by Lara Temple
As if aware of his annoyance with himself, Sam glanced over her shoulder and her smile—half-roguish, half-commiserating—sent the heat the rest of the way to his head, staining the inside of his skin as if he, too, were encased in stiff wrappings that were beginning to curl and flake away in the heat. There was a stinging sensation along his cheekbones and instinctively he brushed at it, his palm catching on the roughness of stubble. He remembered he had done a poor job shaving this morning because he’d woken so late. And he remembered why...
The crowd rocked on its feet as Pettifer gave a cry of alarm, extracting a small black object tucked beneath the linen strips binding the chest.
‘Behold! The Sacred Scarab! Bearer of Life and Death! Messenger of the Gods!’
‘What twaddle,’ Edge growled under the oohs and ahhs of the spectators and Sam’s laugh rubbed against him, stifling his breath and contracting all his muscles like a closing fist.
‘Can you not stop fidgeting?’
‘Is that what I’m doing?’ Sam murmured, her behind settling against his thigh as she leaned forward. ‘I’m merely trying to get a better look. What do you think he is about to do with those peculiar scissors?’
I don’t care, Edge almost said aloud. Her behind was perfectly positioned now and the blasted woman knew it. He hadn’t even noticed he was holding both of her hips. In the unlikely event that anyone looked around, they would see a spectacle quite as titillating as the desiccated relic of a man being unveiled on the table.
He truly no longer cared, not about mummies being desecrated or about frauds and barely about his idiot of a brother at the moment. Right now all of his concentration was on keeping his breathing even, which was ludicrous. One shouldn’t have to concentrate on breathing. It was almost as natural an action as the beating of one’s heart, but both those animal functions were proving faulty at the moment, out of step and rhythm.
His other animal functions were running rampant as well. It was absurd and embarrassing. Just last night they had more than amply satisfied their carnal needs in bed. He shouldn’t be desperate to get her back there so soon; or at least not so fiercely.
Damn Sam.
His hands tightened on her hips, he wasn’t certain whether he meant to hold her there or move her away, but she merely pressed back further, her fingers sliding between his for the briefest of moments, leaving the skin between them raw with longing. He wanted to lace his hands with hers so that when he moved her against him it would be their motion, not just his.
For a brief moment she rested her head back against his shoulder, her hair brushing against his jaw and her orange-blossom perfume enveloping him, crowding out the familiar scents of the mummy—beeswax and myrrh and the higher note of juniper from the berries that had probably been added to the wrappings. He bent his head, allowing his lips to brush her hair, breathing her in.
‘Behold! The arm of a great king!’ Pettifer intoned in an impressive alto as he peeled away a layer of stained linen and exposed a withered limb as dark as lacquered wood. A wave of his own arm set the light of the torches next to him dancing. ‘See the gold upon his nails? A sign of royalty! A sign of greatness! Of a direct link to the ancient gods!’
‘That is nonsense. Many of the mummies have painted fingernails. Poppy conjectured it was meant to protect the nails during the mummification process,’ Edge growled, relieved to have something to focus on other than Sam’s gyrations.
‘Fascinating...’ Sam replied and with another sweep of her hips regained lost ground and more.
‘Sam, stop,’ he groaned.
‘Stop what? I am merely keeping to the Egyptian theme and practising my ghawazi dance.’
‘What do you know about ghawazi dancing?’
‘I once followed you and Lucas and Chase to that place in Khan el-Khalili. It was so...enthralling...’
She drew out the word and he bit down another groan, his voice cracking a little as he spoke.
‘That was a supremely foolish thing to do.’
‘I was the foolish one? The three of you looked like a row of village idiots, staring at those dancers like manna from heaven.’
There was a snap of disdain in her voice and at least she stopped torturing him, shifting away. Contrarily he held on to her and after a moment of resistance she let him pull her back against him. He breathed in and out, slowly. He was in agony, but she felt so good, soft and warm and...
‘Sam.’ He couldn’t stop that single word and the answer shivered through her, like a silver ripple on the surface of the Nile. ‘Let’s go home.’
Home. He hadn’t meant to use that word. The only home he could remember aside from Poppy’s was the home he’d temporarily created for Jacob. Too short and too bittersweet for him to even realise that was what it was until death destroyed it. He’d never expected to have one again. But Sam deserved the home she so obviously yearned for.
‘We need a house of our own,’ he murmured against her hair.
She began to turn, her morning-sea eyes searching his, but he moved her towards the exit. He didn’t want to talk. Right now all he cared about was getting her into bed. He could even make do without the bed.
Inside the carriage he watched the streets flow past, trying to think about his next move regarding Rafe and not the way his hands itched to pull Sam to him. He’d set out on this journey to find Rafe, not a wife. If he’d been a little swifter he might even have come across Rafe in Meroe and would have put an end to this uncertainty. But then he would not have found himself in Qetara. Or met Sam again. None of this would have happened. He might have found Rafe, but still been lost himself in a world without an ounce of passion.
Until he’d reached Qetara he’d hardly paid attention to his passage through Egypt. He’d not stopped for a moment to sink into the world he’d known better than any other, as if stopping to smell the camel dung and the almost-cinnamon scent of the desert dust would act on him like laudanum on an opium fiend. Like quicksand. He’d felt nothing but duty and fear. At least until he came to Bab el-Nur and found Sam yelling at the skies like a houri and she’d begun to subvert his life once more.
Then his rusty innards were kicked into motion. Annoyance and exasperation were feelings, too, weren’t they? And lust. At the moment it felt more like cataclysmic earthquake. No—earthquakes didn’t burn like this. A volcano, perhaps.
Sam. His own Vesuvius simmering away under the surface and threatening to upend everything.
‘Did Pettifer make you less worried about Rafe?’ Sam’s question broke through his thoughts and he turned to her, grateful for the distraction.
‘I don’t know... No, he didn’t. Rafe is a law unto himself, but his actions are always rational. Right now I can’t make sense of them and that worries me—more than worries me. Rafe cut off all ties with our parents when he was practically still a boy and other than his valet Birdie I may be the only person who cares what happens to him. He stood by me through the worst days of my life, but he would never expect anything of me and that is precisely why I need to see him, to hear directly from him that all is well. I know it might appear...obsessive or even quixotic to you, but if there is even a chance that he is in trouble and needs me...’
Sam took his hand, squeezing it between hers.
‘It doesn’t appear obsessive to me at all, Edge. I think especially for you knowing something is wrong but not being able to put your finger on it is worse than knowing precisely what is wrong. At least if you knew that, you could take action.’
‘Yes.’ He sighed with relief that she understood. ‘So I cannot stop until I am certain he doesn’t need me, Sam.’
‘I would never ask you to, Edge. You always call me stubborn, but you are by far the stubbornest man I know. And loyal. And infuriating.’
Laughter made her eyes shine like the dawn sun on a winter sea. He wished he could take her hair down right now,
sink his hands into its dark warmth. Sink in to her...
‘You’re doing it again.’ Her smile faded. ‘Going away.’
‘I’m right here.’
‘No. Not truly. So shall we ask my uncle to enquire about this Mr Osbourne?’
‘I already have.’
‘What? When?’
‘While you were inside I sent the footman, Tubbs’s son, to your uncle with a message.’
‘So that was why you were gone so long. And here I thought I had won a battle of wills with you.’
‘Are you keeping a tally? You needn’t bother, the odds are clearly in your favour.’
She tilted her head to one side, capturing her lower lip with her teeth. His thumb brushed across the upholstered seat, imagining that warm, damp surface...
‘I may win more small ones, but you win the large ones, Edge.’
‘Do you think so? I am not so certain. You certainly won the battle to distract me from that charlatan’s mummy unwrapping. I was far more engrossed in thoughts of unwrapping you.’
Sam laughed, but her cheeks flushed sunset red. ‘Those are very sacrilegious thoughts in such a solemn setting, my lord.’
‘Since your posterior is as close to divine perfection as I can imagine, calling my thoughts sacrilegious is sacrilegious in itself. Ah, thank God.’
‘Thank God?’
‘We’ve finally reached Sinclair House. First thing tomorrow I will ask the lawyers to begin searching for a house for us to lease. No, buy. Even with your brother in Yorkshire, there is something daunting about making love to my wife in the afternoon in his house.’
‘Is that...is that what you are about to do?’
‘That is what we are about to do. Since you set this in motion I expect you to accept your share of the responsibility for our breach of etiquette.’
Her smile kept growing. Any moment she’d start shimmering like an approaching star. It felt good. Yesterday he’d been afraid she’d never smile at him again, that he’d ruined what had barely begun. He looked out the window, waiting out this bout of pressure somewhere between his stomach and his chest. She was becoming too important too fast, pulling him along. He felt like a fool placed backwards on a horse, unsure where to grasp to stop himself from being thrown. A horse’s ass. Sam would probably like the image.
‘What is so funny?’ Sam plucked at his sleeve and he rested his hand on hers.
‘Nothing. We’re here. Come and finish what you started.’
Chapter Fourteen
‘And, most importantly, do not walk along the river after dark, boy,’ the Jackal warned.
Gabriel hesitated mid-step. ‘There are crocodiles?’
‘No. Worse. Others of your kind. They might actually wish to talk.’
—Captives of the Hidden City,
Desert Boy Book Four
Lincoln Inn’s Fields was dark, but beyond a clump of trees the windows of a rather dull row of houses sparkled invitingly. They didn’t look like they might harbour anyone connected to Edge’s secretive brother, but the message they received from Oswald only an hour ago had been quite clear. A Miss Cleopatra Osbourne, daughter of and sister to noted explorers John Osbourne and Dashford Osbourne, had recently been engaged as companion to Mrs Phillips, a relative of the illustrious Mr John Soane and currently residing at his home.
It was a quiet area of town, both simpler and more dignified than Curzon Street. They left the carriage at Holborn and it was a strange and pleasant sensation to walk arm in arm with Edge through the evening darkness. So very...normal.
By the frown on his brow she doubted Edge was similarly appreciative of the experience.
‘Which house is it?’
‘That one.’ Edge pointed to the most brightly lit house with a classically pale façade between more stoic dark brick buildings. Three tall arched windows were separated only by gilded column capitals that seemed to hover unsupported by anything but air. It was a peculiar touch and she rather liked it.
‘I didn’t realise this was a dangerous part of town,’ she said.
‘It isn’t, there are too many solicitors about. Why?’
‘Someone stole his columns,’ she whispered and Edge shook his head.
‘Behave yourself in there.’
‘I shall do my best.’ She watched a carriage pull up in front of the entrance and Edge tensed, but a footman jumped down from the perch behind and helped out two elderly couples. Edge whistled under his breath. ‘What is it, Edge?’
‘That was Viscount Gordon of the Society of Antiquaries, and I think the other man is Mr Planta from the British Museum. Blast, Soane must be entertaining.’
‘Perhaps we should have sent word.’
‘No, I didn’t want to alert them if there was anything at all peculiar...’
Another carriage pulled up, depositing three middle-aged men.
‘What shall we do? Should we return tomorrow?’
‘No. I came here with Poppy years ago and I doubt I shall be turned away if I come presenting his compliments.’
‘You? What of me? Shall I hide out here among the trees while you enjoy yourself drinking port and discussing antiquities?’
‘Don’t be foolish, Sam. But do try not to frighten them off with your Sinclair sense of humour.’
‘Better than putting him to sleep with the Greybourne version, my lord. Oomph... Edge, put me down!’
‘Do I put you to sleep, you aggravating little mountain goat?’
‘Only in the best possible way, Bunny. Careful of that branch, I cannot go in there covered in moss...’
She was quite certain she heard her cape rip against the tree bark as he raised her on to a protruding branch, but lost all interest in sartorial matters as Edge covered her mouth with his. His body was warm against her in the chill air. The puckered seams of his leather gloves rubbed against her jaw and neck and her skin prickled. What would it feel like if they pushed under the layers of clothing that separated them, over her bare skin, here in the empty darkness of a city square when any moment someone might pass by...
The same thought appeared to occur to Edge as well. Even as his hands slipped beneath her cloak, moulding over her body, he drew back, his breathing as shallow as hers.
‘Damnation, Sam. You make me do things I never thought...and, no, that is not a compliment so do not look so smug.’
‘You cannot possibly see what I look like in this darkness.’
‘I can feel your smugness. Hell, let’s get this over with. And when I find Rafe I’m going to beat him within an inch of his life for making me waste my time like this.’
‘I am rather enjoying myself.’
‘That is what I’m afraid of. Remember, Mr Soane is a good friend of Poppy’s and one of the premier collectors of antiquities as well as the architect of the Bank of England.’
‘Good for him. What is your point?’
He gave a strangled huff.
‘Behave. No climbing on anything.’
‘Is there anything to climb on?’
‘Actually there is. The whole house is a warren of rooms and antiquities, including a most exquisite bust thought to be of Nefertari and—’
‘I think you are the one in danger of losing your concentration in there, Edge. Never mind, I shall remind you discreetly if you forget yourself, never fear.’ She shook out her cape and set off across the garden towards the house, but Edge caught her arm, pulling her to a halt.
‘What is it, Edge?’
‘It just occurred to me... Do you think they might have heard about...the books? People like them aren’t likely to have read them, are they?’
Even in the dark she saw the alarm on his face and actually considered lying.
‘Of course they are likely to have read them. Edge, your books are as successful and anticipated as Scott’s an
d Byron’s poems.’
‘Don’t be ridiculous, Sam. There are no points of comparison. They are novels. These people are serious scholars.’
‘All the more reason for them to read them, then. Think of Cousin Huxley—he was fascinated with how accurate they were and convinced they must have been the work of a scholar and one well acquainted with Egypt and its culture. But even if they weren’t, how many people can create a door into another world that people want to visit again and again judging by the number of editions? Your books are brilliant.’
‘You are not an impartial party here, Sam.’
‘I am far more impartial than you, Bunny. I dare say you wouldn’t be as white as a bleached bone if you’d written some boring old pamphlet about irregularities in the succession in the Middle Kingdom dynasties.’
His mouth curved, but he flattened it again.
‘I only want to go in, find out what we can, and leave. I don’t want... Damn Durham’s son. I should have ignored you and forced him to print a retraction. And wrung his neck.’
‘After the blistering lecture you heaped on that dolt’s head he won’t be speaking your name again in this century, but you know full well denial only feeds gossip. But that is not the point. The point is that despite being furious at you for hiding the truth from me I am so proud of you I would have the words “I am married to the author of the Desert Boy books” embroidered on my dress.’
‘For God’s sake, Sam!’
‘Well, I am burstingly proud. I always knew you were brilliant, but this is in a class of its own. I refuse to allow you to be ashamed of writing what anyone else would give his soul to the devil to create.’