by Lara Temple
‘I think it is very noble of you to honour her so.’
‘Pure fear. She will complain to my grandmother and that formidable woman terrorises the lot of us.’
Cleo smiled, as he’d intended, but she could hear a dozen conflicting currents in his tone. He seemed so open and yet, like Rafe, he kept himself mostly hidden below his handsome surface.
‘I hope it is not as bad as you think.’
‘I hope the same for you, Viola. But meanwhile I want to make a suggestion. Until I speak with my aunt I would like to suggest you remain on the Hesperus.’
She pushed away from the bulwark.
‘Captain...’
‘Don’t reject my offer out of hand, Cleopatra. Accepting help does not diminish you, quite the opposite.’
‘You sound like Rafe.’ She sighed. ‘But I need to go back to managing on my own. I’m beginning to worry I will have forgotten how.’
‘I gather your resilience has been challenged before and will likely be so again. It would be rash, even arrogant, to reject our offers, and you don’t strike me as being either. Be sensible.’
‘I once thought I was a very sensible person. Or perhaps that was merely in comparison with the world we inhabited with my father. I have recently come to realise I am not at all sensible.’
‘I wouldn’t go quite that far. I’ve known you to show glimmerings of good judgement.’ Rafe spoke behind her and she stiffened, her body giving her ample proof of her utter lack of sense.
‘Cleopatra is eminently sensible,’ Chris intervened. ‘She’s agreed to stay on the Hesperus while we conclude our first round of enquiries regarding her brother, a position and that weasel Pettifer. Much easier to co-ordinate our plan of attack from here than from some busy lodging house with suspicious matrons on the watch. Correct, Cleopatra?’
The wind whistled past them and far into the distance she could see a farmer’s cart moving along a straight, empty road. It looked as foreign and outlandish as Acre had appeared to her a dozen years ago.
She did indeed need to manage on her own, and soon enough she would, but for the moment these two men were offering to smooth her path. Cleopatra the Queen would have expected nothing less. In fact, she would have demanded it.
‘I agree. Thank you, Captain. However, my agreement is conditional.’
She directed the last part to Rafe and a smile picked up the corner of his mouth.
‘Conditional on what, Queenie?’
‘On your promise that you won’t do anything behind my back.’
‘I rarely make the same mistake twice, Cleo. I promise.’
* * *
She sat down with a thump at the Captain’s table and re-folded the letter. She had expected nothing else, but the moment Rafe returned bearing Mr Fulton’s response from the Gazette, her heart had gone into a hopeful gallop. It was doing that far too often these past months and usually for the wrong reasons.
‘I presume that means your editor has not heard from your brother?’ Rafe asked as he watched her.
‘No, he hasn’t. He presents his compliments to C. Osbourne and informs him he is interested in continuing his association with us at the same rates as before when D. Osbourne arrives in England.’
‘Well, that is good news at least.’
‘The only good news we have.’
‘A first swallow of spring,’ he replied, hiking his voice up and waving his hand with a flourish, and she smiled.
‘You are in a fine mood. Have you visited your mother?’
‘I would hardly be in a good mood if I had. That joy yet awaits me. But I have two more swallows in my pocket.’
‘News of Dash?’
‘No, Queenie. Not yet. The first is courtesy of Chris—he spoke with his aunt and by a stroke of good luck a widowed cousin of hers is in need of a companion while she is waiting for her sister to return from India to come live with her. I told you that family is a source of endless surprises, good and bad.’
‘Oh.’
‘Don’t sound so glum. She is staying with her relative, a Mr John Soane. According to Chris, the house is a veritable museum of antiquities. You should feel right at home.’
‘I was thinking of swearing off antiquarians for a dozen years or so.’
‘You may do so soon enough with my best wishes, but not quite yet. Which brings me to my other swallow, or rather pigeon to be plucked—Mr Pettifer. I will be meeting with him this afternoon.’
She surged to her feet, a martial look in her eye.
‘You mean we will be with meeting him this afternoon.’
‘I think it is best you remain here.’
‘It is not best. This is not merely a matter of collecting on his debt to us. Pettifer and my father often corresponded and he might know something of what happened between my father and Boucheron. We might be in England, but until I am certain Dash is here and safe, I must have a clearer idea what my father was involved in so I understand the risks.’
‘I can do all that. I’m quite a hand at subterfuge.’
‘I know you are, Mr Grey, however—’ She broke off, examining his careful lack of expression. ‘Are you making game of me?’
‘Ever so slightly.’
‘So you did intend for me to come with you?’
‘Not precisely. We will meet with him, but you won’t.’
‘That makes no sense.’
‘You will meet him as Patrick, not Miss Osbourne. Miss Osbourne will only make her appearance in a safe and proper setting as Mrs Phillips’s companion. And I will ask the questions. Now go change back into a boy. If you please, Miss Osbourne.’
He shot her a half-mocking smile as he left the cabin and she changed as swiftly as possible and was still arranging her cravat when she hurried down the gangway to the awaiting carriage.
Rafe watched her struggles with the starched linen as the carriage drew off, his scrutiny making her fingers clumsier than usual.
‘I feel as though someone is strangling me,’ she muttered. ‘I hate cravats. Why can I not wear a neckcloth like you?’
Rafe clicked his tongue impatiently. He, too, had changed clothes and was dressed in a rough serge coat and simple waistcoat and scuffed boots, yet he still looked far more impressive than she ever would in her respectable gentleman’s clothing. It wasn’t merely his size and the scars, but a quiet yet undeniable potency that was even more apparent here in the dank heaviness of London than in Egypt.
‘Chin up. I shall try and salvage that disaster.’
She did as she was told, trying to keep her eyes on the squabs behind him and not on his face as he leaned towards her. His lids were lowered and his silvery eyes intent as he unravelled her knot and set about retying it. The pressure of his fingers at her throat was gentle, fleeting, but it was hard to breathe. She had an overpowering urge to touch him, even just rest her fingers against his thigh that was so close to hers. She counted out her breath and gave in to the need to look at him. It was absurd to be so happy that he was so close when all he was doing was fixing her cravat, but she was gathering these memories like fireflies in a jar.
She could count his lashes from here, see the fine meshing of grey and green in his eyes, the pressure of bone beneath his cheek and the moonscape of his scarred skin. She wanted so desperately to touch it again. In her mind she leaned forward just a little more, pressing against his fingers, brushing her mouth against his cheek, slipping along his freshly shaven jaw, absorbing the tension of his mouth, soothing it with hers until it softened...
‘There.’ He sounded as strangled as she felt and when he looked up she stayed there like a beached boat—bare and helpless.
‘Cleo... No!’
‘I wasn’t doing anything.’
‘You were thinking it hard enough. Damn it, we are in England now.’
‘Is it out
side the law to think about kissing in England?’
He leaned back, shoving his hands deep into his pockets.
‘You know what I mean.’
‘Yes.’
She fell silent and turned to look out the opposite window. It wasn’t raining, but it certainly did not look like springtime. She’d expected the city outside the boundaries of the docks to look more like her memories of her village or the murkier memories she had of Dover, but here there was no hint of the green shores they’d passed—just brown and grey buildings with dark, blank windows. The people were also dressed in sombre colours and walked swiftly, heads down.
Very soon she would be swept up into this world and Rafe would continue in his. He had fulfilled his task—she was in London and safe, at least for the moment. Today or tomorrow might well be her last day in his company.
It was over. The most harrowing, intense, terrifying, exhilarating, confusing month of her life was over.
She would have to make the best of this as she had always done before, but for the first time in her life she wondered if she could. With this strange friendship she’d let slip the protective shield she had not even realised she wore until it fell away. Without it she felt both weaker and stronger. She’d allowed herself to feel and show need for the second time in her life and, unlike William, she knew that Rafe was worth it. Whether or not he could love her in return, she loved him.
She’d known she was heading down this path, but somehow she’d hoped she might avoid the destination. It felt like another part of her come home. Another wing unfurling as she crawled out of her chrysalis. There was so much of her that was coming to life these past weeks she wasn’t certain she recognised herself any longer, but she was certain it was right. All this—this unravelling and knitting back together was right. Even if loving Rafe led to pain, it was still right.
She hugged herself against a sudden convulsive shiver. Without a word Rafe unfastened his coat and draped it over her legs. She tried to hand it back to him.
‘I don’t...’
‘You are freezing. I don’t want you falling ill.’
His arms were a folded bar across his chest. The shirt was of rough cotton and the sleeves a little short, just showing the fine dark hair on his forearms. They were rising in goosebumps and she realised he, too, must be cold. She shifted close to him on the seat and spread his coat over both their legs.
‘We’ll share.’
His arms were shifting, rising and falling where they rested against his chest. Her leg wasn’t quite touching his, but she could feel its warmth, as if he was reaching out to her despite himself. She eased a little closer still, stopping when the fabric of his trousers touched hers.
‘Cleo.’ There was entreaty in his voice.
She moved away a little and wet her lips, the words forcing their way through the sudden ache in her throat. ‘I liked being close to you, that is all. I’m not asking for a cottage and a garden. Just...some warmth.’
‘Ijo de cabron.’ He slipped his arm around her waist, pulling her on to his lap just like he had during the storm, tugging the coat around them both. ‘There. Now we’re close. But it’s only for warmth in this mud puddle they call English weather.’
‘Fine.’
She leaned her forehead against his cheek, her stomach contracting at the transition between the stubbled jaw and the smooth but twisted skin. He didn’t like when she touched his scars, but she did, it was almost a compulsion. It took her closer to that fear of what might have been—he could have died, just as she could have died in Syene. As her mother and father had died. As Dash might even now be dead. Life was fleeting and gave no quarter. There was no fate, no faith, no guiding force watching over her, either evil or good. There was only life—this moment before it passed into another and was gone. She would weather this, too, but for now she wanted to be close.
As the tension eased from her she sighed, letting her eyes drift shut a moment. His arms jerked about her, as if he’d been prodded, and he seemed to relax them by force. But his voice was as tense as his muscles when he spoke.
‘This is madness...’
She nodded and they stayed like that, shifting with the coach, his fingers resting on the back of her hand, brushing gently at the soft skin just at the junction of her fingers. He had such a gentle touch, as if she were a little chick dropped from a nest. But it didn’t mask the strength beneath. That was as evident as the arousal that pulsed into life beneath her thighs as the carriage rumbled on. A moan bubbled through her at that telling pressure. He wanted her, too. For whatever reason and for however long, he felt at least a little of this burning. She could feel the urgent pressure of the blood pulsing at his neck—warm and alive—and she turned to touch her mouth to it. He tasted of the desert, of open space and vast nights and...hers.
When she was like this it felt so absolutely true. That he was hers.
This man, this touch.
She arched her hand, slipping his fingers between hers and clasping them. She should have resisted the urge because he groaned, moving her off his lap and leaning his head back against the squabs as he addressed the roof.
‘Blast it, I’m doing it again. This is too serious to be taken lightly, Cleo. When we’ve dealt with Pettifer and are back on the Hesperus, you and I are going to talk. There is...something I must tell you.’
Something I must tell you. That sounded as ominous as al-Mizan’s voice coming to claim her in her nightmares. Or William’s voice the last time she’d seen him—in the dark evening outside their lodgings in Greece, two furtive figures, one with a very furtive secret. They’d often met like that, but this time his message had said he had something to tell her. She’d been in seventh heaven, certain he meant to propose and they would marry and return to England together. She’d never considered ‘something’ meant a wife and three children back in England. She’d learned a lot that week.
‘What thing?’ she asked, her voice dull and flat.
‘Not now. We’ve arrived.’
The carriage turned off a main thoroughfare and slowed to a halt. Rafe reached across for the door and paused.
‘Remember you are not to speak, Cleo. I will do the talking.’
His voice was abrupt and it snapped her temper back to her defence.
‘What am I to do if I have questions? Write you a note? Whisper in your ear?’
His shoulder rose as if she’d done just that and tickled him in the process.
‘Carajo. Very well, but keep your voice low and let’s hope he just thinks you’re young and effete.’
‘I will speak like this.’ She dropped her voice into a husky rasp. ‘Will this do, sir?’
He exhaled a harsh breath.
‘It will if you’re trying to find a position on the stage at Drury Lane, or worse. If you must speak, try mumbling. I will translate. I’m not being stubborn for the sake of it, Cleo. People like Pettifer are dangerous; they are always on the verge of capsizing and seize at everything they can to stay afloat. Let’s make certain it is not you.’
* * *
Mr Pettifer was a small man with eyes like a curious calf and a halo of soft brown curls and a bright red waistcoat embroidered all over with birds and flowers. He looked...sweet. Cleo mistrusted him immediately.
Rafe rejected his offer of ale and asked the innkeeper for whisky. Cleo wanted to demand some for herself as well, but refrained. She watched as Rafe picked up his glass and inspected Pettifer with such leisure that the man slowly began turning red. He gave a little laugh and tilted his head to one side, rather like the robins on his waistcoat.
‘Well, sir? Your...friend was most insistent I meet you and here I am.’
‘So you are. We have a mutual acquaintance, Mr Pettifer.’
‘We do? I mean...how wonderful. May I ask whom?’
‘A Mr Arthur Osbourne, lately of Egypt.�
��
‘Osbourne. Charming fellow, charming. Good eye. Very good eye indeed.’
‘So I hear. You share a penchant for mummies, yes?’
‘We share a fascination with all things extraordinary.’
‘Have you heard from him of late?’
‘Oh, not for a year, I think.’
Rafe set down his glass and leaned forward.
‘Lying will only make this conversation longer and more painful than necessary. You corresponded with him and you recently took shipment of several cases of mummified remains. Nod if you agree with those facts.’
Pettifer’s head wobbled before it settled into a reluctant nod.
‘Good. You owe payment on that shipment, Mr Pettifer. I am here to collect it on his behalf.’
‘I assure you, I dispatched payment...’
Cleo leaned forward, but Rafe raised his hand.
‘I said do not lie. I haven’t the patience.’
Pettifer’s smile held, but his eyes darted from side to side as if surveying an internal inventory of lies. Finally, he sighed.
‘I am certain some accommodation could be made.’
‘Will be made. A man of mine will come to collect first thing tomorrow. Be certain to have payment ready or those mummies just might take on a life of their own and do a little damage to your exhibits during the dark hours.’
‘Surely there is no need for violence.’
‘That is completely up to you, Pettifer.’ He paused. ‘Now that we’ve settled that, tell me what Osbourne did to set Boucheron on his tail.’
Pettifer’s cherubic face flushed from his shirt points to his carefully brushed curls. He flapped his hands.
‘Pray lower your voice. Osbourne may have been so foolish as to challenge that man, but I am not.’
‘Challenge him? How? Don’t slide away now, Pettifer. Just answer the question.’
‘I do not know for certain. Osbourne always had more ambition than sense. It was clear from his correspondence he did not enjoy taking part in supplying antiquities of...dubious origin to creditable establishments and collectors. It went against his fantasy of becoming respectable. In his last letter he asked me for the direction of someone trustworthy at the British Museum and whether I had heard who had acquired a large granite statue of Horus sent recently from Luxor.’