. “Just a little. Twinged my ankle. I’m fine.”

She gave him a skeptical look, then shrugged and turned her attention to the book.

“How many did you find?” he asked her.

“A whole pile of them.” She turned it over and over in her hand, as if reluctant to open it. The volume was thin, the dye of the reddish leather so uneven that in places it appeared pink. The cover barely hung on at a cock-eyed angle. Someone had made a very halfhearted effort to brush metallic paint on the edges of the paper. “If they were going to go to the trouble of binding it, you’d think they might have put a little more effort into it than that.”

“We’re talking about a newspaper here. It doesn’t matter what it really looks like, only how they can write it.” He pitched his voice low and flat. “‘The competitors discovered a treasure trove of tomes’—don’t look at me like that, alliteration is a respected literary technique—‘secreted in the caves as if they’d been sheltered there a hundred years. Bound in rich red leather, edged in gold, they held for the intrepid adventurers the glittering promise of a brighter future.’”

“Oh, for heaven’s sake.” But a smile, pretty and warm, flirted with her mouth. “I wouldn’t give up your day job.”

“I don’t intend to,” he said. “Let’s see what we’ve got.”

Kate flipped it open. All the pages, so thin one could see right through them, were blank but for the very center sheet.

An emperor is subject to no one but God, the sea, and justice.

“Hmm.” Kate methodically ticked off possibilities. “It could be a geological structure called the emperor, I suppose. What countries still have an emperor on the throne?” She traced the quote with one forefinger. “For some reason that doesn’t sound quite right to me. ‘No one but God and justice’…Jim?”