So Still The Night

by Kim Lenox

  Lost. You are lost, Mina. A slave to misery, unless you stop him now.

  “Wait . . . ,” she whispered, holding up a hand and wobbling backward.

  “No.”

  He stalked her, dropping his coat to the floor. A skillful manipulation of the buttons at the front of his shirt revealed firm, vital skin between gaping linen. She clenched her fist at her hip, into her skirt, suspending the garment in place.

  “I want to talk some more first. Can’t we talk? Please, Mark?”

  “Talking always messes things up.” He tilted his head. The edge of his lip jerked up. “Let’s never talk again. Starting now.”

  She laughed—a sharp-pitched trill that didn’t sound like her at all. Mark was so funny when he wished to be. Funny and frightening and beautiful.

  Her mind shrieked out that she had only one weapon at her disposal, one distraction worthy of throwing him off his current path of seduction, one that she alone was powerless to stop.

  “Do you . . . truly want me?” she panted between parched, tender lips.

  Releasing her grip on her skirt, she shoved the waistband down around her knees and stepped out from the middle of the silken puddle. Standing in corsets, chemise and petticoats, she backed toward the center of the room.

  “Oh, yes.” He followed her. His smile widened, lecherous and attractive all at once. “I truly . . . truly want you.”

  She grinned. “I think I’ve got something you might want more.”

  The backs of her legs bumped against something. Off balance, she twisted to take a step, but fell onto her stomach across a large, rectangular ottoman. So like a little bed. How convenient.

  How inconvenient.

  She scrambled, crawling on hands and knees. A large hand closed on her ankle and dragged her back.

  “Oh—” Her stomach, her breasts crushed against the striped brocade.

  Thud. Him, on his knees behind her. His hands crept up her legs, over her calves and the backs of her linen-covered thighs. He squeezed her buttocks with both hands.

  “There’s nothing—nothing I want more.”

  Mina twisted to her back, then propped on both elbows.

  “Look under my petticoat,” she gasped.

  “Oh, yes, sweetheart.” He chuckled wickedly, sliding his hands underneath, up her stockings. “I want to look under your petticoat.”

  “No, Mark,” she breathed, desperate to make him understand, before she begged him not to stop all the wonderful things he was doing with his hands. She stiffened, as his squared fingertips brushed over the bands of her stockings, and higher, across the bare flesh of her inner thigh. Her back arched off the cushion “I mean look. Look under my petticoat.”

  His eyes met hers, glazed. He gripped the bottom lace edge of her top petticoat. Like most ladies, she wore two. His head disappeared under the quilted ecru linen.

  “The bottom one,” she instructed breathlessly. “Do you see?”

  “Yes.”

  For a long moment, he didn’t move.

  She felt a yank, and felt the drag of her linen drawers down her legs.

  “What are you doing?” she whispered, alarmed.

  Hands gripped the tops of her thighs. Two thumbs dragged heavily along her damp center seam. Her body exploded with pleasure.

  “I think that’s obvious,” came his muffled reply. Firm pressure coaxed her thighs apart, and the bump that was his head underneath her petticoat, dipped low.

  Her hands twisted in the linen on either side of his head.

  “But—but—it’s Akkadian, Mark.” Her head fell back at the first bold stroke of his tongue—an erotic and comical moment all at once. She laughed ruefully. “I—I—copied one of the—” He went deeper. She writhed. “Oh, my God. I copied one of the scrolls onto my petticoat. Don’t you see?”

  “Thank you,” he murmured, his breath feathering against her most sensitive flesh. “Thank you, sweetheart, but it’s too late. I can’t stop. Right now, I want you more.”

  Mark sensed her surrender in the sudden pliancy of her thighs. They no longer clasped his head in a vise. Not that he’d minded, of course. But in that moment he realized something greater than sensual pleasure: He needed her. He needed to be close to her, to lose himself in her brilliance, if only for the night, and no one else would do.

  “Shouldn’t we go to the bedroom?” she whispered, breathless. “It’s so bright here. The blinds are open.”

  He tore his shirt over his head, craving the crush of lace and corset boning and her soft skin against his bare chest. “No, this is perfect.”

  Besides, he couldn’t risk losing her somewhere between there and here. A sensual urgency he hadn’t felt in centuries—since he was a mortal man—ordered him to hurry. He pushed her petticoats up, hitching them above her oh-so-sleek thighs and buttocks. Yes, he’d intended to be more gentle, more romantic, but he couldn’t wait. His sex lengthened. He groaned at the exquisite surge of blood. The hot, swollen tip edged above his waistband. He unbuttoned his trousers with one hand and gasped with relief as the swollen flesh fell heavy, against her thigh.

  Her eyes widened, and her tongue darted out to dampen her lower lip. “Yes, Mark . . . before I change my mind.”

  He rubbed his thumb along her pink, glistening center, spreading her. Grasping himself, he slid against her a few times, up and down, not entering, but then he full-on prodded. Ah, good. Such sensation . . . damp, tight heat, closing around him. An erotic first kiss.

  “Now . . . ,” she urged softly, lifting her hips. She stroked his chest and drew her nails along the tightly drawn muscles of his lower stomach. “Come inside me.”

  Her velvet voice. Her beautiful face and mussed hair, against the backdrop of blue stripes. His eyes rolled back. His hips jerked. He pushed between her thighs, but her narrow slit allowed him entrance only halfway. Oh, God, delicious torture, but the ottoman. The blessed, beautiful ottoman . . . why bother with a bed ever again? The tufted square provided the perfect plateau to lean into her. With his toes angled against the carpet behind, he cursed. He whispered and praised. Gravity pulled, and thrust by thrust, inch by inch, he sank inside her completely. When she arched, he seized her beneath her wadded petticoats. Hands splayed over her bare buttocks, he seized her. Pressing his cheek to her corseted breast, he thrust, over and over again, as she tightened her arms about his neck. Her thighs tightened on his waist. Slender, cool feet slid against his buttocks.

  “Someone’s . . . at the door,” she whispered.

  Oh, yes. Someone knocked. So far away.

  “Let . . . them . . . wait.”

  He braced for leverage and bore into her, each frantic thrust taking him toward a brilliant edge. Narrow walls shuddered against his penis. She moaned, gripped his arms . . . cried out. Certainly, whoever was on the other side of the door heard, but Mark didn’t care. He couldn’t stop. The ottoman scooted a few inches through the deep-pile carpet, forcing him to readjust.

  The shift in angle created a different, firmer friction. Behind each eye, a colorful prism burst into a thousand points.

  “Oh, y-y-yes. Mina. Perfect.”

  His penis jerked, pulsed, throbbed inside her.

  With a groan he slowly lowered himself between her legs. There wasn’t enough room for them both on the ottoman. He rolled, dropping back first onto the floor. He dragged her down atop him. The movement flung her dark, silky hair across his shoulders. He scored his hands through, framing her face, and brought her down for a kiss. He lifted his head, groaning in sated pleasure, and filled her mouth with his tongue.

  Collapsing back, he stared at the ceiling. “God, that was even better than I imagined.”

  Sprawled across him, she spoke between gasps. “I don’t . . . think I’ll . . . be able . . . to walk until . . . next week.”

  The sex had been delirious. Mind-altering.

  But he’d not been her first lover. He had no right to the stab of regret, deep inside his chest. Who? He wouldn’t ask. Perhaps,
in time, she would tell him.

  They lay for a while longer, kissing and talking nonsense. Pretending the world was normal. She felt perfect against his side, tucked beneath his arm, her head rested on his chest. If given the choice, he’d lie here with her on the carpet, beside the ottoman, for the rest of his days. He smiled.

  Certainly that thought sprouted from the balmy afterglow of sex, but . . . he wished things were different.

  Ticktock, ticktock. The clock kept ticking. He rolled out from under her and bent to kiss her shoulder. He stood, pulled his trousers over his hips, and helped her up by the hand.

  “Let’s have a look at that petticoat now.”

  Her hands went to the satin tie at the small of her back. Mina bent and tugged the undergarment down and off. “You weren’t supposed to get me and the petticoat.”

  “Thank you anyway.” He kissed her nose.

  Despite the intimacy they’d just shared, he saw wariness in her eyes. She still did not trust him completely. Yet she handed the garment over and circled the room, gathering her clothing. He draped the petticoat over the top of a chair, and went to the door, where he looked into the hallway. The porter had left their trunks in a row against the wall. He grinned. Mina’s hat sat on top. For the first time it struck him as comical that his trunk was bigger than hers, as if he were a peacock who required more clothes. More things. He wanted to buy her more. Silky things. Sparkly things. Expensive things. Enough that when they traveled, she’d need ten trunks, all larger than his. He knew clothes and jewels weren’t important to her, and he supposed that was exactly why he wished to spoil her with them. He’d do it too, once he was done saving himself and the world. He’d be a legend then. She could be one with him.

  Mark hoisted her trunk first and brought his inside second. Once she found her dressing gown, she joined him on the settee. It was then he told her everything, everything about how he’d pursued her and her father to India, but woke up three months later in London. He also told her about Elizabeth Jackson, and his introduction to the Dark Bride.

  “I don’t mean to terrify you,” he concluded.

  “No,” she murmured, wide-eyed and pale. “I want to know everything. I’m glad you told me.”

  He spread her petticoat over the same ottoman where they’d just made love.

  He squinted. “There’s a bit of smudging.”

  “I’ve worn that thing for three months, remember.”

  “This is just one of the scrolls?”

  “The first of the two my father had in his possession,” she confirmed. “He marked them with a tag, one and two. I didn’t have time to copy the second. You’re aware there’s a third scroll, located at the British Museum?”

  He nodded. “I’ve translated that one.”

  Her eyes warmed with admiration. Mark’s chest swelled. God love a woman who found the translation of ancient scrolls attractive.

  “My father had hoped to do the same. He told me the papyrus was terribly deteriorated.”

  “It was a damn mess.”

  Mina looked down at the toes of her slippers. “He was so excited to get the ancient languages position at the museum and to discover the final scroll that completed the full set of three. He even considered donating his to their collection. His are exceedingly rare. Rarer than the museum’s scroll, even.”

  “Because the tablets from which they were copied no longer exist.”

  “Yes.” Her smile faded. “But things changed after the museum accused my father of stealing the original cuneiform tablet from which the first scroll was transcribed.”

  “Did he take the tablet?”

  “I have to admit, at the time, I wasn’t sure myself. When he left for his new employment in London, I remained behind in our Manchester house with the understanding I’d join him by midyear. But shortly after beginning the new position, he started behaving strangely. Secretly. And then suddenly, with only a cryptic telegraph to me, he departed for Bengal. When the accusation came out from the museum, I traveled all the way there to confront him about everything.”

  “Alone?”

  Her shoulder came up. “The ship captain was a friend of Father’s, and I knew him from prior travels, and so felt comfortable traveling alone. Knowing the city, I found my father rather easily. He was still there in Kolkata, provisioning up for an expedition.”

  “What did he tell you?”

  “He assured me he hadn’t stolen anything from the museum. Instead, he told me of a secret society of men who, like him, sought the secrets of immortality. But unlike my father, they didn’t just wish to discover the existence of an immortal—they wished to become immortal. He feared they wanted the scrolls for nefarious purposes. That’s all he would say. He told me it was better if I didn’t know everything.”

  “Could he identify these men?”

  She shook her head. “He didn’t know who any of them were. He told me only that they’d been following him in London, and that they’d broken into his room at the boardinghouse, searching for the scrolls. I feel so terrible now, because I doubted him then.” She bit her bottom lip. “At the time, I feared he was losing his mind. He insisted that I leave. That I return to England, but I refused.”

  “Why did he go to Bengal in the first place, and what happened there? When you returned to London, you carried a pistol in your bag.”

  A faint smile curved her lips. “You would know about that, wouldn’t you?”

  “What frightened you?” Mark asked softly. “And why did you decide to feign his death?”

  Mina’s eyes clouded. “We only started out in Bengal. Our expedition traveled into Tibet, to a temple near Yangpoong, at the foot of the Himalayas. My father requested an audience with the resident monks.”

  Mark interrupted. “What do Tibetan monks have to do with anything? The scrolls originated in the ancient library in Alexandria. They are copies of Akkadian tablets. These are artifacts from Egypt and Persia. You’re on a completely different side of the map.”

  “I wondered the same thing myself.” Mina rested her hands on her knees. “I went with my father to the temple, and he showed them the scrolls.”

  “What happened then?”

  “Well . . .” She scooted forward in her seat, clearly excited at the memory. “First of all, they started up immediately striking their gongs. Over and over again. And then they gave him the scroll rods.”

  “Wait a minute.” Mark squinted. “Scroll rods?”

  “Yes. My father had two papyri. Two scrolls, but no rods. They gave him four ivory rods, two for each scroll.” She drew her knees up onto the settee, and wrapped her arms around them. “And that, Mark, is when the trouble started. Our first night back in camp, a heavy fog settled over the mountainside. Fog is commonplace in Tibet, of course, but this fog whispered. The Bengalis we’d hired to convey our belongings up the mountain grew frantic.”

  “You don’t have to convince me,” Mark assured her. “I’ve seen stranger things. I believe you.”

  Mina touched her fingertips to her lips. “The next morning, we found the body of one of our Bengalis at the bottom of a ravine. Our English guide, Lieutenant Maskelyne, said he must have wandered off the cliff in the dark, but from what my father told me, the man’s body was badly mangled. Too badly mangled for the injuries to have come simply from the fall. The next night, our native translator disappeared. Whether he abandoned us out of fear, or found some more disturbing fate, I doubt we’ll ever know. The next night we lost more men.”

  “And so your father left you?”

  She nodded. “He told me they’d found us. That he wouldn’t risk my life any further, and so we had to split up. He told me to return to England and tell everyone he’d died on the mountain. He also told me I’d—I’d never see him again.” Tears crowded her lashes. “Apparently he’d already considered the idea of disappearing under the guise of such a lie, because he gave me the name of a man in Kolkata who would provide all the necessary falsified documents.”
>
  “What happened then?” Mark prodded gently.

  “I refused. I was upset. I stormed out of the tent. I didn’t go far. Not far at all. But a cloud moved against the mountain.” Mina shivered. Mark took her hand and squeezed it. “I tried to follow my steps back to the camp, but couldn’t see anything but fog. I was afraid I’d fall into a crevice and end up like those men. So I sat, and I waited. I waited hours, almost until morning. At last the fog lifted, just enough for me to see I was right beside the tents. So close, I could have crawled a few feet and touched them. But he was gone. He and Lieutenant Maskelyne were gone.”

  Now Mark understood the mix of emotions Mina displayed for her father, the love, tangled up with anger.

  She continued. “And so I made my way back to Kolkata. Alone. I waited a few weeks until my money had almost run out. And then, once I realized he wasn’t coming back, I did what he told me to do.”

  “You were very brave.” Mark slid his hand over her shoulder, to the back of her delicate neck. He pulled her close and rested his forehead against hers. “You had no other choice.”

  “I don’t know.” She squeezed his leg. “I lied to people. People who were nothing but kind and accepting of me. Trafford. Lucinda. I still can’t help but believe she’d be alive today if I hadn’t come here.”

  “We don’t know that.” He kissed her ear.

  She pulled back, blinking, and dabbed at her eyes. “Find out for me, will you? When you figure all this out.”

  “I will,” he assured her.

  “Now, look at that petticoat and tell me what I wrote.”

  “I’ve already translated it.”

  Mina’s eyes widened. “What do you mean you’ve already translated it? While we were sitting here talking?”

  He shrugged. “I’m good. It also helps that your petticoat is in much better condition than that damn first scroll.”

  “What does it say?”

  “That I’ve got to get my hands on an Eye.”

  Chapter Fourteen