by Lisa Manuel
Gripping her hand tightly enough to prevent it from slipping free, he all but hauled her to a patch of sunlit grass. By the time she sat and settled her skirts around her legs, she had to admit her curiosity had gotten the better of her. Not about how to handle the spider—that she could live entirely without—but how a man who claimed little or no attachment to blood relations could feel such affinity for an alien species.
“Now, then.” He held Isis up to the sunlight. Moira shivered when he ran a fingertip over a hairy foreleg. “When you wish to touch her, be very gentle, but don’t hesitate or jerk away.”
“And if I don’t wish to?”
“Now, now. Here, you try.”
“J-just her leg?”
“Yes, like so.” His fingertip made another gentle swipe back and forth.
“Oh, dear.” Extending a finger, she drew a breath and held it. Just as her fingertip almost made contact, Isis skittered a few inches along Graham’s sleeve. Moira went rigid.
“It’s all right,” he whispered.
Her teeth clenched her bottom lip. She reached closer. Short, spiny hairs tickled the pad of her finger. The leg twitched and rose, pushing lightly back. Moira’s breath tumbled out, but she fought the impulse to lurch away and bury her hand in her skirts.
“Not so bad,” he prompted, “is she?”
“Hairy. And prickly.”
“But kind of nice, wouldn’t you say?”
A tiny shrug formed her reply. Her finger traveled slowly back and forth while she marveled as to where her courage came from. Then Isis opened and closed those fearsome pincers at either side of her mouth, or what Moira assumed to be her mouth. She flinched.
“It’s all right, she’s not going to bite.” Graham’s free hand settled between her shoulders, warm and steadying. “She moves her pedipalps that way because the hairs there are hollow and they allow her to taste and smell her surroundings. She’s merely becoming acquainted with her newest admirer.”
“How charming.” And yet, the behavior did imply a personality of sorts, making the creature somewhat less of a monster. Moira leaned for a closer look. “Are those her eyes? My word, how many does she have?”
“Eight.”
“Goodness. Can she see eight places at once?”
“Of course. The better to keep an eye on you, my dear,” he said in a dastardly growl. Moira chuckled—quietly, so as not to disturb Isis. “Would you like to try holding her now?”
“I don’t think—”
“Of course, you do. You’ve come this far. I’ll be right beside you.” He did better than that, shifting until they sat thigh to thigh. His chest braced her shoulder, and he stretched an arm behind her, cradling her back while bringing the arm that held Isis up beside Moira’s.
“Don’t.” She felt herself shrink into his protective warmth. “That’s too close.”
“It’s all right.” His breath grazed her neck, eliciting a shiver. He seemed to misinterpret her reaction as fear, because he said, “If you really don’t want to, I’ll move her away.”
“No…wait.” With her fingertip she explored the bend in one of Isis’s legs. “Maybe just for a moment.” But she didn’t know if the words came of a sudden desire to hold the spider or to simply keep Graham close.
“Here we go, then.” He brought the length of his forearm against hers and held it there. How she wished she had opted for long sleeves rather than the three-quarter ones she wore. Fascination mingled with stomach-sinking dread at the sight of those legs arching and stretching like fingers across a harp. At the first whisper-light tread upon her skin, sweat trickled between her shoulder blades.
“Don’t go anywhere,” she rasped through a throat gone dry.
Graham placed his arm beneath her own, his fingers wrapping gently round her wrist. “I’m right here.”
“Oh, Lord…eek…it tickles.” Panic rose in a tremulous giggle.
“I know. But it’s rather pleasant, isn’t it?”
“Look, she stopped. She’s staring at me. Whatever could she be thinking?”
“That her hostess is very beautiful, I’d imagine.” His words infused her with a heated awareness of his strength, his solid presence lending her the courage to do something she’d never in her wildest dreams do on her own. “She seems pleased to make your acquaintance.”
“Likewise, I’m sure.” Or was she? As Isis began a slow ascent up her arm, every muscle in Moira’s body tensed. The spider’s many legs tipped a ticklish path along the sensitive skin of her forearm. Tremors shimmied across Moira’s shoulders. At her elbow, Isis paused and explored the edge of her sleeve before continuing up. Alarm tingled through Moira’s nerve endings. “She’s going too high. Take her off. Take her off now. Please.”
Isis was in Graham’s palm before Moira drew another breath. Relief flooded her. Feeling as though an enormous weight had been lifted, she drooped back against him as the rigidity flowed from her muscles.
“You did it,” he said and kissed her hair. “I’m so proud of you.”
She angled her head to gaze up at him. The slant of his jaw revealed an effusive grin. “Joking as usual.”
“Not in the least.” Transferring Isis to his knee, he stroked his hands up and down Moira’s arms as if to warm her. “You did splendidly. I’ll have you know other than me, you’re the first non-Egyptian ever to hold her. Shaun refuses.”
She wrenched away and faced him head-on. “Graham Foster, one of these days the devil is going to roast you on a spit.”
His dimples flashed, faded, reappeared in a fruitless display of innocence. “What d’you mean, Moira?”
“ ‘Don’t let your fears rule you, Moira,” she parroted in a deepened voice meant to mimic his. She yanked a handful of foxtail and clover from the ground and tossed it in his face. “I only agreed to hold the dreadful creature because I didn’t wish to be considered the only coward in your acquaintance. I wouldn’t have touched her had I known everyone abhors her.”
He combed bits of grass from his hair and brushed it from his shirtfront. “Go on, admit it. Holding Isis was a bit of a thrill, and now that it’s over, you’re elated you did it.”
She pursed her lips. There did exist a tiny morsel of truth to his words, but she didn’t have to admit it. He smiled, not the teasing smile of moments ago but one that sped her pulse and sent prickling heat to her cheeks. She couldn’t help smiling back.
He cupped her chin. “Brave Moira.” His voice dipped, rumbled like an ocean wave approaching the shore. “You amaze me at every turn.”
She accepted the praise by simply tucking her chin more firmly into his palm and silently forgiving his prank. He leaned in, at the same time drawing her gently forward until their lips met, without the urgency of their last kisses but softly, like petals opening to the cool touch of rain.
He pressed his forehead to hers. “We were about to make a mistake earlier, weren’t we, Moira?”
She understood his meaning. Before he remembered Isis, they’d been rushing back to the house with no illusions between them as to what would happen once they arrived. She should be thankful they’d come to their senses in time. Disappointment welled instead. Her eyes fell closed. His forehead felt smooth and strong and warm against hers. “Yes.”
“It wouldn’t have felt like a mistake, and afterward I’d have denied the error of it to my dying breath.” He broke the contact between them, only to reestablish it with his palm against her cheek. “I swear it, Moira.”
“I believe you.” Her heart twisted within the depth of that belief. “But it would have been wrong all the same, wouldn’t it?”
He nodded, all trace of his dimples fading into sadness. “Wrong to permanently bind ourselves to each other when I must eventually leave England and you must stay. For that is the truth of it. The work Shaun and I do in Egypt is too important to forsake. I have obligations, and I’ve made promises. Promises I temporarily forgot this morning.”
Not for an instant did she fool
herself into believing she could entice him to stay, to give up his adventurer’s life in favor of a woman so firmly on the shelf as to have truly earned the title of spinster. Ah, no, a man like Graham Foster thrived on freedom and spontaneity and danger enough to make one’s heart pound. He’d languish here, with her.
“I must stay for my mother,” she said, and was relieved to feel no regret for this, at least.
Bracing Isis on his thigh with a careful hand, he slipped an arm around Moira’s shoulders. The passion that had almost sent them racing to the nearest empty bedchamber had faded, or, more accurately, settled into a calm and comfortable intimacy. Yet the promise of more remained; Moira felt it like a current just beneath the surface, coursing, biding its time, searching for even the tiniest gap in their resolve.
For now she relaxed against him, savoring the luxury of a masculine shoulder and the delicious warmth of the sun on her face. Perhaps lulled to sleep by the streaming sunshine absorbed into Graham’s dark trousers, the spider didn’t stir.
With a jerk of his chin, he gestured toward the meadows and the more distant hills. “Monteith Hall has made me feel—I don’t know—English, I suppose, for the first time since my expulsion from Oxford. This place has made me remember all the good things about being English. For a moment I was tempted…truly tempted. But I can’t, Moira. I cannot stay.”
Plucking at the turf beside her, she let out a breath of frustrated longing. “Is there no one else to dig up Egyptian treasure?”
“Yes. Hundreds of greedy men roam the deserts, raiding the tombs. That’s precisely the point. Ever since Napoleon invaded Africa years ago, men have been whittling away at Egypt’s treasures.”
Her hand went still against the small pile of grass she’d shredded. “I’m not sure I understand what you’re saying.”
“Have you not seen the exhibit of my finds at the museum?” He chuckled, a sound resonant with irony. “Flashy, isn’t it?”
She nodded, baffled.
He stupefied her with a single word. “Worthless.”
“How can that be? The artifacts are said to be priceless.”
“Rubbish. They’re trinkets, nothing more.”
Taking this in, she stared off into the distance. Bars of sunlight streamed through lacy clouds and dappled the hillsides. “Trinkets of pure gold and gemstones. And what of the historical worth?”
“Ah.” His voice went soft, thoughtful. He wrapped a lock of her hair around his fingers. “Now you’ve hit upon it. What I’ve brought back to England are baubles with very little historical or cultural value at all. Think of a pair of your own earbobs, even your most valuable ones. In a thousand years they might be worth something in a sentimental sort of way, could even end up in some historian’s private collection. But in comparison with, say, the crown jewels of England, they’ll be of no significance whatsoever.”
“But…” Her mouth worked around gaping incredulity. “What about the jewels you presented at court? The pectoral pendant…the lapis scarabs…the burial mask… And the encrypted tablets.”
“All found in the tombs of wealthy merchants and craftsmen. I believe the tablets were an inventory of a family’s holdings.”
“Graham…” His nonchalance sparked a burst of dismay. “You were knighted for your discoveries. What if someone should find out?”
“What of it? The knighthood’s a moot point now that I’ve inherited the barony, and they can’t strip me of that. I suppose I’d be tossed out of civilized society—again. I’ll simply have lived up to my legacy as a cheat and a fraud.”
“You are not a cheat or a fraud. At least not the way people think.” She brushed the hair from his brow with a familiarity she felt she had every right to claim, for something extraordinary was happening here. She suspected that in the entire world, there were precious few people privileged enough to be granted a glimpse of the real Graham Foster. “What are you doing in Egypt that you don’t want your fellow Englishmen knowing about?”
“Fellow Europeans, actually.” He continued playing with the ends of her hair while gazing down at the slumbering Isis. “Ever since Napoleon attempted to occupy Egypt, Europeans have been sifting through the sands under the guise of scientific research, without so much as a by-your-leave to the people whose heritage they’re stealing. And because Egypt is currently ruled by a Turk, the government is doing precious little to stop the pillage. With the exception of John Wilkinson and very few others, most Egyptologists are a disgrace. No more than plunderers.”
“Where do you fit in?”
“Don’t misunderstand.” His voice took on an edge, became almost defensive. “I went to Egypt with the same delusions of grandeur as everyone else. Discover the secrets of the pyramids, find riches, and return to England in a blaze of nose-thumbing glory.”
“And haven’t you?”
He pushed a sardonic chuckle through his teeth. “In a manner of speaking, I suppose.”
“What changed?”
“A sheik and his dagger convinced me of the folly of my ways.” A self-conscious smile pulled at his lips. “It was early in my career. I’d stumbled upon hallowed ground, the site of a shrine the Bedouins had been guarding for centuries. And like the arrogant, ignorant European I was, I’d have dismantled the place without a second thought.
“Luckily I was caught, and a man named Hakim al Faruq taught me that Egypt’s heritage belongs in Egypt, and Egyptologists, for the most part, do not. Shaun and I have been working these past years to help hide anything of true value by erasing all trails leading to it. Ever hear of a boy king called Tutankhamen?”
“No.”
“And you won’t, not if Shaun and I continue to have our way. He and I have been perpetrating one of the greatest ongoing hoaxes ever pulled off. But make no mistake, Moira. Through my so-called philanthropy, I’ve profited nicely. So stop looking at me like that and don’t call me sweet.”
She had, indeed, been about to make that very pronouncement. Dear man, didn’t he understand the more cavalier and roguish he tried to appear, the more honorable he became in her eyes? Yet everything he’d just told her convinced her more than ever that he didn’t belong here, didn’t belong with her. The truth of it squeezed her throat and pricked the backs of her eyes.
She reached for Isis. Awakening before her finger made contact, the spider scurried away over Graham’s knee. Then she stopped, turned, and ventured back. Moira opened her palm.
Graham watched her intently. “What on earth? Moira Hughes, you never cease to astonish me.”
“Nor you me.” She shrugged as she conveyed Isis to her lap. “But I suppose it’s all a matter of accepting the truth and trusting it. She’s harmless. She can’t hurt me.”
And neither could Graham Foster remain in her life.
She hadn’t realized until now how much she wanted him to stay. All along, without even quite knowing why, she had been searching for signs of honor in this man. Not until this moment had she understood. Honor would be the very thing that drove him away.
And once again, she would be alone…
Graham stared into snapping flames, pensively sipping brandy. At the card table, Moira and her mother sat with their heads together, quietly conferring.
Earlier, while sorting through some of her stepfather’s effects stored in the attic, she had come upon a box of letters, an assortment of correspondence from friends, relations, and business associates. Some predated the man’s death by mere days.
Estella had warmed to the prospect of settling down at the leather-topped game table to revisit the travels and daily lives of old acquaintances, but even from across the dimly lit distance, Graham caught the quiver in Moira’s fingertips as she unfolded each missive. Occasionally her gaze glittered in his direction, her unspoken question plain: would they discover any clue as to Michael Oliphant’s role in her stepfather’s life?
He lifted his brandy snifter and sipped. The puzzle of Everett Foster’s will no longer concerned Moira and her m
other alone, nor was it merely about money. Who was this Michael Oliphant, and what hold had he had on Everett Foster that the latter would neglect to secure the future of his own family? Had Smythe known the answer and paid for it with his life? And what of Nigel Foster’s death—accidental or intentional?
Then there was Pierson, Smythe’s missing secretary. What part did the bespectacled clerk play in this drama? Had he been involved? Of course, his disappearance alone did not signify guilt. He might have run off out of simple fear. Or perhaps he harbored some personal, completely unrelated reason for avoiding a murder investigation.
To ensure the safety of the women, Graham had earlier met with his steward to establish a more rigorous schedule for the footmen. As of this afternoon, the Hall could no longer be taken unawares from any direction. At every possible approach, there would be a man on guard, night and day. Windows and doors heretofore kept blithely unlatched would be secured, with only the terrace and rear garden doors unlocked during the day. He’d been pleased to discover his gamekeeper and under-butler had served in the infantry during the war. Older men of seeming good sense, they’d been well trained in the use of firearms.
Having set the estate in order, he should have set off for London earlier this evening. Yet he’d put off his departure until the morning despite his certainty that returning to the city was not only the logical course, but the wisest.
Wisest for Moira. And for him. Setting his snifter on the oval table beside him, he gained his feet, beginning a restless circuit of the room.
When he had first arrived back in England, he couldn’t wait to return to brilliant desert skies and searing adventures. That notion paled now in comparison to feisty admonishments and cheeky observations conveyed with the thrust of a stubborn chin. He smiled. The way Moira took him to task for the smallest trifles stirred his blood as vigorously as setting foot into the booby-trapped catacombs of a cursed tomb.
More so, if the truth be told. And he could lose himself just as easily and irrevocably in the dark mystery of those midnight eyes.