Chapter Two: The Mysterious Ruins
Reclining against the cushions in the stern of the native canoe, Samantha trailed her slim fingers in the water, using her other hand to hold the flimsy lace parasol over her head.
Her uncle had given her permission to visit the ancient ruins alone, since he was occupied with paperwork and the usual colonial affairs. However, before saying goodbye and kissing her cheek at the dock he had issued a stern warning.
"Stay in the boat at all times, my dear, don't get too much sun, and don't speak to any of the natives. Mr. O'Neill will act as guide, and if you do as he says you'll be safe enough. Just remember you're a young lady and behave yourself!"
"Yes, Uncle Herbert." Samantha didn't like being treated like a child, and she didn't understand why she couldn't have a proper native guide. Climbing a bit awkwardly into the canoe, with one hand holding up her long white skirts and the other clutching her parasol, she had offered the lean, sun-bronzed, bare-chested Irish sailor her most winsome smile.
Shane O'Neill barely managed a grunt in reply.
"The native drums are quiet this morning," the governor's niece pointed out, hoping to start a polite conversation.
"It's hot." The rudeness of the reply was almost palpable. "Natives sleep in the day. The sun is too hot."
It's not too hot for you, is it? With an effort, Samantha stifled the biting reply, reminding herself that she was a young lady. But the fierce tropical sun didn't bother her guide at all. Mr. O'Neill's broad shoulders were as tanned as his bare chest.
Just watching the way he dipped his paddle into the water with effortless grace made Samantha imagine that he could go on for hours. Her eyes were growing heavy in the hot sun, yet it was oddly pleasurable to watch the powerfully built male pilot the sleek native craft. Left and then right, left and then right, the paddle always in motion, the powerful muscles of his back and shoulders working together like a well-oiled machine. Powerful and graceful and male . . .
"Here we are."
"Huh?" Startled by the sailor's rough voice from a light sleep, Samantha sat up clutching her parasol. The canoe had crossed the bay and now they were gliding into the cool green stillness of a secluded cove, with a dense canopy of trees providing unbroken shade.
"These are the ancient ruins," O'Neill explained, pointing to some vine-covered stones with his dripping paddle. "This is where I swam ashore after the tramp freighter I was on got torpedoed and sunk by a German U-Boat."
"Oh." Samantha frowned. Her aunt and uncle had said nothing to indicate that the war had struck this close to home. Why hadn't they told her that the enigmatic O'Neill was the sole survivor of a brutal German attack? She suddenly felt very much out of her depth. It was hard to pry anything out of O'Neill, yet surely she could have done more on the trip over than gaze at his nearly naked body and dream of native drums and ancient gods. "I don't see much evidence of any ancient civilizations here," she said, feeling irritated by the oddly sensual imagery of her dreams.
"Why don't you try opening those beautiful baby blue eyes?" Harsh and sardonic, the sun-bronzed sailor's laugh made Samantha's cheeks burn red with embarrassment.
"I don't especially like your tone," she said, in a fierce whisper. It was humiliating that he'd caught her snoozing in his little native canoe. His mocking tone made her certain that he was laughing at her, not complimenting her looks. Yet when she sat up straight and peered deep into the cool gloom of the jungle, Samantha could see that the ancient stones formed a sort of pattern. And some of them had markings on them that showed evidence of high culture. There were pictures and symbols arranged in logical order.
Some of them even seemed to tell a story.
