More Than You Know (25 page)

"It seems a miracle that you came by it."

"No miracle. Word of mouth. This journal is filled with other fortunate finds. I started it in London when I was studying at Oxford.” He turned several more pages and let her lay her fingers on them again. “This is information on quinine. As best as I can tell, the author penned his notes on its medicinal values sometime between 1625 and 1640.” He made another search. “Here, this tells about the benefits of arsenic."

"A recipe for murder."

"Yes, but no one knew it at the time."

"Is everything in English?"

"No. There's Latin, French, German. Some of the scholars made their notes backward."

"Mirror writing, you mean? Like Da Vinci?"

"Exactly like that. I don't have anything by him, but there are a few other...” His voice trailed off as he carefully turned more pages. “Here's one. These are notes by Henry Baker."

"The English naturalist?"

"The same.” Rand watched Claire's fingertips move slowly over the paper as if she could absorb the writing into her bloodstream and the knowledge into her brain. There was a kind of reverence in her touch. When her exploration slowed, he turned her hand aside and went deeper into the collection. “These are notes by Kölreuter about his fertilization experiments on plants."

Claire's voice was awed. “I studied his work. My father tried to replicate the experiments in Solonesia.” She lifted her head. “You've given me such an honor. I can only imagine how much Sir Griffin would like to see your collection. I had no idea what you had here. Thank you for sharing it with me."

Her gratitude was heartfelt and Rand realized that for her this was enough. There was no need for him to go any farther, share anything else. She already believed that what he had shown her was a part of himself. It was true, in a way, but it was also true that he used it to hide something as well. Rand turned the pages again. When he found what he wanted he placed Claire's hands on top.

"This is why we came here,” he said quietly. “This is what I want you to see."

Claire smiled a little at his words. It was almost as if she could. “What is it?” she asked. “James Cook's ship log? Darwin's notes on the Galapagos?"

"It's the Hamilton riddle."

With a small surprised cry, as if she had been burned, Claire jerked her hands away from the pages. She might have moved from the table altogether if not for Rand's hands on her shoulders pinning her down.

"Steady,” he said. “I didn't expect it would frighten you."

Claire laughed a little uneasily. “It did, didn't it?” She placed her fingertips on the edge of the table first, then slid them slowly toward the journal. “Who knows it's here?” she asked.

"You."

The enormity of what he was telling her was not lost on Claire. It had the power to rob her of her next breath.

Rand bent and kissed the crown of her head. “Captain James Hamilton kept it in his ship's log for a number of years. At various other times the family kept it in a locked box, in a shoe, pressed between the pages of a Bible, beneath a portrait of the captain himself and—during the Revolution—sewn in the lining of my great-grandfather's cocked hat. Shelby was the one who thought it was time to hide it in plain sight. He suggested creating a collection of writings where we could insert the riddle. Had he lived, this would have been a selection of poems from the last 400 years. I decided to hide it among what interested me. This page isn't so different from any of the oldest entries in the collection. The handwriting is no more neat than others. At first glance it could be a foreign language."

"The riddle's in English?"

"Yes. It's difficult to know that until you hold it up to a mirror. It's written entirely backwards."

"Just like some of the other notes."

"That's right."

"Hiding in plain sight."

"Hmmm. Would you like to hear it?"

Claire hesitated. “All of it this time? Are you certain?"

"Quite certain."

Claire still did not give her agreement. She reached backward and touched one of his hands with hers. “All right,” she said finally, resolved to be worthy of this enormous trust. “I'd like that."

Rand's eyes remained fixed on the dark crown of Claire's hair. There was no reason to look at the journal open in front of her. He hadn't lied to the duke or Claire when he told them it was committed to his memory.

Seven sisters, cursed every one

Seven sisters, all alone

One more lovely than the other

Each, at heart, as cold as stone

Blood will run

Flames will come

Blazing sun, blinding some

Blades lifted high across the plain

Flood waters rising, months of rain

A plague will ink clouded skies

Grieving, shadows beneath thy eyes

Seven sisters, cursed every one

Seven sisters, all alone

Await the day, when reunited

They will be placed upon their throne

Rand waited patiently as Claire took it in. When she spoke, he was not disappointed. She connected very quickly to a brief conversation they had shared in London.

"Seven sisters,” Claire whispered. “The tikis on Pulotu. I told you about them, do you remember?"

"I couldn't forget."

Claire nodded. “That was when you made your decision to bring me, wasn't it?"

"Yes."

"I'm not sorry I told you, then.” She leaned into Rand's embrace. “I'm glad I'm here with you."

Rand stroked her hair. “So am I."

"I want to learn the riddle,” she said. “Will you repeat it?"

There was no hesitation. Rand went through it again, then a third time until Claire could say it herself without missing a word.

"But what does it mean?” she asked, mulling it over. “You told the duke it had something to do with gems."

"It's a description of the most valuable part of the treasure,” Rand said. “The seven sisters aren't the tikis you've seen on Pulotu. They're seven precious stones."

"I'm afraid you've lost me."

Rand nudged Claire off her stool. He lifted her easily onto the work table and took up her vacated seat.

She laughed. “Why did you do that?"

"Because I like to look at you,” he said simply. Rand saw disbelief and pleasure war in her expression. “You can believe me, Claire. I really do like to look at you.” He laid his hands on her thighs, just above her knees. “You may be indifferent to the fact that you're a woman, but I'm not."

Claire's lush mouth parted fractionally as she expelled a soft breath. “I find I'm not so indifferent as I used to be."

Rand's hands dipped under her robe and slid farther up her thighs. Her small shiver was communicated to him. “Now what was it you wanted to know?” he asked.

There was a catch in Claire's throat. “About the gems,” she said. “I don't understand.” Rand was methodically raising her nightgown. The hem tickled her calves, then her knees. She felt it on her thighs. “Everything ... everything about the riddle sounds like a curse."

"Blood will run,” he said. “What color comes to mind?"

"Color?” Rand had leaned forward and placed his mouth on her knee. “Red,” she said a trifle shakily. “Blood is red."

"Hmmm. A ruby."

"Flames will come?” she asked.

"Orange.” Rand's mouth moved higher. “Did you know there are orange sapphires?"

"Blazing sun.” Claire felt Rand's fingers against her hips. He was pulling her inexorably to the very edge of the table. “Yellow."

"There are sapphires that color also. It only takes trace amounts of certain elements to change the color.” He spread her thighs slowly. The scent of their earlier lovemaking lingered. “Blades lifted high across the plain?"

In her mind's eye Claire saw a legion of swords raised, all of them glittering like mirrors in the sunlight. “Silver. A diamond?"

Rand shook his head. His cheeks brushed her thighs. “Blades of grass,” he told her. “Green. An emerald."

Claire's fingers threaded in his coppery hair. “Flood waters ... rising.” Her shift was bunched around her hips now.

"Months of rain,” Rand said.

"Rain ... pale ... like an aquamarine."

"Yes.” The word was soft against her warm skin. “A plague will ink clouded skies."

Claire closed her eyes at the first intimate caress of his lips. “I don't know,” she said.

"Stormy indigo skies,” he whispered. “Deep, deep blue."

"A perfect sapphire."

He raised his head and unbelted her robe. “Lean back, Claire."

She obeyed slowly, feeling him lift her thin shift and place a kiss on her flat belly. It was so very difficult to think. Claire struggled to remember the next line of the riddle. “Grieving, shadows beneath ... beneath thy eyes."

Rand smiled at the thread of triumph in her voice. “Violet,” he told her softly. “Violet shadows. Like an amethyst.” The next sound was Claire's soft cry and the triumph was Rand's.

He touched her with his lips and tongue and teeth. Stroking. Caressing. He listened to the sound of pleasure rising, the little breaths that she took and held for a moment at the back of her throat. He felt her fingers drift from his hair to the tabletop and heard her nails scrape lightly across the surface as she searched for purchase.

She never found it. Her fingers curled around nothing and she pressed them into tight fists, marking her own palms with savage little crescents. Claire bit her lip, turning every sensation inward as quickly as Rand brought them to the surface. There was a ripple across the plane of her abdomen and a swelling in her breasts. Claire's throat was charged with the vibration of all the words she held back. Heat skimmed along her skin, then slipped beneath it. There was warmth in the taut muscles of her calves and thighs and along the length of her inner arms. Her blood simmered. And just at the place where Rand's mouth created an almost unbearable pressure, there was fire.

Claire cried out his name hoarsely. Her body lifted, arched, every slender cord held momentarily in the taut line of passion. Distantly she heard the distinctive thud of the stool as it hit the floor, and the table was jarred roughly as Rand came to his feet. Standing between her parted thighs he unfastened his trousers. Then he was thrusting himself deeply inside her, driving her last breath out.

The movement of his body was as hard as he was. He held her hips still except for the rhythm he forced on her and she accepted. Every stroke was deep, and the sensation of losing himself in her was one they shared. He surged against her, rocking Claire back when the table itself would not lift. Her tiny cry urged him on until he was a single nerve ending. His body quickened and he moved in her shallowly, draining himself and her of every last pulse of pleasure.

Claire lay quietly under him. His head rested between her breasts and he was still inside her. Unmoving, she could feel the hammering of his heart and her own. Each ragged breath was warm and somehow reassuring.

Rand pushed himself up to his elbows and looked at Claire's face. Moonshine bathed her features in iridescent light. Her skin glowed in the aftermath of spent passion. Only her dark eyes were opaque and without depth. The faintly almond shape lent them mystery, but nothing could soften their remote character. Without quite knowing why, he suddenly ached for her.

Straightening, Rand eased himself out of her. He helped her sit up, stepping from between her parted thighs. He watched her push somewhat self-consciously at her nightgown while he repaired his trousers.

"What is it?” she asked quietly. Claire belted her robe carefully as if it was the most important task she had ever undertaken.

"What do you mean?"

"Something's changed. I can feel it."

Frowning, Rand raked his hair. How was it possible for her to be so sensitive to the shift in his mood? “You're mistaken.” He placed his hands on either side of Claire's waist with the intention of helping her down. She stopped him by gripping the edge of the table and refusing to be moved.

"And you're lying,” she said flatly. Claire was once again keenly aware of her surroundings. She had just allowed him to have her on his work table and had never thought to gainsay him. “Have I given you a disgust of me? Is that it?"

"No!” Rand said vehemently. “My God, no. Leave it, Claire. It was nothing like that."

"Then what was it like?” she asked stubbornly.

Rand picked up the fallen stool and set it down hard. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Claire start at the sound. His voice was terse, stiff. “Sorry."

She shrugged. “So now you're angry."

He swore softly. “You're like a dog with a bone."

Claire nodded, not at all offended.

"A large, unpleasant dog,” he added.

She smiled, baring her teeth and clicking them together lightly.

Rand stared at her, shaking his head. His own smile flickered.

"There was a moment,” he began quietly, in the manner of a confession. “A moment afterwards when I was reminded that you're blind."

Claire felt a tightening in her chest. It was difficult to breathe. She made herself listen because she had asked to hear. “Go on."

"That's it,” he said.

"It can't be.” Claire's chin lifted at a defiant angle. “Did you feel sorry for me, Rand? Is that what happened?"

"No."

"Sorry for yourself, then. Sorry your fortunes are all tangled up with a blind woman who is—"

"Stop it, Claire."

"Who is so lacking in every respect—"

"Claire."

"Including self-respect, that she'll let you take her in any manner you choose."

As if she had struck him, Rand took a step back.

Claire's dark eyes glittered with unshed tears and her lower lip trembled. “Do you feel pity for me now, Rand?"

"No,” he said quietly. “Leave it at that."

Her head drooped suddenly, as if it had become too heavy for the slender stem of her neck, and she could no longer keep her shoulders squared off. Her grip on the edge of the table loosened and she slid off slowly. Rand was so silent that she no longer had any idea where he stood in the room. She did not expect that her first step would put her into his arms.

Rand held her closely, her face pressed against his shoulder. She was crying softly, and tears stung his own eyes. “It was an ache,” he whispered. “That's what I felt. Not pity. Not anything like it. It was selfishness that made me wish I could take away your blindness. I wasn't satisfied that I could see proof of pleasure in your flushed complexion or your damp mouth. Or that I had felt it all just moments earlier. I wanted to see it reflected in your eyes. You were right at the outset. What I thought I was feeling for you was really about me ... about what I can't do for you."

Claire shuddered a little as she tried to rein in her sobs. “I don't ... don't know what I'll do if ... if I can never see again."

Gripping her by the shoulders, Rand held her back far enough to study her face. “What does that mean?” he asked roughly.

Her own voice was just a thread of sound. “You must never feel sorry for me, Rand. I count on that. I need it. I do so much of it myself ... you can't imagine.” She laughed a little unsteadily. “Or maybe you can."