"Equal Opportunity on an Egypt expedition, Oh My!"
Reviewed by Tracy Benninger
Posted August 18, 2005
Romance Historical
In RECKLESS, Shannon Drake continues the Egyptian archeology
thread she began in WICKED. This time, it's Sir Hunter
MacDonald's turn to find love. Hunter has met his match in
Katherine Adair, budding artist and daughter of a fisherman.
In the opening scenes of the book, Kat plunges into the
raging water of the Thames to rescue her love, David
Turnberry, son of Baron Turnberry. Kat has loved David from
afar for a long time, her first meeting with him, however;
is in the river. After the rescue, Kat plunges back into
the Thames and ends up needing rescued. Enter the dashing
Sir Hunter, retired from the Queen's Army, knighted by the
Queen, Egyptian archeologist, and insufferably arrogant. He
decides Kat needs rescuing and, in the attempt, smashes her
head into the boat. As payback for her rescue of his son, the Baron decides to
allow Kat to accompany the archeology team to Egypt as an
assistant to Sir Hunter and to study art under one of the
finest art tutors in the country. However, as the
expedition makes its way to Egypt, accidents keep happening
near Kat. Someone is out to silence her because of her
uncanny ability to draw pictures from memory; specifically a
map the expedition leaders feel will lead them to the
biggest archeological discovery in Egypt. Hunter and Kat find that working together and avoiding
accidents are more than they can survive without each other.
The author treats the reader to classic sites throughout
Europe as Hunter and Kat fumble their way to Egypt.
Although accidents seem to follow Kat wherever she goes, she
is certainly not going to sit back and let the men take care
of the problem. Kat's wields a sword right along with the
men during an attack. This enlightened female attitude is a major bone of
contention between Kat and Hunter. Hunter believes he can
take care of her and she will follow orders, Kat, on the
other hand, doesn't follow orders from anyone. I enjoyed
this story because of Kat's "take no prisoners" attitude
toward the male dominate society she grew up in and the
trials and tribulations she and Hunter suffer while
adjusting to each other's opinions on the opposite sex.
Learn more about Reckless
SUMMARY
When Kat Adair plunges into the waves to rescue a drowning
man, it is just the beginning of an odyssey that will sweep
the fisherman's daughter on an adventure of danger and
desire. Convinced she is in love with the man she saved,
Egyptologist David Turnberry, she plots a bout of "amnesia"
that enables her to linger among the highborne, hoping to
win David's heart away from his betrothed! The only
problem
is Hunter MacDonald, rugged archaeologist, bold adventurer,
a man who is wise to her little charade - and determined to
protect his best friend.
Undaunted, Kat stows away on the ship carrying David and
Hunter's expedition party to the land of the Pharaoh.
Scandal ensues, and Hunter vows the only way to protect his
friend and keep this confounding woman out of trouble is to
make her is wife. Inevitably, in the sultry heat of the
desert, passions ignite. But as the secrets of the ancient
tombs are revealed, terrible danger unfolds. Is it a
legendary curse, or pure human evil? Plunged into terror,
Kat must trust the one man willing to risk everything to
save her from doom.
ExcerptChapter 1"Dear Lord! He's gone into the water!" Katherine Adair -- Kat to her friends and beloved family --
gasped and leapt to her feet. Just seconds before, she'd
been sitting on the deck of her father's vessel -- sadly
misnamed The Promise -- reading and indulging in dreams.
The day had been like many other Sundays she had spent
throughout the years with her small family aboard the boat
on the Thames. Often, as they'd watched the elite in their
far more magical vessels, she had smiled as her sister,
Eliza, mimicked the upper-crust accents, then joined her
in singing old sea chanties -- all the while looking to
see if their father was about before adding a few of the
more risqué lyrics. But there were times, of course, when she did nothing but
indulge in dreaming . . . about the very fellow whom a
wave had just swept from the deck of the far finer leisure
yacht The Inner Sanctum! David. David Turnberry, youngest son of Baron Rothchild
Turnberry, brilliant student at Oxford and avid sailor and
adventurer. "Kat! Do sit down! You'll rock this old scow and we'll be
in the drink, too," Eliza chastised. "Don't worry. One of
those Oxford chaps will dish him out!" she said with a
sniff. But none of them did. The river was wicked that day --
fine for Kat's father, who used the turbulence in his
work -- but a poor time for entertainment. The young swains who had accompanied David on the sail
were clinging to the rigging, looking into the water,
shouting . . . but not jumping in and attempting a rescue!
She recognized one -- Robert Stewart, handsome, landed and
charming, as well, David's best friend. Why wasn't he in
the water? And there was another of his chums . . . she
couldn't remember his name . . . Allan . . .
something . . . Oh, the fools! They hadn't even thrown in a life
preserver, and David was so far from her own vessel that
any attempt on her part to do so would be useless. They shouldn't have been out on a day like today. They
imagined themselves to be such sailors, and they were
still so young, so raw. The river was far too rough, only
for fishermen and fools. And, she thought ruefully, her
father. But now they'd lost David! And still, there was no one
aboard heroic enough to dive in for the dear man's
salvation. Indeed, the waves were high, and she could understand
their trepidation. But her heart cried otherwise. He was
beautiful, magnificent. No fellow in all of England or
surely even beyond had such a smile. Nor had she ever
heard a fellow of his social position speak so kindly to
those who were hard put to earn their meager living from
the sea. She had watched him so often. "They're not going for him!" she cried. "They will." "But he will drown!" Kat looked around quickly. Her father
had brought in their own sails; the scow was merely riding
the waves now. In fact, her dear father was not working or paying the
least attention to her. Lady Daws had come with them
today; and she was laughing -- the sound something like
that of a sea witch cackling, Kat thought sadly, something
her father simply didn't hear -- and that completely
enraptured the hardworking man upon whom she had set her
sights. Kat looked back anxiously at the river. Maybe what had
seemed like an eternity to her had been nothing more than
a few seconds. Maybe the fellows had needed a moment to
draw on their reserves of courage. But no . . . time
ticked away, and none of those young swains aboard the
richer vessel had made the slightest attempt to effect a
rescue. "Kat! Don't look so perplexed. Come, come . . . he can
probably swim. The beaches are still all the rage with his
crowd, even though the poor can now reach our beaches by
train. Of course, the elite, they say, prefer to frolic in
the Mediterranean." Though Eliza spoke of the rich with disdain, in these
moments with the sailing almost done for the day and the
afternoon near its end, she always had her nose thrust
into the pages of Godey's Lady's Book. She did love her
fashion. And she could sew delightfully, creating
fantastic designs from such bizarre materials as cast-off
sails and canvas. Kat paid her sister little attention. Her heart seemed to
have lodged in her throat. She couldn't even see the young
man's head bobbing in the waves. Ah, there! And far from
his own sleek vessel. "The sea is too rough!" she exclaimed in a whisper. "He
will die!" "There is nothing you can do. You'll but kill yourself,"
Eliza warned fiercely. "Ah, but I would die for him. I would sell my very soul
for him!" Kat returned. "Kat, what . . .?" Eliza began in horror. Too late. Being poor sometimes had its advantages. Kat shed her
heavy, solid and sensible shoes and slid her cotton skirt
down her hips to the floorboards. In seconds, she had also
shed her secondhand jacket. She had no corset, no bustle,
no darling little hat to discard, and so, despite her
sister's protests, she leapt into the filthy water in her
shift. The chill hit her viciously. And the waves were mercilessly rough. But she had spent her life nearly as one with the sea. So
she took a big lungful of air, plunged beneath the surface
and swam hard. She bobbed up first near the sleek yacht. She could hear
the fellows on deck shouting, their voices sounding
desperate. "Can you see him?" "His head . . . He's down again. Oh, God! He's going to
drown . . . Bring her around, bring her around, we've got
to find David!" "I can't see him anymore!" Kat took another deep breath and plunged beneath the
surface again. She kept her eyes open, straining to see
through the murky depths. And there . . . There she saw him. To the right and a few feet below her.
Dead? Oh, Lord, no! She prayed as fervently as she sought to
reach the man. David. David the beautiful, the
magnificent. Eyes closed . . . body sinking . . . She grasped him, as her father had taught her to grasp a
fisherman fallen overboard, catching him beneath the chin
with the palm of her hand, allowing her to draw his head
to the surface, while leaving her torso, legs and the
solid strength of one arm to draw him toward shore. Ah! The distance. She could not make it! But it seemed that both the luxury yacht and her father's
fishing vessel were ever farther out to sea. What other
vessels were at sail or anchored seemed at even greater
distances. She had to make the shore. She kicked, trying to stay calm, to remember that she
mustn't lose her strength by using it to fight the rough
water -- that she must go with it, let the tempest take
her until it drove her toward the shore. She tried hard to keep David's head above the water, tried
harder to keep breathing and moving herself against the
waves, white-tipped, gray and brown, like living,
breathing, beings anxious to suck her into their depths.
How slender the river could seem at times, but . . . how
great its span! And yet, chilled and desperate as she was,
it occurred to her . . . He was in her arms. Oh, God! He could die in her arms. As
she would gladly die in his. "Good Lord! Will you look at those young fools!" Hunter
MacDonald stared at the young swains who raced around
their yacht like simpletons. They'd lost one of their
number, yet none was doing a damn thing about it. He cursed them roundly, then called out to Ethan Grayson --
his mate at sea, manservant and his friend. "Bring her
in! I'm going for the boy." "Sir Hunter!" Ethan, weathered and strong and far too
sensible a fellow not to have risen far, protested
strongly. "You'll but go down yourself!" "No, Ethan, I'll not." Hastily removing shoes, jacket and
trousers, he offered Ethan a grimace. "My good man, I've
escaped crocodiles in the Nile. I shall be fine in this
bit of English weather." And so, stripped down to his drawers and shirt, he dove
neatly overboard in the direction where he had last espied
the young fellow's bobbing head. As he did, he could hear
Ethan scolding him angrily: "Being a ‘sir' does not give a
fellow common sense, no, it does not! He survives famine,
war and the evil in the hearts of men, but then drowns
himself like the young idiot he would save!" Too late! thought Hunter. The Thames closed around him as
he cut through the waves, swimming with strong exertion to
bring the heat of movement to his person. The water was
bitterly cold. It had been easier to swim in the Nile with crocodiles, he
ruefully admitted to himself. At last! Kat and her burden had nearly reached the
embankment. She was far from the docks, closer to Richmond now than
the City of London. A mist of rain was falling as she
struggled through the remaining few yards of water,
hitting mud beneath her feet at last, mud and God knew
what else, some broken crockery that cut into her sole.
She barely felt it, however, for she had him to land at
last. Exhausted, near crawling at the end, she dragged
David's dead weight up onto muddy sod and scraggly
grasses, but not far from the road; homes and businesses
and even ships at dock were visible nearby. She fell to
his side at first, breathing, ah, doing nothing at all but
breathing! Then as her lungs filled, she looked at his
face and was roused to fear. She jerked up, then leaned on
his chest, hard, pushing, determined to expel the water
from his lungs. He choked, and water dribbled from his
blue lips. Then he coughed and coughed . . . And finally fell silent, other than the slow rasp of his
breath. She stared down at him, shaking. He lived. "Thank you,
God!" she whispered fervently. And then, seeing his long
lashes sweeping the contours of his noble face, she
added, "You are so beautiful!" His amber eyes opened. He stared up at her. And she was horrified, for she was far from looking her
best. Her hair was, as a rule, rich and long, if a bit
glaringly red, but now it hung in sodden ropes. Her eyes --
normally the oddest shade of green and hazel, sometimes
almost the color of grass and at others almost gold --
must be quite pinkened. And her lips were surely as blue
as his. Her linen shift clung wetly to her body, and she
was shaking uncontrollably. That he should see her so,
when she still lived in a world of dreams, when society
did not allow for the daughter of a humble, struggling
artist, an Irish one at that, to so much as dare imagine a
life among the elite, was the worst thing she could have
imagined. His hand moved. Fingers touched her face. For a moment,
his own was dark and troubled, as if he sought an answer
as to where he was, and why. "We were with the wind,
listening . . . laughing . . . for there were songs on the
air, as if the Sirens called to us, and then . . .
pushed!" he murmured. "By God, I swear I was pushed!
Why . . ." Then his eyes focused on her. And a smile flitted over his
lips. "Yes, yes, I felt hands against my back,
pushing . . . but who the devil . . . and then . . . the
cold . . . and the darkness. Then . . . you! Am I seeing
things? You're an angel!" he whispered. "A sea angel . . .
an angel, and I love you!" Then he laughed. "No! A
mermaid, and thus I am alive!" His fingers -- on her face! And the words he had said! Ah, she could have died then and drifted to heaven in pure
bliss. His eyes closed. Panic seized her. But she could see him
breathing, his chest rising and falling, and she could
feel his warmth. Voices suddenly sounded. Looking up, she saw a group
coming from the gravel road that led down to the
embankment. She jumped to her feet, aware of her near-
naked state, her shift plastered to her body, providing
not the least bit of modesty. And she was very chilled, of
course, making that immodesty all the more apparent. She
wrapped bare arms around herself. "Oh, they're searching for him . . . but I saw . . .
something!" The voice was feminine, sweet and touched with
the sound of a sob. "Now, now, our boy can swim, Margaret!" returned a male
voice. "He'll be just fine." Kat now saw a very pretty woman, slim and elegant in a
late-summer day dress, a jaunty little hat sitting at an
angle on her head, a parasol in her hands, her bustle
twitching as she walked on dainty heels. Her hair was a
soft ashen blond, and her eyes were as blue as the sea.
Beside her was an older gentleman in a resplendent suit,
cape and top hat, and they were coming closer and closer. Kat's heart seemed to stop. In her mind's eye, she saw
only the contrast between the elegant lady and herself,
and she knew she had to escape. Quickly. As she turned to
run back into the water, a man rose from the waves not
twenty yards away. He was tall, lean and sinewy, his musculature quite
evident, for he, too, but for an open shirt, was stripped
down to his unmentionables. His dark hair was plastered to
his head, and his classically sculpted face was
frowning. "Miss!" he called. And that was it. She cried out softly, sprinted the few
feet back to the muddy water's edge and plunged in, diving
beneath the surface as soon as she could and swimming
harder than she had ever done in her life, unaware now of
the cold and the aching in her lungs and limbs. She surfaced, she knew not where, just as the rain began. "MARGARET!" David blinked, staring up through the mist of rain. And
there she was, Lord Avery's fair daughter, the very lovely
and rich Lady Margaret, on her cheeks tears of a greater
substance than the rain, staring down at him. Heedless of
the mud, she sat on the embankment, his head cradled in
her lap. His heart leapt. Although she often appeared to care for
him deeply, in fact, in the race for her hand, he had
thought both Robert Stewart and Allan Beckensdale to be
far ahead of him. And yet now . . . how sweet to see her face! For a moment, he was puzzled. There had been a fleeting
moment when . . . he had thought he'd seen someone else. A
different face. Fair and comely, with eyes a strange green
fire and hair a searing flame-red. An angel? Had he come
so close to death? No, then perhaps a mermaid, a sprite
from the sea, or rather the river? Had he imagined her? And had he imagined, too, in the bluster of the day and
the roll of the yacht, the hands at his back, pushing him,
forcing him into the river? "David! David, please, speak to me again, are you all
right?" Margaret demanded anxiously. "I . . . oh, dear, dear Margaret! Yes, I . . . I'm fine!"
Not true. In fact, he was quite cold, but that mattered
not in the least, not when this much-sought, beautiful
lady was so gently tending to him. Those eyes, so brilliantly blue, so studded with tears!
But . . . "You saved me," he said, still confused. "Well," she murmured, "I did drag you up the bank, hold
you here, so dearly, in my lap." "He will live!" These words, dry, rough and impatient. And
a spray of icy water falling on him. "Sir Hunter?" David gasped, looking toward the voice. And,
indeed, he was there, the renowned sailor, soldier,
excavator and all-round adventurer; the toast of London
society, standing above him, furious and frowning. And
dripping. "He's safely in your hands now, Lord Avery," Hunter said
dryly to Margaret's father, who stood, David saw then,
anxiously watching just a few feet away. "I must find the
girl." "The girl?" David echoed, blinking again. "The one who saved your life," Sir Hunter said curtly, and
David could hear the unspoken "You fool." "Good God, Sir Hunter, you cannot mean to plunge back in--
" Lord Avery began. "Oh, but I do," Hunter said. "Lest she drown." "You'll drown yourself!" Lord Avery argued. "If there is a
girl out there, the boatsmen or fishermen will find her
surely." Lord Avery's protests were apparently insufficient for
Hunter turned and strode back into the water. "Father, he'll be all right!" Margaret called, adding with
a touch of admiration that sent a pang through David's
heart, "Sir Hunter MacDonald can withstand any hardship."
Sir Hunter, David thought, ever the hero, strong and brave
and invincible. And I myself here on the muddy shore,
gasping, barely alive . . . But in her arms! "I hope you're right, my dear," Lord Avery said, kneeling
down beside David as well and, slipping his fine jacket
from his shoulders, placed it around David. "Thank God you
survived, my boy! Can you rise? We'll get you to the road
and then to the town house before you catch your death of
cold." David, trying to fathom what was real and what lay in the
soul of his imagination asked, "There really was a girl?"
He looked at Margaret. "Yes . . . that or, truly, a sea creature!" Margaret
said. "We'll see that she's rewarded for the act, assuming
that Sir Hunter can indeed find her. How very odd that she
ran back into the river. She must be quite mad. Or perhaps
she's a lady of some fine family, afraid to be seen!" Lord
Avery said gruffly. "One can only speculate, however,
David. Right now, we must get you warm. That blasted
river! Rarely is it anything less than wretched!" "Yes, of course," David murmured, "Thank you. But if there
was a girl . . . a strong girl, rich or poor, we must
indeed see that she is rewarded."
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