Ariadne moved uneasily beside him. Her words came halting and uncertain: "You--you are amused, my lord Dionysus...?"
Irritation boiled up in Burke--quick anger that he should have let himself forget even for a moment the desperate urgency of his task. How could he play the fool so--here, now, at a time when every breath, every second, brought inevitable disaster closer?
It added up to tension that had to find an outlet. Savagely, he lashed out at Ariadne: "For the hundredth time, girl: I'm not Dionysus, not a god. I'm Dion Burke, that's all. A man, like any other--"
Hurt came to the great dark eyes. A tear-mist veil blurred the glow of awe and adoration. The soft lips quivered.
But only for a moment. Then, contritely, the girl bowed her head. Jet ringlets glistened in the lamplight. Bringing up slim hands, she crossed them upon the firm young breasts that she wore bared in the traditional Minoan style. "Your pardon, my lord...."
Burke breathed in sharply. As swiftly as it had come, his anger died. Of a sudden he wanted nothing so much as to take the girl in his arms and draw her to him ... solace her, soothe her, hold her with a thousand tender caresses through the endless hours of this long, black night.
Why was it always so between him and Ariadne? What was there about this slim Minoan princess that the very sight of her should make his firmest resolves melt? The women he'd known in his own world--they'd been wiser, wittier; more beautiful, even, perhaps, by an objective standard. Yet not even the one who'd hurt him most and helped to precipitate him onto this fool's mission had stirred him a tenth as much as Ariadne.
With a curse, he reached out, pulled her to him.
She came willingly, nestling against him, her lithe body soft and warm.
Only then, over in the corner, brawny, bull-necked Theseus stirred and shifted. A noisy, wine-sodden snore broke from his open mouth.
Like an echo, Ariadne's lovely oval face lifted from his shoulder. "My lord! You do not still feel anger--?"
Burke shook his head. "Forget it, princess. It's just I'm all on edge. There's not much time--"
He broke off; brought up his wrist and strained to read the watch-face.
And that was good for another wry, twisted shadow of smile: a watch, here in Bronze Age Crete ... product of the United States of America, vintage 1954 A. D., wrenched 5,000 miles and 3300 years out of its place and time. An anachronism to end all anachronisms.