As soon as he was prone, Cornelia inched closer. “Hands behind your back, and remember, I won’t hesitate to shoot.”
Giving her a last, black look, the intruder did as she bade but, as Cornelia bent forward with her length of twine, there was a flash of movement.
The man’s arm whipped forward and there was a sharp jerk upon Cornelia’s ankle. With a scream, she fell backward, landing with a thump on her backside, and her ‘gun’ skidded across the polished floor.
The next moment, his arms were braced on either side of her, his body pressed the length of hers. His eyes, jet black, sparked with fury.
Cornelia whimpered, all too aware of her helplessness. “If you murder me, you won’t get away with it! There are guards all through the building.”
“Murder you? Dammit, woman. You threaten to shoot me, and now I’m the one bent on killing? I had you figured for a crook, come messing with what’s not yours, but I guess you’d have come prepared with more than a measuring stick if you were.” Leaning back, he surveyed her face. “You ain’t one of those Bedlamites on the loose, are you?”
Cornelia grimaced. “Certainly not. I'm neither deranged nor criminally minded.” Though her recumbent position made asserting herself difficult, she summoned her most imperious voice. “I happen to work here, and I was acting as anyone would, to protect the valuable artefacts in this room. You, sir, with motives I can only begin to guess at, should be ashamed of yourself!”
Speaking the bold words, Cornelia struggled to keep her lip from trembling. The rogue had straddled his legs on either side and his hands remained firm, pinning her down.
It was entirely unseemly.
Improper. Indecorous. Indecent.
No gentleman would ever treat a lady in such manner, but he was clearly no gentleman, and she was at the rogue’s mercy.
If her heart was beating thunderously, it had nothing to do with the unyielding weight of his body, radiating heat, nor the contours of his upper arms, pressed against the linen of his rumpled shirt. She glanced down. His upper buttons were undone, revealing a chest sprinkled with dark hair and tanned as deeply as his arms. The man had been labouring without clothing upon his back. His uncouthness was further confirmed by his hair, curling onto his open collar and, though his face had been shaven at some recent time, his jaw bore the stubble of at least a few days.
Everything about him spoke of uncompromising masculinity.
Had some private collector sent the scoundrel to steal some of the smaller pieces, or was the man’s presence here more malicious? Goodness only knew what he’d been doing when she'd interrupted him.
He was scrutinizing her again, scanning her features with perturbing concentration, as if searching for something within her countenance. Cornelia blinked several times. Whatever happened, she would not allow a tear to fall, nor would she be cowed. To the last, she would be stalwart.
Nevertheless, as the ruffian removed his grip upon her shoulders, she let out a small squeak and closed her eyes. Was this to be her end? Would he strangle her? She ought to scream, at least, or struggle—but she knew it would be hopeless. No one was near to save her.
It appeared, however, that this was not to be the moment of her death, for the weight above her lifted and two large, warm hands clasped hers, pulling her upright.
For a moment, she swayed, then opened her eyes again, only to find her nose pressed almost to her assailant’s torso. He smelt vaguely of perspiration, of wood and leather but also of soap. She took a slightly deeper breath. A hint of lemon, definitely, and something else, harsher—glue?
When he spoke again, it was in a far gentler tone; not that of a gentleman—at least not an English gentleman, but there was something gentlemanly in it.
“I don’t rightly know what to make of you, but I reckon you’re telling the truth and I likely owe you an apology—what with sending you sprawling like that. Whatever you think I am, I can assure you ma’am, you’ll come to no harm from me. If you were acting as you say, looking out for the safekeeping of what’s here in this room, I ought to be thanking you rather than wrestling you to the floor.”
One large hand returned to her shoulder, but softly this time. “I hope that behind of yours ain’t too covered in bruises.”
Cornelia felt herself blushing. If he were a thief, he was certainly a clever one. Whatever tactic this was, it had her off guard—distracting her from the matter of the fellow explaining himself. She knew some women were terribly good flirts, but there were men of that ilk as well—the sort who said whatever was necessary to acquire what they wanted.
She cleared her throat. “Be that as it may, I must ask again, who are you, and what are you doing here?”
Cornelia raised her chin, letting her gaze travel upward—past the stranger’s open collar and tanned neck, past his jaw, until she settled on the curve of his mouth. There, her inspection stopped. There was something about his lips, neatly bowed and hitching to the side, which commanded her to look.
As if knowing they were under inspection, the lips twitched. “It may be a mite arrogant of me, but I was under the impression most folks were familiar with my profile.” With that, he took a small step back and adopted a dashing pose—as if looking into the distance, one foot forward, one hand upon his hip.
Cornelia frowned. Though his shirt was smeared with something grey and his hair was gypsy-wild, he was tall and lean and darkly handsome. Something about the set of his jaw spoke of a determined spirit.
Turning his chin back toward her, he raised an eyebrow and she caught again a flash of merriment—not just in the quirk of his mouth but within his eyes, glinting wickedly.
Had they met before? Impossible, surely. And yet, something in his appearance was so very familiar.
Cornelia clamped her hand to her mouth.
It couldn’t be!
The photograph most commonly accompanying stories of his exploits, in which he posed alongside guides and porters, before Palekmul’s Temple of the Jaguars, showed him standing a head taller than all the rest but had failed to convey the impressiveness of his physique—and the sketches in The Times hadn’t captured the intensity of his eyes.
Cornelia’s hand flew to her mouth. “I… I’ve made a terrible mistake. You’re…you’re not a thief. You’re…”
“Ethan Burnell.” He tipped an imaginary hat.
Ethan Burnell! Cornelia suddenly felt rather ill. “I hardly know what to say. I might have… I was going to…”
“Shoot me with that bit of wood, then tie me up with that measly twine?” His lips curled upward. “As to being a thief, there are some who’d say I was the worst sort.”
He inclined his head to where he’d been crouching. “You might think it was stone, thanks to the layers of colour we’ve stippled over the plaster, but the real thing is where it should be. I don’t believe in taking more than’s necessary.”
“Plaster?” Cornelia squinted at the columns. “But it looks so real. Is it truly?”
“See for yourself. The final layer’s mostly dry. We created the moulds in situ and the plaster casts afterwards, following Charnay’s technique—the same as Maudslay did with the Yaxchilan lintels. Mighty proud of the way it’s turned out, I don’t mind saying.”