bones_GEN Page 17

  Anna had cleared away the upper layers of soil, revealing a little skeleton, the bones held in place by the remaining dirt. The skull was twisted to the side, the jawbone a few inches out of place.

  “In a wet environment like Ireland, there’s a race between body decomposition and the rotting of the casket. See how most of the bones are still in place? That means that the top of the casket disintegrated, letting soil spill in, before the body was completely decomposed. It acted like wax, holding the bones in position. The jaw is out of place because, depending on how he died, the tongue may have been swollen, and if it burst, it would have pushed the jawbone away. Also, insects usually begin at easy points of entry—mouth, nose, eyes and any wounds.”

  Anna and Robert were both leaning in, absorbing everything she said. Melissa smiled. Normal people would have run screaming from the room by now.

  “Let’s get photographs and then I want you to keep going. Do the full excavation.”

  “Us?” Robert asked.

  “Yes. Photograph each bone in situ, then post-extraction. Lay everything out there.” She pointed to the table she’d procured from Rory. “I’d like to hear your observations when you’re done.”

  “Dr. Heavey?”

  “Yes, Anna?”

  “Can we write a paper on this?”

  “Absolutely. I’ll even author it with you.”

  Anna grinned, and Melissa bit her lip. God bless post grads.

  Melissa stopped outside the door to the church. The sun was already starting to set. She’d have to find a way to protect the bones tonight.

  * * * *

  “You need sleep.” Tristan ladled mutton stew into a bowl for Melissa.

  “I don’t trust these people.”

  “These people?”

  Melissa waved her hand around vaguely before propping her elbow on the counter and resting her chin on her fist. There were dark circles under her eyes and she was pale. She looked as tired as he felt.

  “Eat something.”

  “I’m not hungry.”

  “Yes, you are. Eat.”

  “You’re going to make me fat.”

  He snorted. “Only bad food makes people fat.”

  “Really? How many sticks of butter did you use in this?”

  Tristan grinned. “I’m French.”

  Melissa returned his smile, but it was weary rather than flirty. An unfamiliar desire to care for another person came over him. He enjoyed feeding people, but he wanted to do more than that for Melissa. He wanted to put her to bed, rub her back and tell her that everything would be okay.

  She listlessly tore a bit of bread off the roll he’d given her with the stew. Dipping it into the bowl, she popped it into her mouth.

  “That’s mutton?” She sighed happily. “This is really good.”

  “Finish it.”

  “You’re bossy.”

  He snorted. “What is that expression? The pot calling the kettle?”

  “The pot calling the kettle black. I’ve always preferred ‘those who live in glass houses shouldn’t throw stones’.”

  “Chaucer.”

  Melissa looked up. “Is that where it’s from?”

  Tristan stepped out of the way as one of his chefs bustled past with two molten chocolate cakes in hand. He checked the plating as it went past, then turned back to Melissa.

  “It is not glass houses, but a glass head in that story.”

  “You’re a Chaucer fan?”

  “You’re surprised?”

  “A little bit.”

  Tristan raised a brow. “You think because I did not go to university that I am not educated.”

  “No, but Chaucer is an odd reference for someone who isn’t a native English speaker or who didn’t go to school in an English-speaking country.”

  Tristan relaxed. He was proud of his profession, of what he’d made of his life, despite what had happened in Paris, but there were times that he wished he’d gone to school, become a scholar. Those moments were few and far between, but hard for him to deal with. Self-doubt was an unfamiliar companion.

  “Grand-Mère read it to me, in English, when she was teaching me.”

  Melissa nodded, then took another bite of stew. “Can I have coffee?” she asked once she’d swallowed.

  “No.”

  “I’ll make it myself if you show me where things are. I’ll even clean up afterwards.”

  “I would make you the coffee, but you cannot have any. You’re going to sleep.”

  “Tristan, we talked about this. I’m not letting anything else happen to that cemetery.”

  “You have helpers—the students, the man covered in dirt.”

  She laughed. “Dr. Drummond? He was rather dirty by the end of the day.”

  “Let them guard the bones. You’ve done enough for today.”

  Melissa’s shoulders sagged. “I am tired.”

  “Come.” Tristan took her hand, helping her stand. She clung to his hand in a way that made him want to throw her over his shoulder and lock her away until she was rested.

  “Jim, I’m leaving,” Tristan called out.

  The friturier looked up from scrubbing the fry station and nodded. Normally he would have taken the stairs to the underground hallway that connected the kitchen to the pub rather than walk through the restaurant, but right now he didn’t care. Tristan looped Melissa’s arm through his. A few of the remaining diners looked up from their meals as they passed through the restaurant. Tristan saw them examining Melissa—she’d cleaned up, but her work clothes were rumpled and showed signs of mud. As they passed the table of an older couple, he heard the woman whisper the word scientist.

  Try though they might, Tristan doubted they’d be able to keep much, if any, of what was going on a secret.

  The door to the west wing was thrown open. The students and man from the museum had all been put in rooms on the first floor. It seemed strange that just a few weeks ago the nursery on the floor above had been Glenncailty’s biggest secret. Tristan suspected that once Melissa was done, the graveyard would reveal things worse than what he’d seen upstairs.

  “I really should go back…” she muttered as she fished her key from her pocket.

  “No.”

  “That’s all you’re going to say? ‘No’?”

  “That’s all I need to say. You’re going to sleep.”

  “I’m not even sure why I’m letting you boss me around. I must be even more tired than I think.”

  She opened the door and Tristan followed her in. The room was lovely, if uninteresting. There were scattered papers on the bed, as well as a laptop and printer. Her tool case was on the floor, the contents set out on a towel in precise rows, the way a doctor set out instruments in an operating room.

  “Or maybe you want someone to take care of you,” he said quietly as they cleared the papers off the bed.

  Melissa froze, her back to him. “I can take care of myself.”

  “You can.” Tristan brushed her hair off her neck, then leaned down and kissed her throat. “But I want to take care of you.”

  He slid his hands around her, dipping his fingertips under the waistband of her pants. Melissa covered his hands with hers, then tipped her head back against his shoulder.

  “I’m not the kind of girl who someone takes care of.”

  “What kind of girl are you?”

  “I’m not actually sure. I never have been.”

  Tristan laid his cheek on hers, then turned them so they faced the mirror over the dresser. She was pale where he was dark, fragile where he was strong.

  “If we’d met in a bar, would you have talked to me?” she asked.

  “That is how you prefer to meet your lovers? In a bar?”

  “Actually, I’ve never dated or slept with someone I met in a bar. Is that weird?”

  “No, and I would have talked to you. The pretty English girl who sees everything, but doesn’t know how beautiful she is.”

  “You make me sound like a cli
ché.”

  “Then I will say this—if we had met in a bar, we would have had sex that night.”

  She shivered at the word sex, and Tristan grinned. She pinched him. “We would not.”

  “Yes, we would.”

  “You think you would have gotten me to have a one-night stand with you?”

  “One night? No. At least two days.”

  “Two days of sex?”

  “Sex and food.”

  “That’s not fair.”

  “What?”

  “You’re perfect. I can’t fight perfect.”

  “I am not perfect. You’re forgetting that you thought I was crazy.”

  “And I was totally willing to sleep with you, even if you were nuts.”

  “You’d use me?” Tristan sniffed in mock anger.

  Melissa reached up and stroked his head. “Don’t be sad. I would have used you not just for your body, but also for your cooking skills.”

  Tristan threw his head back and laughed. She was enchanting. He loved her, but he was also falling in love with her.

  “There’s only one response to that,” he said when his laughter died. Tristan undid the button of her pants, slid down the zipper and pushed them off her hips.

  Melissa gasped as her pants pooled around her ankles. “You…you can’t just…do that.”

  “Yes, I can.” He lifted her shirt to get a better view of the pink panties she was wearing. “Pretty.”

  “You…you!”

  Releasing her, Tristan sat on the bed. “Undress for me.”

  Melissa stepped out of her pants and turned slowly, tugging the hem of her shirt down. “I’m dirty, sweaty.”

  “Then I won’t touch you. All you have to do is take off your clothes.”

  “I thought you wanted me to sleep,” she muttered.

  “I will let you sleep, once you show me your body.”

  She grimaced. “Tristan…I don’t look good naked.”

  “I enjoy what I see so far.”

  “What I mean is that my arm isn’t my only scar. When people see me naked, they don’t say, ‘Ohh, sexy.’ They say, ‘What happened?’”

  He frowned, focus shifting from anticipation to concern. He flipped on the lamp beside the bed, then leaned forward to examine her bare legs.

  Her skin was milky white, so the scars were hard to see, but they were there. Her right ankle was dotted with round marks, her left knee sported one long white line and there was a kidney-shaped area of shiny flesh on her right thigh.

  “That’s a burn,” he said, touching her thigh.

  “Yes. How did you know?”

  He undid his chef’s coat, cast it aside, then turned his arm so she could see the scar near his elbow. “Caramel.”

  “Chemical burn. Lye. We had a water purification kit at the project in the Congo, and I got some on my clothes.”

  “The pain…”

  “It did hurt.” She pointed to her knee. “This one I fell while hiking and looking for remains in Vietnam. Landed on a rock.”

  “Your ankle?”

  “Barbed wire.”

  “Show me the rest.”

  Melissa rubbed her lips together, then stripped off the long-sleeved button-up she was wearing as a jacket. Her T-shirt had short sleeves, and her left arm was on full display.

  Her fingers toyed with the hem. Tristan motioned for her to keep going.

  She was lovely—her skin creamy and smooth, her lean muscles visible as she moved. She wore pink panties and a tan workout bra. Neither was meant to entice, and yet he was captivated.

  “You’re too skinny,” he said, watching the play of her arm and belly muscles as she took her hair down.

  “I’m fairly certain there’s no such thing.”

  “And you’re wrong.”

  “About what?”

  “The first thing I think about when I see you naked is not your scars. Any man who notices them before commenting on the beauty of your body is stupid.”

  “Thank you.” She was blushing, and crossed her arms across her belly.

  The movement pushed her breasts up and together. “Finish,” he said, patience wearing thin.

  “You want…all of it?”

  “Yes. I want all of you.”

  *

  Melissa wished she were wearing lingerie instead of cotton underwear and a sports bra. She wished she were freshly showered with her hair and makeup done.

  But this wasn’t a romantic movie—it was reality.

  She tugged her bra up and off before she had time to think about it too much. Her breasts spilled free.

  Tristan sat on the edge of the bed, his legs spread, hands gripping his knees. The white T-shirt he was wearing hugged his shoulders and the muscles of his upper arms. When she stripped off her bra, he leaned forward, gaze moving slowly up and down her body.

  “You are beautiful,” he repeated.

  Despite the lack of lingerie or shower, she felt beautiful when he looked at her like that.

  He crooked his finger, and she stepped up to the bed, standing with her knees against the mattress, between his legs. Tristan cupped her hips, fingers toying with her panties, then kissed one of the scars on her belly. She opened her mouth to tell him how she’d ended up with that, but his lips moved, kissing the underside of her breast.

  His lips traveled over her breasts and belly, laying gentle kisses over her skin, yet avoiding her nipples, which were pebbled and eager for his touch.

  “Tristan…” she moaned. Lacing her fingers in his hair, she tried to guide his mouth to the tip of her breast.

  “Non, mon ange.”

  “What do you mean, ‘non’?”

  “You need to rest.”

  Melissa grabbed a handful of his hair and yanked his head back. “You’re not serious.”

  “I’m very serious.”

  “You’re going to do this—” she motioned to her naked body and his lips, “—and then tell me I need to go to sleep?”

  “Précisément.”

  “That’s…that’s diabolical. You started this and I expect you to finish it.”

  “And if I don’t?”

  “I have some rope in my tool kit. I will tie you to this bed and have my way with you.”

  Tristan rose to his feet, arms around her so she couldn’t retreat. Her breasts were flattened against his chest, and she could feel the hard length of his cock against her lower abdomen.

  “If anyone is tied to that bed,” he whispered, “it will be you.”

  Tristan grabbed her around the shoulders and under her knees, then lifted her and carried her to the bathroom. He set her down and reached into the shower, turning on the water. Melissa took a minute to gather herself—the idea of Tristan tying her down coupled with being carried had flustered her.

  “Shower sex?” she asked hopefully.

  “Naked showering. No sex.”

  “You’ll be naked too?”

  He looked over his shoulder at her, eyes lingering on her bare breasts. “No. You tempt me too much for that.”

  After a minute, Tristan ushered her into the glass-walled shower stall. She moaned as the hot water beat down on her shoulders. Tristan grabbed the collar of his shirt and pulled it up and off in one motion.

  “That’s just not fair,” she muttered.

  “What?” he asked, hands on the fastening of his slacks.

  “Nothing. Don’t let me stop you.”

  Tristan was all smooth, gold muscles. His pecs and arms flexed as he pushed his pants down and off. He wore boxer briefs, and his hard shaft was clearly visible under the fabric. Melissa licked her lips.

  Tristan joined her in the shower, and the roomy stall suddenly seemed small.

  “Let me,” he said, reaching for the soap.

  Melissa gave herself over to him. She didn’t worry about what she looked like, didn’t worry about pleasuring him in return.

  Tristan’s soapy hands glided from her shoulders down to her fingertips. He laced their fing
ers together for a moment, then retraced his path. Turning her into the water, he washed her back, fingers dipping down to caress the top of her ass. Melissa ducked her head under the stream, letting the water pour over her face and head.

  She heard him drop to his knees, and when he reached for her panties she didn’t protest. The wet fabric slid down her legs, and Melissa stepped out of it. He washed her lower body, paying special attention to her scars. When he rubbed her ass, squeezing and lifting the cheeks, her pussy clenched. Standing, he turned and pulled her against him.

  His cock rubbed against her, the only thing separating them his wet boxers. She tried to take them off, but he pushed her hands away.

  “This is for you. Your pleasure.”

  He washed her hair using too much shampoo, but Melissa didn’t care. His hands were strong, and the scalp massage he gave was heavenly. Under his ministrations, her tension, both from the day and from arousal, started to melt away.

  When he was done with her hair, he washed her belly, finally cupping her breasts in hands slippery with soap. Melissa gasped and grabbed his shoulders as he thumbed her nipples.

  “Tristan, don’t do that if you’re not…”

  He dropped to his knees once more. “Spread your legs.”

  Melissa did it, eagerly. She no longer cared about her scars, her insecurities. She wanted, needed, his hands on her.

  “Are you ready for me?” he asked, rubbing her hipbones with her thumbs.

  In response, she grabbed his head and pressed his face into her sex. He kissed her mound and then his tongue dipped between the lips of her pussy, touching her clit. Melissa gasped and ground herself against him. Tristan adjusted his hands, one splayed across her ass while the other came up between her legs, spreading her labia to give him better access.

  Melissa grabbed the showerhead with her right hand while her left pressed his head against her. The muscles in her damaged arm protested, but she didn’t care. She wanted him, needed him.

  “Tristan,” she whimpered. His tongue was making long, slow passes over her clit. “More. Please.”

  He answered her plea, tracing her inner labia with two fingers before sliding them into her. Melissa moaned in pleasure at the penetration. That was what she wanted—him in her, filling her. His fingers were good, but his cock would be better.