Prince of Time
He turned her hand over and saw a red circle on her index finger that looked like a recent burn.
When he gave it the barest touch, she winced.
“What happened?” he asked in his own language, accompanying the question with a raised eyebrow that he hoped would help convey his meaning.
She caught on immediately. Scrambling up, she crossed the room and pointed to one of the data analyzer terminals, waving her arms and spouting a long string of words that meant nothing. When he looked perplexed, she strode into the grooming alcove and emerged with one of the drinking goblets.
Was she going to pour water on the delicate equipment? That was all he needed.
“No,” he ordered, using one of the few words he’d learned of her language.
Ignoring him, she tossed the vessel at the machine and jumped back. When the missile hit, an electrical discharge sizzled like a bolt of lightning.
“Klat!” The curse was wrung from him in anger—and surprise. “That is how you got burned?” he asked in his own tongue, frustrated that he couldn’t get an answer. What he wouldn’t give for a language decoder.
She responded with a sigh and a question of her own, part words, part pantomime. She pointed to him, pretended to touch the equipment and made a sound like an explosion, “Boom!”
It was accompanied by appropriate hand gestures, the performance very telling. She was asking if the same thing would happen to him.
He shrugged. “Ask Lodar.” Even as he made the suggestion, he felt a mixture of anger and apprehension stir inside him. Teeth clamped together, he pushed himself off the floor and discovered his muscles felt like pudding. Before he’d taken two shaky steps, Cassie was at his side, holding him back. He was chagrined to discover that at the moment she had more strength than he. Obviously he was in worse shape than he’d realized.
He saw her eyes were round with worry. That, as much as her restraining hands, stopped him from crossing the room. He wasn’t used to anyone caring so passionately about what happened to him. Bemused, he reversed his course. But before sitting down on the makeshift bed, he found a packet of regenerating salve in the healing cabinet.
“Come here,” he said quietly, accompanying the order with a hand gesture.
Hesitantly she sat beside him.
“Let me fix your hand.” Although she couldn’t understand, it was strangely calming to simply talk to her.
He opened the packet of salve and rubbed a little on the back of his own hand to show her it was all right. Then he reached for hers. Careful of the burned flesh, he spread the ointment on her wound.
He saw her draw in a quick breath. Saw her let it out in a soft sigh as the salve began to soothe.
She stared down at her injured skin, watching the red color fade. Then she raised wide, questioning eyes to his.
He shrugged and squeezed her fingers. For long moments, she sat with her hand in his. They couldn’t talk, yet words were hardly necessary now. He was content to be simply with her like this for hours, the innocent contact like a healing balm. Languid warmth stole over him.
She started to lean on his shoulder. Then her head jerked up, and the rosy flush he liked so much spread across her cheeks. So she’d felt the closeness, too. And it made her skittish.
She blinked, her face changing from guileless to guarded. Scrambling up, she darted across the room, picked up a blue carry bag and brought it over. When she returned, she sat an arm’s length from him and began to rummage inside. With a little grin, she pulled out a small leather-covered book and what looked like a writing instrument. Fascinated, he waited to find out what she had in mind—besides putting some distance between them.
She opened the book and passed it to him. The pages were covered with unintelligible symbols. The only things he knew for sure was that her people had a well-developed written language that used an alphabet rather than ideograms. And that her handwriting was precise.
He shrugged.
She found an unused sheet and drew two people. One had a parody of his face. The other had longer hair and two half circles to indicate breasts. She pointed to the first one. “Thorn.”
He beat her to the punch and pointed to the other. “Cassie.”
She nodded, obviously pleased. Underneath, she carefully wrote a string of the symbols he’d seen on the previous pages.
“Cassie,” she pronounced as he studied the configuration, noting double consonant in the middle.
When he pointed to each symbol, she gave him the phonetic sound. “Kaa-see.” They repeated the process for Thorn.
He sighed. In a couple of weeks, they might get somewhere with this. By that time they might both be dead.
She pointed to him and grimaced, her face showing pain, her shoulders sagging in weariness. She used a word he’d heard her say just before he’d fallen asleep. “Thorn weak.”
“Weak,” he repeated in her language, wishing he could pretend he hadn’t comprehended the meaning. Sick and vulnerable. Lacking strength. They were probably all good approximations. He scowled at her.
She looked apologetic, as if she knew how much he hated the observation. A timid woman would have backed off. Instead, she followed with a drawing of the Thorn figure lying on a bed, his eyes closed. “Thorn...needs...sleep.”
The next picture showed Thorn standing straight and tall. She drew him again, sitting at the analyzer and walking through a door. Pausing, she took her lip between her teeth. Then at the top of the page she drew a circle with wavy lines radiating from the perimeter.
He studied the sketch, and his chest tightened as he deciphered the pictogram. She’d drawn an almost universal symbol—a sun. He pointed toward the sky, tipped his face up and closed his eyes, pretending to bask in pleasant warmth.
She nodded eagerly. “Sun,” she supplied and began speaking rapidly.
He put up a hand to stop her. He didn’t know the meaning of the words flowing from her, but he understood she thought he’d be smart to get some sleep before exploring this place. With a sigh, he crossed his legs at the ankles and inclined his head toward the cabinet of healing supplies. Inside were several varieties of cutaneous patches he could use. One would put him into a deep, mending sleep for several hours. The prospect was tempting. If he’d been alone, he wouldn’t have hesitated to use it. But he couldn’t risk being out of commission while his companion’s motives were still in doubt.
Her green eyes regarded him solemnly. This time he was the one who broke the contact. He longed to trust her. Longed to give in to the conviction that they were in this together. But he’d be a fool to act from such weakness. He looked toward the cabinet again.
A different patch would put his system in overdrive. But he couldn’t go that route, either, since the dose had to be strictly rationed. If he took a stimulant jolt now, he wouldn’t have the option of using it later when he might need it more.
Thorn sighed. He’d find out soon enough what nasty surprises Lodar had left for him. For all he knew, there might even be an army outside, waiting patiently for him to stick his head out the door. Unfortunately, he was in no shape to take them on yet.
Or maybe his present problems had nothing to do with the man he’d been foolish enough to provoke. Maybe the installation where he’d awakened was simply falling apart.
Because? An answer popped into his mind. He felt the walls closing in on him, and for several heartbeats he fought sheer, blinding terror. Then he drew on the inner reserves that had gotten him this far. There was no use getting worked up about how bad his situation might be.
His thoughts retreated to a safer venue. He’d take Cassie’s advice—because it was the smartest course. For tonight the best thing to do was concentrate on getting his strength back. And while he was at it, he’d see what he could tease out of this woman who was so warm and close with him one moment and so skittish the next.
Chapter Three
Zeke roared down a gravel road on his rented Harley-Davidson. The countryside sped by in a blur of dark green trees, pink and yellow wildflowers and gray rocky hills. But his mind wasn’t on the scenery. This morning, after the incident with the stolen disk, he’d nosed around the café and the market trying to get a lead on the men who’d started the fight. Either they were outsiders, or the locals weren’t talking.
After steering the powerful bike off the road onto a rutted dirt path, he had to slow his speed to dodge a pothole that would have swallowed a tank. Around the next bend, he came to a sun-dappled clearing dominated by a mammoth granite boulder. For more than a thousand years, it had covered the mouth of a limestone cave. But infrared satellite analysis had yielded the secret of the interior, and reclusive billionaire Jacques Montague had quickly put together a team to explore the site.
A dozen small tents surrounded a large one that served as both dining hall and artifact repository. The living conditions in camp were Spartan, not that much different from a dozen other underfunded sites Zeke had worked. But Montague had supplied some pretty sophisticated equipment—everything from heavy construction machinery to a portable cellular communications system. There were all sorts of rumors about the man. According to one, he had a terminal illness and was determined to find something as important as the Dead Sea Scrolls before he died. Even Victor Kirkland from the State Department had only sketchy information about their eccentric sponsor.
The dig was usually bustling with activity. Today, it was quiet since few of the dig team had gotten back from town. Marie Pindel, the team leader, was hurrying toward the cave.
Zeke pulled up beside her and cut the engine.
She gave him a startled look. With her cap of dyed copper hair and large eyes, the petite Frenchwoman looked more like a fashion model in her designer jeans and knit top than a forty-seven-year-old anthropologist with two controversial best-sellers and three grandchildren to her credit.
“I didn’t expect you back so soon,” she said. “I was just going over to survey the damage. The local police have finally packed up their little meters and magnifying glasses and decided we won’t embarrass them by dying of carbon monoxide poisoning.” She shrugged expressively. “As if we didn’t have equipment ten times as sensitive as theirs.”
Zeke unsnapped his helmet. “You’re breaking your own rule about going in alone?”
“I won’t have to, now that you’re here. Let’s go take a look,” she called over her shoulder as she took off again.
Grabbing his tool pack from the motorcycle’s carry case, Zeke trotted after her to the cave entrance. As always, it was a tight squeeze through the narrow opening for his six-foot-three, one-hundred-ninety-pound frame, and he had to take it sideways all the way to the main chamber where they’d been working. While Marie adjusted the battery lantern and checked the air quality, Zeke trained a high-powered flashlight on the damage from the homemade bomb.
He grimaced as the beam played over the stone walls in the far corner of the gallery where only two days before he’d been transcribing picture script. Now much of the stone engraving had been obliterated by the blast. But that wasn’t the worst. A burial pit, which had yielded a decorative vase, a curved plow called a crook ard and several smaller tools forged from iron had evidently taken the brunt of the explosive. It was now black ash and rubble.
Marie’s eyes flashed with anger. “How could anyone do such a thing?”
“Who knows?” Zeke muttered. “At least we rescued some of the artifacts before the blast. And I’ll be able to work with the low light exposures of the wall script and the notes I’ve transcribed.” Disgustedly, he stepped closer to the scarred stone. The light beam caught on a crack that ran from floor to ceiling. Had the explosion caused that, too?
Starting at the bottom and moving upward, he felt along the break. It seemed solid. Relieved, he stepped back and inspected the surface again. The beam played down the limestone and up again, illuminating a strange mark a good foot above his head. At first, he thought it was residue from the blast. On closer inspection, he could almost make out a faint imprint.
“Qu’est-ce que c’est?” Marie asked.
“I don’t know.” Stretching, he pressed his palm against it. The stone seemed to warm. They both gasped as the hard rock split along a six-foot seam to reveal a small room no bigger than a walk-in closet.
“My God!” Zeke exclaimed as the flashlight illuminated the space inside. A large, finely engraved bronze box sat on a pottery tile on the floor.
Marie was by his side in an instant. “The explosion must have broken the seal on a hidden tomb.”
His pulse raced with excitement. Gently, as if working with the most delicate glass, he felt over the surface of the box until his fingers found a hidden latch. Inside were several perfectly preserved panels covered with writing.
“Well, I’ll be damned!”
Marie leaned over his shoulder, shining the light directly on the script. “Can you tell what it is?”
Being careful not to touch the material, he studied the characters. One panel resembled ancient Greek script, yet it appeared to be another language altogether. There was a picture, too. A naked man in a strange-looking capsule.
Tentatively he touched the surface. “This doesn’t make sense,” he told Marie. “Feel the covering. It’s almost like plastic.”
She touched the panel and nodded. “As far as I know, no one from the ninth century B.C. had anything like this. You think it’s a fake?” she asked.
“Do you?”
“I want you to check it out before we tell the others. We might be sitting on the most important discovery since the Dead Sea Scrolls. Or...”
“Someone could be playing a very nasty joke,” she finished for him.
* * *
TO HER EMBARRASSMENT, Cassie’s stomach growled.
Thorn said something in his own language and made eating motions.
She nodded. “I suppose there’s a kitchen somewhere around here,” she said in an artificially chipper tone. “But it may not have anything I’d recognize as a stove. And even if you’re willing to do the cooking, the equipment could explode in your face when you touch the controls. So why don’t I dig into my emergency supplies?”
Thorn leaned back and watched her, apparently very interested in what she intended to do.
The scrutiny made her feel self-conscious, and she lowered her eyes. She was coming to realize that in the confines of this room, the simplest actions had monumental meaning. Each thing she and Thorn experienced together was fresh and new. An adventure. A clue to understand each other. And more. A strand of the growing bond tying them to each other. Part of her was wary. The way she’d always been. Part of her longed to get closer to this man.
Ducking her head, she pulled some packets of dehydrated soup from her knapsack and handed them to Thorn. He shook them, listened to the dry grains rattle inside and shrugged.
“Just add hot water and you’ve got a meal in a bowl,” she announced, imitating a TV commercial. It was so much easier to make silly conversation he couldn’t understand than to cope with the confusion she felt.
In the bathroom, she filled two cups with hot water. When she brought them back, she found Thorn had torn open one of the envelopes.
After sniffing the contents, he dipped a finger inside and cautiously brought a bit of the dry mix to his tongue.
He made a face, then looked on with interest as she added the mix to the water and stirred with a plastic spoon.
“Chicken soup,” she informed him as she looked at her watch. “Good for what ails you.”
He took her wrist and examined the timepiece as if he’d never seen anything like it. She pointed to the second hand, made a circle around the watch face and held up three fingers. “It’ll be done in a jiffy.”
Apparently more interested in the instrument than her scintillating commentary, he slipped the expansion band over her wrist.
After studying the face, he grabbed her pencil and notebook and copied the numbers from the dial to a clean sheet of paper, writing them in a line across the page.
As he pointed to each, she gave him the name. “One, two, three, four...” Up to twelve.
He held up his fists and began to raise one finger at a time, reciting, “One, two, three, four, five...”
“Yes!” she exclaimed.
He went through the ten fingers and examined his hands like a magician who’s just made a coin disappear. “Eleven? Twelve?”
“Hmm,” she mused. “I guess I never thought about it. Our number system is based on ten. But the day is divided into twenty-four hours.”
Taking the pencil she drew a circle and bisected it. On the right she drew the sun; on the left, a crescent moon. Then she marked off twelve divisions on each side.
When she looked at Thorn expectantly he nodded and pointed to the numbers on the watch.
“Right. Twelve hours in a day.” She tapped the sun. “And twelve hours in a night.” She tapped the moon. “Give or take variations for summer and winter, of course.”
His face was a study in concentration.
“Understand?” she asked.
“Understand,” he repeated, nodding vigorously.
“Good.”
Snatching up the notebook, he flipped back several pages to the third drawing she’d made. Thorn lying in bed. Eyes closed. “Thorn...sleep...night,” he said slowly but distinctly.
A shiver went through her. He’d put together enough words to make a sentence in a language he’d never heard before today. Was he a genius or a trained linguist? “My God. Yes,” she whispered.
He looked pleased with himself. And eager for more.
“Okay. Try this.” She wrote, “2 + 2 = 4” and handed over the notebook.
He countered with “2 + 3 = 5.”
For the first time since she’d bumbled into never-never land, Cassie forgot to worry about her predicament. Instead, she was totally focused on Thorn. It was as if a door had opened between them. She was reaching him on a new level of understanding, and she wanted to go even further.
Cassie had no idea how long they sat there, close together, going over more complex concepts. But she did realize that he hadn’t taken his eyes off her; she felt her cheeks grow warm. For the last while he was looking at her differently, and she knew that in some subtle way his opinion of her had changed. She picked up her cup and took a swallow. Then she gestured toward Thorn’s.
“Eat your chicken soup,” she urged.
He nodded and sipped cautiously.
“Well? Good? Bad? Okay?” She accompanied each question with the appropriate facial expression.
“Chicken soup...okay.” He took several more swallows. Then, putting his cup down, he held out his hands in front of him, about two feet apart. Sawing the right one up and down he said, “Good.” For emphasis he imitated her previous smiling face. Then he repeated with “Bad.”
She took another swallow as he turned the “good” hand up and slanted her what she’d come to think of as his questioning look. At the same time, he moved his fingers in a gesture that appeared to indicate that he wanted her to give him something. What did he want? Then it dawned on her that in any well-developed language, there should be a lot of words for such important concepts as good and bad.
His eyes seemed to darken as he reached out and took her hand, squeezing a little as if to encourage her.
His fingers were strong and warm. Her throat was suddenly dry as he shifted his grip to bring her palm in contact with his. She fought to keep from dropping her gaze or pulling away.
“Uh, nice...” That was much too tepid for what she was feeling. “Enjoyable...pleasurable...wonderful...sexy...”
Cassie flushed scarlet as she realized where the chain of associations had taken her. Her embarrassment increased as he solemnly gave her back the words. Damn his phenomenal memory. She could picture him congratulating her with a slap on the back and a hearty, “Sexy job.”
More than that, she knew she’d given away too much. And it didn’t help to tell herself that he hadn’t understood the implications. He’d figure it out the way he was catching on to everything else.
She was about to pick up her cup when he slipped his hand under her chin and tipped her face toward his.
“I—” She didn’t know what she was going to say because he drove the thought completely out of her mind by stroking her jaw line. Her breath caught in her throat when his finger moved to her lips.
“Thorn...”
“Pleasurable...wonderful...sexy,” he pronounced, giving the words deeper meaning.
“Yes.” She sat very still as his fingers drifted to the side of her neck, feeling her pulse. It was already beating furiously. At his light touch, the tempo speeded up.
He held her gaze. Held her captive as surely as if he’d slipped a handcuff over her wrist and clicked the lock home. She forgot to breathe as his hand moved lower, brushing aside the front of her coat, gliding over the knit fabric of her shirt, over the swell of her breast. Her nipples tightened. And she knew he felt it. By the catch in his throat, by the way his blue eyes deepened.
He stroked her, murmuring something she couldn’t understand—but his voice sent an erotic current shooting through her body. For a yearning moment she swayed toward him, yielding to the physical contact and something more elemental. Deep in her subconscious, she felt as if this kind of touching, this response, had happened between them before. That they were renewing a previous and very intimate acquaintance.
Then she caught herself. What was she doing? More to the point, what the hell was he doing?
“No!” She pulled away from him, her eyes shooting sparks that told him what she thought of his behavior. The nerve of the man—taking that kind of liberty. And where had she gotten the wacky idea that it was safe to drop her guard?
He said something that might have been an apology.
She glared at him. Yet deep inside she knew it wasn’t all his fault. She should have stopped him.
But at what point? When he touched her jaw? Her lips? It was obvious he didn’t know the rules of her society. Or maybe he didn’t care.
Unwilling to look at him, she scooted away, putting several feet between them. She didn’t trust him. Or herself now. And she felt so confused, she had to blink back tears. For thirty years she’d avoided involvements. A few hours with this man and she was breaking every rule she’d ever made. She wanted to get up and make camp on the other side of the room. Instead she settled for turning back to her soup, eating as if her life depended on it, while she tried to fathom her own out-of-character behavior.
He said nothing. Instead he ate slowly. Cassie finished and was thinking about fixing two more cups when a change in the background hum of the station made her lift her head and sit very still. Thorn was also listening intently.
She saw a puzzled expression flash across his face just before the lights blinked. Then they went out, plunging the room into total blackness.
In the dark, she heard him bite out the word that she understood was a curse, “Klat!”
“What’s happening?” she asked in a shaky voice.
Thorn echoed the question in his own language. Reaching across the empty space separating him from Cassie, he found her arm and tugged her toward him. Her body went rigid. A clattering noise made his body tense for an attack. Then he realized her foot had hit an empty soup cup, sending it skittering across the floor.
He cursed again. He was jumpy as a bush stalker in heat. But why not, when he half expected armed men to come pelting into the room.
When Cassie tried to pull away from him, he gripped her shoulder. He understood why she might resist his touch. He knew full well he’d overstepped the bounds a few minutes ago when he’d cupped her breast, stroked her erect nipple. But when he’d felt her pulse quicken, he’d known it wasn’t out of fear, and some arrogant male impulse had urged him to find out how far he could go with her—even as he’d told himself he was simply conducting a sociology experiment. How would a female in her culture respond to advances from a strange male?