Tempt Me Twice

by Olivia Drake

  “Forbid?” she cried out. When several curious spectators turned to stare at them, she lowered her voice so the cheers of the crowd muted her words. “I’ll befriend whomever I please.”

  “You’ll do as I say.”

  She only just stopped herself from slapping his face. He would not make her behave like a hoyden. “As to that,” she said coolly, “Sir Charles would disagree with you. He says that Papa appointed him my protector. His solicitor even has a document with Papa’s signature.”

  Something fierce and wild entered Lord Gabriel’s eyes. “It’s a forgery. Don’t believe him, Kate. He’s a liar.”

  “And who are you? The Archangel Gabriel?”

  “I’ve never lied to you.”

  “You promised to bring back untold treasures from Africa.”

  He didn’t bother to deny it. Instead, he put his face close to hers, so close she could detect the faint spiciness of his skin. “Listen to me, and listen well. Damson has the morals of a sewer rat. He owns a vast collection of ancient artifacts...unsavory artifacts.”

  “Unsavory?” she scoffed. “What do you mean?”

  “Vulgar. Indecent.” His gaze flitted to her bosom, awakening a strange tension there. His voice was a mere breath of sound. “Erotic.”

  Her mind leapt with curiosity and struck the blank wall of disbelief. Did such artifacts exist? And if he spoke the truth, why would Sir Charles want Papa’s curios? “Don’t be absurd. My father didn’t own anything like that. Anyway, it’s no crime for a man to spend his money as he chooses.”

  “Damson doesn’t always spend money to get what he wants.”

  It took a moment to catch his meaning. Aghast, she whispered, “Dare you call him a thief?”

  “Yes.”

  “On what grounds, pray tell?”

  His eyes held hers with piercing directness. “Suffice it to say, I have my reasons.”

  His unwavering tone reawakened her uneasiness about Sir Charles. Was she wrong to trust him? Or was Lord Gabriel simply a troublemaker? Erotic artifacts, indeed. “Reasons,” she hissed. “More likely, the hot African sun has broiled your brain.”

  “This is no jest, Kate,” he said, his fingers gripping her shoulder. “Henceforth, you and your sister will stay away from Damson. I require your obedience in this.”

  The pressure of his hand spread warmth through the depths of her body. A warmth that appalled her. She shrugged off his offending hand. “I’ll follow my own counsel,” she said with icy politeness. “You’ve taught me well to trust no man. Least of all you."

  By the flickering light of the oil lamp in her hand, Kate walked through the darkened cottage. Silent for once, Jabbar loped beside her. As they stopped in front of a door, she steeled herself for the task ahead.

  Upstairs, Meg slept the sound sleep of carefree youth.

  Kate hadn’t been so fortunate. She had tossed and turned, plagued by thoughts of Gabriel Kenyon and his outrageous accusations. After the tightrope event, the knave had had the effrontery to follow them around the fair, staying out of sight of Meg and Sir Charles. More than once, Kate had spied that boldly masculine figure standing in the shadows of an oak tree while she and Meg sampled sugary comfits at a booth, laughed at the puppet show, and tossed leather balls at a target in hope of winning a prize. Kate had been tempted to spin around and hurl the missile straight at that smirking face.

  If he were so disapproving of Sir Charles, why had he not come forward to challenge the man? It only proved Lord Gabriel knew he wasn’t her guardian. He hadn’t wanted to risk a confrontation.

  Now, she looked down at Jabbar’s gleaming black eyes and murmured, “I hope you realize you’re the only trustworthy male I know.”

  The chimp rolled back his lips in a toothy grin, making her glad she’d liberated him from his cage. His mournful chattering in the kitchen had attracted her attention when she’d wandered restlessly downstairs. She didn’t feel so alone now.

  Turning the handle, she opened the door and stepped into her father’s study. The air smelled musty, unused. A haunting whiff of Papa’s pipe tobacco started a deluge of memories. During her childhood, he’d been gone more often than not, excavating Celtic or Roman or Viking ruins at far-flung sites in Britain. The scent of his pipe smoke was the first sign that he’d returned, and she would dash downstairs to embrace him and then all would be right with the world.

  Aware of a raw pain inside her, Kate walked forward and set down the lamp on the old, scarred desk. Papers and discarded quill pens littered the surface. Jabbar bounded onto a sagging chair by the fireplace, seemingly content to observe her actions.

  The cluttered room looked exactly as Papa had left it. The shelves were crammed with textbooks, shards of pottery, and primitive stone tools. The windowsill held a collection of ancient runic carvings. A Roman helmet hung from the fireplace andiron. On the mantelpiece stood a small terracotta horse, its ear chipped from the time she had sneaked in here as a child and borrowed it for her doll’s riding lesson. Papa had scolded her soundly, lecturing her on the need to safeguard the relics of the past. His obvious disappointment in her had been worse than any whipping. He had exiled her from this sanctum, and she still felt a lingering shame over the incident, as if she didn’t quite belong here.

  How odd to think it was all hers now. Hers and Meg’s, though her sister had no interest in these old curios.

  Running her fingers over the dusty books on a shelf, Kate longed to understand her father’s fascination for ancient artifacts—as she’d once longed to earn his full attention. He had just started accepting her help in his study, recopying notes for him, when Lord Gabriel Kenyon had entered their lives.

  From the start, she’d fallen madly in love with the dashing aristocrat, even as she resented him for his friendship with her father. She couldn’t compete with his amazing ability to sketch a scene with a few deft strokes of a brush or pen. Nor could she stay angry with him, for his devilish smile had melted her naïve heart. His restless enthusiasm for adventure had infected her father, and shortly thereafter, Lord Gabriel had funded the expedition to Africa against Kate’s protests. Kate had known then that he wielded far more influence over Henry Talisford than did his own daughter.

  She could still remember the searing pain of that realization, and her wild determination to do something—anything—to keep Papa home. If not for Lord Gabriel providing the means, Papa would never have abandoned his family.

  I loathe you, Gabriel Kenyon. I’ll loathe you forever. I hope you die in that jungle!

  After running out of his bedchamber, she’d returned to her own room and locked the door. She’d stayed up half the night, distraught and furious, alternately cursing Lord Gabriel and resenting her father for being fooled by him. When Papa had knocked on her door the next morning, she’d refused to come out of her bedchamber.

  After pleading with her, he went away at last, and she would always remember rushing to the dormer window, tears streaming down her cheeks, as he and Lord Gabriel had ridden off on horseback. Meg and Mama had stood in the cottage garden, waving until the men disappeared from sight.

  But Kate had been too choked by pride and pain to join them.

  Ever since, she’d bitterly regretted not saying goodbye to Papa. She’d sent him off without a kiss or even a kind word. How could she have been so childish, so cruel?

  She took a deep breath to ease the constriction in her throat. Wallowing in remorse accomplished nothing. Better she should focus her mind on the burning desire to preserve her father’s legacy. As soon as she and Meg were settled in their new quarters, she would organize the mounds of papers and sort through years of research notes. She would compose that book Papa had always talked about publishing, yet had never taken the time to write. She would make up for her selfishness.

  But tonight she had a more troubling purpose. She intended to find out why both Sir Charles and Lord Gabriel showed such a keen interest in Papa’s effects.

  Resolutely, Kate tu
rned her attention to the crate that had been delivered at an outrageous fee by a freight company from the London docks. Fumbling in her pocket, she brought out the small pry bar she’d found in the garden shed and pushed the blunt edge under the wooden lid.

  “Here we go,” she said to Jabbar, who cocked his head and watched from the nearby chair.

  With a screeching of nails, the lid popped up and she lowered it to the floor. A musty, exotic scent wafted from the box. Crumpled news sheets cushioned the contents. She removed the papers, which were printed with squiggly Arabic writing. Inside the crate lay an assortment of objects swathed in lengths of unbleached linen. Picking up the largest one, she unwrapped the cloth. It was a mask, carved from a single piece of wood, with gruesome teeth, flaring nostrils, and slitted eyes.

  When she showed it to Jabbar, the chimp squawked and leapt up onto the back of the chair. “It is rather frightening,” Kate said. “Let’s see what else we can find.”

  One by one, she uncovered a drum made from a dried gourd, primitive wooden carvings of animals, and a variety of powdered herbs wrapped in small pouches. There were no precious stones, no ivory, no gold. Yet Papa must have considered all these things to be treasures. He had taken the trouble to transport them through jungles and across deserts. She imagined him lovingly wrapping each item for the voyage to England...

  Or had Lord Gabriel prepared the crate for shipment? Was she growing maudlin over a task that that rogue had performed?

  Blinking hard, she glanced at Jabbar. “Your master won’t lay claim to any of this. He can go to the devil for all I care.”

  Hooting, the chimp slapped his hairy legs.

  “You think I’m jesting, do you? Just wait and see, then. He can have his sketchbooks, but I shan’t give him anything else, not so much as a string of clay beads.”

  Kate continued to unpack, but found nothing she would consider worth five hundred gold guineas—or a thousand, for that matter. Several large, leather-bound books rested at the bottom of the crate, along with a few smaller ones. She lifted them out, hefting the volumes in her arms, and settled down on the floor in front of the chair. Jabbar perched on the arm and peered over her shoulder.

  The spicy scent of leather emanated from the books. It made her think of bazaars and minarets and other foreign scenes. With a quiver of anticipation, she wondered what strange sights Lord Gabriel had captured on paper. Slowly she opened one of the smaller, thicker books, and her heart tripped over a beat. She looked not at drawings, but at her father’s precise penmanship.

  Of course. She’d been so intent on Lord Gabriel that she had almost forgotten to consider the notes Papa would have accumulated on the long journey. Misty-eyed, she smoothed her fingertip over the inked words, imagining him bent over the notebook with quill in hand and inkpot nearby, the firelight glinting off his round spectacles and serious expression, a lock of brown hair falling onto his highbrow.

  The pages crackled as Kate slowly turned them. She skimmed over tales of encounters with tribesmen and treks through vast jungles and unending deserts. As she riffled the pages toward the end, a paper fluttered out, landing on the threadbare rug in front of the hearth.

  She picked it up and found herself staring at a scandalous picture. An inbred prudishness made her avert her eyes. Just as swiftly, morbid curiosity lured her gaze back to the display of lush eroticism.

  Rendered in lifelike watercolors was the statue of a naked, golden-skinned woman with an elongated neck, jeweled earrings, and an enormous, pendulous bosom. Her hands were pressed to her lower belly, and her fingertips brushed a huge diamond that nestled at the apex of her thighs.

  The statue must be worth a fortune, Kate realized in mingled shock and interest. Had Papa really found such a valuable object?

  Hastily she paged through the notebook, seeking a reference to the treasure. At last, her gaze fell upon a description of his discovery of an ancient temple in the mountains southeast of Khartoum. In cramped script, he filled page after page with details about the crumbling columns and stone altars and fading inscriptions on the walls. There had been a cubbyhole that had been overlooked by robbers, where the statue had rested undisturbed for untold hundreds—perhaps thousands—of years.

  Stricken by excitement, Kate clutched the drawing in her trembling fingers. This statue was surely worth a thousand guineas—or more. It must be what both Lord Gabriel and Sir Charles were seeking.

  But wouldn’t Lord Gabriel already know its whereabouts?

  A righteous anger scorched her. And by heaven and hell, why hadn’t he told her about the statue?

  An Unwelcome Offer

  Gabe was stepping out of the copper bathtub, buck naked and dripping wet, when someone knocked on the door.

  The persistent sound aggravated the pounding in his skull. “Damned innkeeper,” he muttered to his valet. “Fetch the breakfast tray so he’ll cease that infernal racket.”

  His dusky face impassive, Ashraf held out the towel. “If you have a sore head, master, it is Allah’s punishment for drinking spirits.”

  “I’ll keep that in mind.”

  Grimacing, Gabe took the length of linen and vigorously rubbed himself dry. The early morning light hurt his eyes. Ashraf glided toward the door, his white robes swishing, but Gabe wasn’t fooled by that bland expression. His valet had taken a keen delight in throwing open the shutters of their dingy room here at the Rabbit’s Hole Inn. For all his subservient manner, Ashraf took every opportunity to show his disapproval of Gabe’s many vices.

  The previous evening had been the least of them. After watching Damson bid farewell to Kate and Meg Talisford after the fair—and restraining the need to throttle the villain—Gabe had procured a bottle of Scotch whiskey and settled down in the cold gloom of a hedgerow to watch Larkspur Cottage, for he felt uneasy knowing that Damson was in Oxford.

  His brooding thoughts had centered on his plan to trap the baron, his own guilt and fury over Henry’s death...and Kate Talisford, whose hatred he richly deserved. There was a maturity to her now that fascinated him, and a thorny restraint that made him relish his role as her guardian.

  He couldn’t forget how ravishing she’d looked in the entryway of Larkspur Cottage, her green eyes wide and vulnerable, her thick red-gold curls tumbling to her waist. Although his conscience told him she was forbidden, he’d wanted to haul her close, to bury his hands in all that lush hair, to kiss her senseless.

  Of course, that was before he’d found out what a shrew she’d become.

  Tossing down the towel, he stalked to the four-poster bed to find his clothes laid out in perfect order. He stood there a moment, rubbing his bristly jaw. He shouldn’t be thinking about seducing Kate, but safeguarding her from Damson. His instincts urged Gabe to kill the blackguard, while his intellect warned him to bide his time, for his plan of revenge hinged upon Damson believing that Gabe didn’t realize the identity of his attackers.

  The trouble was, Kate trusted Damson. How in holy hell was Gabe to protect her without giving away his secret plan?

  “Master.”

  Irritated, he turned to see Ashraf standing before him, palms pressed together. Gabe glanced around. “Where are my bacon and eggs?”

  “It is not the innkeeper.”

  “Who is it, then?”

  Ashraf stared at him suspiciously. “A female.”

  “The maid? Send her away.”

  “Nay, milord. I fear your visitor is a lady.”

  “The devil you say—” Gabe bit off the curse and shot a glance at the partially open door.

  True to form, Ashraf bristled with indignation. “Master, it is my duty to point out the sin of indulging a weakness of the flesh before you have even said your daily prayers.”

  “It’s you who pray five times a day. Now tell me her name.”

  “Miss Talisford.”

  “Bloody hell.” Although he’d suspected as much, Gabe scowled. Here he stood, naked, unshaven, and surly. Seizing his breeches, he stepped into
the garment and fumbled with the buttons. “Don’t just stand there, man. Send her downstairs to wait in the common room. I’ll meet her there in a few minutes.”

  The door flew open, banging against the wall. Kate Talisford’s clear voice rang out. “You’ll see me now, Gabriel Kenyon. I will not be put off.”

  Prim and proper in a black gown and unadorned bonnet, she glowered at him from the doorway. Her gaze fell to his bare chest, and she blinked rapidly, her lips parting. Then she sucked in a breath and met his eyes straight on. “I must speak with you. Immediately.”

  “Leave us,” he told Ashraf.

  “If you insist, master.” Radiating censure, the valet bowed and walked to the door.

  Gabe half expected her to rebuke his order and ask the servant to stay as chaperone. This new, straitlaced Kate surely wouldn’t want to be left alone with a half-clothed rogue in his bedchamber. But after a moment’s hesitation, she stepped to the side, and Ashraf pulled the door shut with a reproachful click.

  Very intriguing.

  Conscious of the newly healed scars on his back, Gabe didn’t turn as he reached down to pick up his shirt. Just to annoy her, he took his time donning it. Now that he’d weathered the initial shock, he could ignore the hellish throbbing in his skull and enjoy the situation. “Good morning, Kate. May I say, you seem to have a habit of invading my bedchamber.”

  Her cheeks flushed a charming pink at odds with her severe mien. She’d thrown herself at him four years ago, begging him to ravish her. He wondered if that impetuous girl still lurked inside her, and what she’d do if he pressed her down on the bed right now.

  She’d probably bite off his tongue.

  Kate remained standing by the door, a black crow with the face and figure of a temptress. “I know about the statue,” she stated.

  His blood ran cold. He scrutinized her stern expression, trying to gauge the extent of her knowledge. “Statue?”

  “Don’t pretend ignorance, my lord. You may be a filthy, deceitful, unscrupulous thief, but you are not a half-wit.”