daring me to complete it, aren’t you?”
“Am I?”
“You are amazing, Miss Kincaid.” He smiled for the
first time in days.
“What do you mean?” He stood too close, but she did
not want to back away and insult him.
“You’re so dedicated. You speak with ease of working
long hours to complete a compulsion that isn’t yours. It’s
my obsession, and I’m not willing to relinquish it because
of a ludicrous demand. How can I ignore such a
challenge?”
“I did not mean it as a challenge.”
“But it is. I suspect you shall challenge me in many
ways. I—” He stepped away and said, “Good morning,
Father.”
Darcy moved aside as Dr. Hastings came into the
office, followed by Mrs. Pollock. The housekeeper carried
a tray with muffins and a pot of fragrant coffee.
Before Mrs. Pollock could set the tray on the desk,
Darcy rescued the freshly typed pages. She placed them
on the typewriter.
“Neither of you joined me for breakfast,” Dr. Hastings
said as Mrs. Pollock handed him a cup of coffee. “I decided
to bring breakfast to you.”
Darcy took a cup from Mrs. Pollock and nodded her
thanks. “Forgive me. I had no idea I was to join you at
breakfast.”
“I do recall,” the gray-haired man said in a tone that
again brought her grandmother to mind, “saying you were
to dine with us.” Not giving her a chance to reply, he added,
“Mrs. Pollock, do see if Miss Kincaid wants a muffin.
The raspberry ones are especially good.”
The housekeeper held out the basket. Darcy smiled
weakly as she chose one and sat at the desk.
“Father,” Dr. Garnett said as he shifted some books
and sat on the sofa, “I believe Miss Kincaid can decide
what she wishes to eat.”
“Actually the breakfast is just a ruse. There’s a problem
far more important than which muffin Miss Kincaid
selects. I wish to discuss it with both of you,” Dr. Hastings
stated.
“Problem?” Darcy asked.
“Not with you, Miss Kincaid.” His smile broadened
as Mrs. Pollock left. “This formality is tiresome. It’s time
for Miss Kincaid to give us permission to call her Darcy.
And you, Darcy, shall address us as Hastings and Simon.
Don’t you agree, Simon?”
“It does seem to make sense, seeing as how she will
be here with us for the next two months.” He lifted his cup
in a salute toward her.
Darcy smiled. Not only had Simon decided to finish
his book, but he intended to allow her to retain her position.
Happiness bubbled through her. He could achieve his goal,
and she would, too. She could escape the shadow of her
grandmother’s domination and return home.
“Two months?” Hastings asked. “Are you so close to
being done?”
“Caldwell is asking for the book at that time.” He
smiled. “My secretary assures me, with her help, it can be
finished.”
Darcy lowered her eyes as the men continued talking
about the book. The affection between father and son was
heartwarming. She once had believed she might have such
affection for her grandmother in England, but Grandmother
Kincaid had eliminated any chance by trying to change
everything about Darcy to erase the truth of her birth.
Grandmother Kincaid had succeeded only in changing
Darcy’s surname to her own. In Egypt, Jaddeh had loved
her and had assured Darcy her parents had loved her, too.
Darcy wished she could recall something about her parents,
but they had died when she was a baby.
“Why don’t you take Darcy with you into Halyeyn?”
Hastings was asking when she listened to the conversation
again. “She must have several letters to post.”
“Letters?” Darcy wondered what she had missed while
lost in self-pity, a place she hated.
Dr. Hastings patted her hand. “Mrs. Pollock mentioned
you spend much of your meager free time writing letters.
She was concerned you might be anxious to post them.”
She hesitated, not wanting to admit the truth, but not
wanting to lie. If she spoke of her efforts to recreate the
story Jaddeh had told her, other questions might arise.
“Andrew would appreciate you stopping by,” Hastings
continued. “He has expressed an interest in seeing Darcy’s
work that she has done on her typewriter machine.”
“Andrew?” she asked.
Simon stood and set his cup on the desk. “Andrew
Fairfield is Halyeyn’s vicar. Two weeks ago, I promised
to bring him a book he wants to read.” He hesitated. “I
should finish my day’s work before making calls.”
His father clapped him on the shoulder. “You can work
on the way. Go.”
“Shall we go, Miss Darcy?” he asked, clearly not going
to argue with his father’s dictates.
“Of course, sir. Let me get my bonnet.”
“I shall meet you outside in a few minutes.”
Darcy was glad for the excuse to escape Rosewood
Hall. Fresh air might give her fresh perspective. Entering
her rooms, she hurried into the bedroom. She went to the
bay window and looked out as she had every time she
came into this room since she had seen the lights in the
garden. Now, in the sunlight, she could see the wood was
not large, for it was almost hidden behind some shrubs
that must be twice her height. That was the only overgrown
section of the garden, and in the sunshine, there seemed
nothing malevolent about it. She should forget about the
lights she had seen, for she had been unsettled that evening
by her first meetings with Simon. She should not let her
imagination lead her into trouble.
She tied her best bonnet under her chin and turned her
back on the bay window. She would save her fantastical
ideas for her story about Meskhenet and Kafele while she
focused on the work she had been hired to do. And now
she had been given an interlude away from it and Rosewood
Hall. Smiling, she walked out of the room, eager to enjoy
the chance to visit the village she had heard about.
When she came outside and saw Simon reading at the
bottom of the steps, Darcy smiled. He had changed into a
fawn coat that turned his auburn hair almost gold. His
bowler was the same shade. He was immersed in his book,
and she suspected that, if no one intruded, he would have
remained sitting there reading until it became too dark to
see.
Her smile faded as icy fingers slipped along her back.
This was only another example of his fanatic resolve to
complete his manuscript. Such zeal rolled over anyone in
its way, not even noticing anyone was in its way.
As she walked down the steps, Simon closed the book
and turned to her. He said quietly, “I suspect you know by
humoring Father on this matter, we shall be working late
this eveni
ng.”
“I realize we have many late nights ahead of us.”
He led her to where the carriage that had brought her
to Rosewood Hall waited. “I don’t wish to quarrel with
my father on something so incidental.”
She wanted to argue that the new deadline was hardly
incidental, but understood his concern for his father’s wellbeing
outweighed any other matter. Quietly, she said, “His
color looks better today.”
“Maybe, but Father must be careful not to exert himself
too much. His heart is weak, so I try to spare him whenever
possible. If I had told him we must work on the manuscript,
he would have pilfered a few typed pages and gone to see
Andrew himself.”
She nodded. “I understand, Dr. Gar—”
“Simon,” he corrected.
“You are my employer, so I shouldn’t address you so.”
She did not want to admit she already called him Simon in
her thoughts.
He shrugged. “You have been having a damnable time
trying to keep your Doctors Garnett separated. I agree with
Father. This should be simpler.”
“It would be, but it wouldn’t be considered proper.”
“By whom?”
“By Miss Mumsey, for one.” Despite herself, she
began to chuckle. “Miss Mumsey would, in all likelihood,
be astonished if she thought I’d learned even one lesson in
deportment. She considered me her most incorrigible
student.”
“You?” He eyed her up and down. “I find it difficult
to imagine you as a naughty child.”
“I did grow up.”
“Obviously.”
Darcy was glad the coachman jumping down from the
box and opening the carriage door kept her from having
to answer. Anything that involved her past created a danger
she must avoid.
When Simon handed her into the carriage, he released
her hand quickly. Had he felt it tremble? Except when she
was lost in her work—either at the typewriter or with her
notebook—she had been on edge every second since she
had arrived at Rosewood Hall.
Simon sat beside her on the luxurious cushions and
opened his book, beginning to read once more. She looked
out the window at the gardens that were even more glorious
in the sunshine. Her gaze moved back again and again to
him. His thick hair with its silver tints glowed in the
sunlight. The stubborn line of his jaw was hard in
comparison with the curve of his mustache.
She stared at the front of the carriage. It was clear
Simon did not wish to have his reading intruded upon by
conversation. Now was a good time to try to recall the
next parts of the story Jaddeh had told her. When she had
gone to seek publication for the collection of stories, she
had been sure she remembered every word her grandmother
had spoken over and over. She had written two stories
before she left London, and those had been simple, for
she could hear her beloved grandmother’s voice echoing
through her mind. She had penned the words, pausing only
to translate some idiomatic phrase from Arabic to English.
Then she had begun Meskhenet’s tale of meeting the
young man who was designing a tomb for her brother, the
Pharaoh. Even if she had not been interrupted by the
journey across England and the work she was doing now,
she doubted if she could have finished the story. She was
unsure, she had to admit, how it ended. Surely she had
heard Jaddeh tell it over and over as she had heard the
other tales.
A parade of phrases and scenes from the other stories,
simple ones meant to entertain a young child, appeared
unbidden from the depths of her memory. She closed her
eyes and savored the sound of Jaddeh’s voice telling of
the lion and the crocodile as well as stories of the gods
worshiped by the Pharaohs. Each word was as clear as if
her grandmother sat beside her, recounting the stories anew.
And the tale of Meskhenet and Kafele. . .The scene of
the handsome man emerging from the reeds by the river
erupted out of her memory. The sun’s blistering heat and
the smell of the mud along the river filled her senses as if
she stood by the shore’s languid waters. A teasing breeze
against bare skin was as soft as a caress.
But not as sweet. A strong arm slipping around her
waist and the hard pressure of his chest against her kept
her from drawing in a breath. She did not want to let this
moment vanish like a popped soap bubble. As her own
arm raised to encircle firm shoulders, she gazed up at a
strong face she had known for only moments, but had
known since the beginning of time. His green eyes . . .
Darcy shuddered, and the sensations vanished. What
was she thinking? Kafele’s eyes were as dark as the heart
of a cave on a moonless night. Not green like . . . She
refused to let the thought form. Looking out the carriage
window once more, she hoped no sign of her thoughts
were visible on her face. She must not let fantasy engulf
her. Grandmother Kincaid had scolded her often for
allowing the East’s sensual ways to silence her good British
common sense.
She gripped the window when the carriage bounced
into a chuckhole. An arm caught her shoulders, and she
looked at Simon. His eyes were unfocused. She guessed
he was still lost in pursuing some word to its origins. That
was good, because that made it unlikely he had noticed
her engrossed in her own wandering thoughts which had
led her in directions she should not go. When she flinched,
he quickly released her, his eyes hardening. She wanted to
assure him that she did not find his touch distasteful. Quite
the opposite, but anything she said might reveal the truth.
It would be for the best to say as little as possible.
“This road needs repair,” Simon said, his voice as
intense as his eyes. “Are you all right?”
“I’m fine.”
“And I am rude.” He closed the book and placed it on
the seat facing them. “I shouldn’t have invited you to join
me in a trip into Halyeyn and then ignored you.”
“Please, don’t let me keep you from your work.” She
hoped he did not note the rather panicked sound of her
voice. She must get her emotions under control posthaste.
“You are not. I brought the wrong book with me. This
one won’t help me today.”
She turned slightly to face him, broaching a subject
she could handle even in this turmoil, “You love your work,
don’t you?”
“Yes.” He rested one arm along the back of the seat,
but did not touch her. “And you?”
She fought another flinch. He was, she knew, asking
only about what she did with the typewriter, not the story
which seemed to be consuming more of her thoughts with
each passing day.
“My work isn’t an obsession for me,” she replied. “It
will get me what I want.”
“Which is?”
“To travel to Egypt.” That much she could admit safely.
His brows rose. “Egypt? To learn more Arabic?”
“Language brings you pleasure, not me.”
“And what brings you pleasure, Darcy?” His leg
brushed hers as he shifted to face her.
The touch—which must have been inadvertent,
because his expression did not change—nearly undid her,
but she bit back the truth before it could leap from her
lips. He had not passed the boundaries of propriety, for
the carriage offered little space to move. Yet her
imagination had gone far past it.
Swallowing the words she must not speak, she said,
“The idea of traveling to Egypt gives me great pleasure.”
Simon tapped the side of the carriage. It slowed to a
stop, and he flung open the door. Jumping out, he held up
his hand to her. “Come with me, Darcy. I think I can help
with that wish.”
She looked about. The carriage had stopped near a
stone bridge. It was new, because the stones were not
stained with age.
“Darcy?”
Her gaze went back to Simon. He now wore a smile
that hinted at a playful, much more carefree man rather
than the composed, studious one who seemed happiest
when immersed in his studies. She wanted to look away,
because the expression he wore now was too close to what
she had seen when her imagination betrayed her into
inappropriate thoughts.
“Thank you,” she murmured when he handed her out.
She glanced up at Nash. The carriage driver wore a puzzled
expression.
Darcy tried to silence her curiosity as Simon led her
down the gentle hill toward the pool. Flowers were brushed
aside by her skirt as insects buzzed, and water gliders
swirled among the water lilies. And the scent of mud. .
.The very smell she had imagined for her story, so she
took a deep breath, savoring it as she sought words to
describe its wet, earthy aroma.
“Is something amiss?” Simon asked.
“No.”
“You have a very intense expression of concentration.
If you prefer not to be out-of-doors like this, you need
only say so.” He chuckled, shocking her anew. “I gave no
thought to how you would get up and down the hill in that
ruffled skirt.”
“It shall be no problem.”
“Good. Then come along.” He motioned toward a
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