The Edge of the Earth

By Molly Joseph

Charlotte Rowe organizes messes for a living. She’s darn good at it, but her orderly and controlled life leaves her wanting more. When an aged linguist contacts her, needing her assistance to save her grandfather’s dying language, Charlotte sees an opportunity for adventure. But as soon as she meets Dr. Will Mayfair, the other linguist on the project, she realizes she’s in over her head. Her research partner is far younger and sexier than she’d been led to expect. As if that isn’t enough to shake her up, they are forced to work in a remote Caucasus village where local political tensions are on the rise.

Charlotte and Will race to translate a rare document, but their work is stymied by the subtext of attraction whispering beneath every word they say. Then war breaks out and a tragic ordeal sends both their lives into a tailspin. Like the hero of the mythological tale they study, they are forced to battle for love and healing, and make a perilous journey back from the edge of the earth.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Molly Joseph
• Release date: Mar 29, 2015
• ISBN: 9781310478482

Molly Joseph

Molly Joseph is the “vanilla” counterpart of New York Times and USA Today bestselling BDSM romance author Annabel Joseph. Annabel and Molly both love to explore deep and complicated relationships on the pages of their books, except that Annabel’s couples have BDSM dynamics, and Molly’s couples don’t. You can learn more about Annabel (and Molly) by visiting annabeljoseph.com, where you can sign up for her newsletter to stay current on upcoming releases. You can also find Annabel/Molly on Facebook (Facebook.com/annabeljosephnovels), and Twitter (@annabeljoseph). You can write to either Molly or Annabel at [e-mail].

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The Edge of the Earth

by

Molly Joseph

Copyright 2012 Molly Joseph/Scarlet Rose Press

Smashwords Edition

Cover design by Robin Ludwig Design Inc.

http://www.gobookcoverdesign.com/

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Smashwords License Notes

This book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be resold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

All characters depicted in this work of fiction are 18 years of age or older.

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This book is dedicated with much gratitude to my beta reader J. Luna Scuro, for invaluable advice.

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Contents

Chapter One: Something Important

Chapter Two: Adventure

Chapter Three: Lens

Chapter Four: Aleronsk

Chapter Five: A Walk

Chapter Six: Rest and Sweet Tea

Chapter Seven: Folie à Deux

Chapter Eight: Circassian Beauties

Chapter Nine: Complicated

Chapter Ten: Panic

Chapter Eleven: The Edge

Chapter Twelve: Real Tears

Chapter Thirteen: Hard Questions

Chapter Fourteen: I See You Well

Chapter Fifteen: Perseverance and Bravery, and Love

Chapter Sixteen: Wheel

Chapter Seventeen: This

A Final Note

About the Author

Coming Soon: A steamy bodyguard romance from Molly Joseph

Also Available

Chapter One: Something Important

Charlotte Rowe surveyed the spacious, organized suburban home, her narrowed hazel eyes missing no detail. Roger—the serenity candles on the kitchen island. They aren’t perfectly symmetrical.

She pronounced her assistant’s name Ro-zhay the way he preferred, even though she knew he was from Buffalo and not remotely French. She’d do anything to keep him working for her. The tall, dark-haired man crossed to the candle arrangement, fiddled with the pillar on the left, and turned to look at her. Better?

Just a smidge more.

He inched it over a tiny degree.

Close. One more little hair.

Roger rolled his eyes and inched the candle an infinitesimal degree left. Happy now, you psychopath?

These people hired me to transform their home into a utopia of organization. This is what they pay me for. Perfection. Attention to detail. When they return from their Hawaiian getaway, they’re going to find their cluttered hellhole transformed into a showplace. And the damn candle arrangement is going to be symmetrical.

I’ve said this before and I’ll say it again: You have problems. Deep-seated problems. He crossed to stand by her at the door, tugging a lock of her long and slightly wild honey-brown hair. I love you though, boss. Truly, madly, deeply. Are you ready to get out of here?

The job was done. The photos taken, explicit directions left in each room regarding her methods of organization and ways to maximize the space she’d freed up. It had been a two-week job, the type of transformation she knew would greatly benefit the mom and dad and their three messy kids—as long as they didn’t fall back into their old disorganized ways. All the clutter she’d cleared out, all the dust and drawers full of years of accumulated junk...

Roger was doing his best to nudge her out the door. All right. Say goodbye to this one. Job’s over.

Yeah. She took a shaky breath. It’s a beautiful house, isn’t it?

You did great work. It was a huge job and you knocked it out of the park. Now it’s time to go home and put your feet up. He pried the key from her hand and locked up. He’d return it to the client when they got back from their vacation. Roger did all those little kinds of things for her, freeing up her time to do what she did best.

Oh, but it was such a magnificent house. She turned when she was almost to her car, seized with anxiety. They won’t take care of it, she said. They’ll come home from their vacation and drop their suitcases and laundry everywhere. The kids will run upstairs and pull out all those toys and—

Roger took her face between his hands. Look in my eyes and repeat after me. This is not my house. I’m only the organizer.

This is not my house. I’m only the organizer.

I have no actual control over the people in this house continuing to keep it organized.

I have no actual control—over the people in this house—oh, Roger, I worked for hours on those toys. It took almost a whole day.

And you were paid handsomely for your time and effort. Now those toys are no longer your problem.

The stern note in his voice went unheeded. I labeled everything. I special-ordered those bins so they’d fit just right on those shelves, and arranged all the toys by theme. Those kids are going to completely disregard the system, I know it.

Someday you’re going to have kids, and they’re going to be germy and messy and disorganized and you know what? You’re going to adore them anyway.

Charlotte shook her head. No, no kids ever. They don’t respect the power of the bin.

Your bin thing haunts me in my quieter moments.

But—

Hush.

But—

I will force you into treatment if you don’t stop right now.

Okay. Charlotte opened her hands from their fists and heaved a deep breath. Okay, you’re so right. Just having an organizer moment.

He arched a brow. An organizer moment? When’s the last time you took a vacation, Charlotte?

All my time goes to the business. New businesses are the most vulnerable to failure.

"OrganizeNation isn’t a new business anymore. It’s a five-year-old, thriving business, and you have employees, like moi, who could manage things should you take a much-needed break."

I don’t need a break. Charlotte unlocked her sedan and reached for the handle, but Roger leaned against the door, preventing her from opening it. He gave her a long, hard look.

Answer me something, boss lady. When’s the last time you got good and drunk? When’s the last time you got laid, for that matter?

Charlotte wanted to shoot back a withering response, but she couldn’t. It had been...five years. She hadn’t partied or had a steady boyfriend since she started her business, but she could never admit that to Roger. Five years!

Charlotte allowed herself a moment to admire her very attractive—and very gay—assistant’s assets. Long, strong legs, broad shoulders, lustrous dark auburn hair. He looked fine in the tailored slacks he favored, but in jeans... God, it was enough to make a woman cry. And Roger wasn’t just hot as hell. He was sweet and dependable too, unlike the cads she’d fallen in love with before she gave up dating altogether. She knew Roger led a fun, fulfilling life with his boyfriend of nearly four years. She wasn’t jealous.

Oh God, yes. Yes, she was. There was Roger with his perfect relationship and life, then there was her. Boring, lonely Charlotte.

Okay, sure, she admitted. I could probably use a stiff drink.

Or a stiff—

Roger! Thank you. Your opinion is noted.

Come out with me tonight. I’ll call Perry and he can meet us at Morrissey’s. Or the KC. Any bar you want.

So I can watch the two of you play kissyface, and listen to more lectures about how I need to get a life? No thanks. Anyway, I actually have a life tonight. She bent down to silence the notification chime on her smart phone. Remember when I registered to volunteer at the International Center? You know, the last time you badgered me about having no life?

Oh, yeah. Because you speak Apache.

Adyghe.

An Apache finally showed up? Didn’t you register there years ago?

Yes. So you see, this might be my one and only chance to flaunt my Adyghe-speaking skills for the aid of my fellow man. He is a man, by the way, Charlotte said, waggling her eyebrows.

For God’s sake, then. Don’t let me hold you up. Roger stood back to open her car door. Is he hot?

It was the same question she’d been wondering about for the past two days. I haven’t met him yet. The center set up the appointment.

Native Americans are sexy.

"Roger, it’s Adyghe, not Apache. It’s spoken in the Republic of Adygea, which is over by Russia and Turkey."

Fine, but I stand by my comment about Native Americans. Speaking of Turkey, I guess I’d better get home and think about what to make for dinner, since you’re laming out on drinks with me and Perry.

Charlotte laughed as her assistant crossed to his car, a small economy coupe. She needed to give the man another raise. Without him she’d be truly and literally sunk, especially now that OrganizeNation was expanding from Savannah to several other southern cities. Flagging social life aside, Charlotte felt like the luckiest person on the planet. She got to do what she loved for a living while making alarmingly good money at it. If only her life outside of work wasn’t so depressing.

Charlotte put her business—and the fate of her most recently organized house—out of her mind as she made the short drive over to the International Services Center, a non-profit group that provided language and legal help to foreign residents of the city. She was excited at the prospect of meeting an Adyghe speaker because she’d really enjoyed speaking the language with her grandfather before he died. It had been their special way of communicating, and now that he was gone she missed the sound of it and the feel of it on her tongue. Her parents had never learned the language, and Charlotte was afraid of forgetting it, so she spoke it to herself sometimes. She sang songs her grandfather had sung her as a young child, repeated rhymes and lullabies in the quiet of her room at night. If this man she was meeting was a native speaker, she would likely talk his ear off from excitement. If he was handsome, all the better.

When she arrived, she checked in at the front desk and was directed to a wizened, gray-haired man in the corner of the lobby. So much for her daydreams of a tall, dark Caucasus stranger. The old man clutched a worn briefcase as he struggled to his feet.

Please, Dr. Petrenko, Charlotte said in Adyghe. Don’t get up.

He looked confused—confused enough that Charlotte lapsed into English as she sat down beside him. I’m Charlotte Rowe. Are you the one who needed an Adyghe translator?

You are Charlotte Rowe?

He looked somewhat incredulous as he sidled closer. She gazed over into rheumy yet incisive eyes.

I am sorry, he stammered, seeming to recollect himself. My English is not so good. I search for Adyghe speaker, yes. But you speak just now...Adyghe?

Yes, my grandfather taught it to me. We spoke it all the time. He died a few years ago.

He was from Adygea?

No, he learned it from his parents. A branch of my family came from there some generations ago.

He studied her face intently. He seemed so kind and non-threatening Charlotte couldn’t feel alarmed, even when he turned and started rooting around in his overstuffed briefcase, dropping papers on the floor. She reached down to help collect them.

Miss Rowe, he said, taking the papers. I am a researcher, and I need a translator. But the Adyghe you speak is not the Adyghe I know.

Oh, I’m sorry. How horribly embarrassing. I only know what my grandfather taught me. We spoke it together for years, and he said it was Adyghe. She shrugged, feeling a flush burn across her cheeks.

There are dialects. Dr. Petrenko’s voice shook. Many, many dialects. I search for months now to find—well. Please. The old man thrust a wrinkled page in front of her face. Is it possible, can you read this text? I beg you, please try.

Charlotte took the paper, already dreading having to disappoint him. She squinted at the writing, expecting to see something incomprehensible. But...

This language, can you understand it? His tone was urgent, almost fearful.

Yes, this is the language my grandfather taught me. She read some of the words, translating them into English. Nasra...that has to be a name. Nasra said—or maybe replied—’You smile and pretend benevolence, but you are not so. You have taken away our fire and left us to suffer cold.’ Perhaps ‘bitter cold,’ she amended, considering the buzhe prefix.

Petrenko grasped her hand, his face transformed from anxiety to bliss. You can never understand how glad this makes me. Read more, please.

She read the rest of the passage about a warrior, Nasra, arguing with a god named Paqa. The elderly researcher hung on every word until she reached the end of the page, with Paqa snatching some enormous, bloodthirsty eagle from the sky. She looked up at him with a smile. Then what happens?

Dr. Petrenko stared back at her. I don’t know yet. You must tell me. I have searched for native speakers many months but none knows this dialect. No one until you.

Why? Is it very rare?

Rare, and very old. You see, he said, leaning closer, "my partner and I, we are linguists. We try to save languages. So many languages dying in small towns and villages. Half the languages of the world, pouft. He waved a hand. They disappear. We find this document in Adygea. A chance finding, old Circassian text. You can translate for us." He made a gleeful sound.

I would be happy to translate it for you. If you email me the rest of it—

He shook his head. Email? No. I have only this small section transcribed. The book is centuries old. To copy it is to destroy it and the town governors forbid any...how do you say...

They won’t let you scan it? Photograph it?

No. And they will not allow us to move it anywhere else. There is a sad history of exploitation in this area. Cultural theft and feuding republics. He waved his hands in frustration.

Charlotte frowned. Feuding republics? Where is the document? Who owns it?

"It is in a rural town called Aleronsk, in Adygea. They deny the document to leave. They say if we wish to study, we are welcome. But they cannot translate. We cannot translate. You can. He gave her a pleading look. You must go there. So much manuscript, hundreds of years old. You must help."

Charlotte shook her head. I have a job. I run a business here. I can’t just fly off to Adygea.

But you must. At once! The old man looked like he might cry. You see, there is no time. This area is in turmoil. This document will not stay. You must go now, in all haste.

The area is in turmoil? What kind of turmoil?

Dr. Petrenko looked away, waving his hand again. It is these republics. They are always fighting. I do not trust this document to be kept safe. The villages feud. The law is not dependable.

And you want me to go there?

If you have U.S. passport, you are safe as a baby. You must go, I beg you. I promise my partner I find someone who knows this language. And it is adventure for you, no?

Adventure. An hour ago, she’d been bemoaning the boredom of her life. But to leave her job and fly halfway across the world to some unstable Caucasus republic? Dr. Petrenko...I don’t know.

Please, I am desperate. I look everywhere. In Adygea, Russia, Turkey, Jordan, Syria. I visit many language centers in Europe and the U.S. I study emigration records and fly to many cities. No one knows this dialect. You are the first one that reads it and understands. It is a long text, and the meaning...it can be anything. In those days they did not write down insignificant things. They only put important documents to page, you see? Very important. With your help, and this document, the language remains alive. Forever alive for research, for scholars. Please, you must come.

Well... Charlotte waffled, not wishing to hurt the old man with an outright refusal. Can I think about it and let you know?

You must let me know soon. In a few days. My partner is there waiting for help translating. He tries to protect the document but the government there is not in support. He took her hand, gripping it surprisingly hard for a frail old man. They think of other matters, not history and language. Miss Rowe, I beg you. My colleague—he begs—

Charlotte extricated her hand as gently as she could. I understand your situation, Dr. Petrenko. But I need some time to think about it. I’ll let you know.

* * * * *

For the next couple days, Charlotte looked into the Republic of Adygea. Dr. Petrenko hadn’t lied. The area was far from stable, but at the same time, it wasn’t on the cusp of war. If it was anywhere else, she probably wouldn’t have considered it, but this was her ancestors’ homeland.

She told Roger about the whole situation on the phone. He insisted she should go, that he could handle the business while she was away for a few weeks. He made a good case for opportunity and adventure, droning on in his stern, gay-friend-knows-best voice. While Charlotte listened, she organized the little word tiles on her refrigerator into neat rows. In the center, she lined up four words and came a little closer to a decision.

I AM SO BORED

She was so bored with her life. As Roger pointed out, she would likely never have a chance like this again, a chance to do something adventurous and important at the same time. A chance to visit a land so special to her grandfather, and a chance to translate what could be an important historical text.

Dr. Petrenko called at regular intervals to plead with her. He told her more about his colleague, who sounded as learned and aged as Dr. Petrenko himself. He waxed lyrical about the beauty of the area, and the rich history of the small republics clustered along the Caucasus mountain chain. Finally, Charlotte decided to talk to her parents about the idea—something she’d been putting off, because she was certain they’d be against it.

Which made her think it might be the right thing to do.

Her parents lived in a sprawling house at the edge of a country club. The Rowe family had made a fortune in trucking and transportation in the early 1900s, and still lived on the windfall. Charlotte had grown up in comfort, taking money for granted until she left the nest and realized not all children had nannies and maids and priceless antiques underfoot. From that point, she did everything in her power to overcome her sense of entitlement. She’d worked jobs in college even though she didn’t have to, and of course, she’d started her own business rather than count on her family’s wealth. She’d taken out a loan to create OrganizeNation, even though her father offered the capital to set it up. It was family money, he’d said. Why shouldn’t she use it?

Because she didn’t want to. They hadn’t even worked for it, which seemed really unfair. Sometimes she still felt like the