Rough Gentleman

by Maggie Carpenter

  “What I have to say can wait. Mostly I wanted to check on you.”

  “I’m glad you’re back. I feel better knowing you’re in the house.”

  He paused, his need for her rippling through his body.

  “Connie, I must say something,” he began, taking her hand. “While I’m sorry we met under such trying circumstances, I am very happy fate chose to bring us together.”

  A soft smile curled her lips.

  “Malcolm, it’s a wonderful miracle. I can’t imagine you could be any happier than I am. You saved me.”

  “Connie,” he said, leaning forward and bringing his face near hers, “I’m happy I met you because I think you’re altogether wonderful. If I were to meet you at a party I would commandeer your time, and not allow any other gentlemen to speak with you.”

  “And I would glare at any girl who dared to come close to you.”

  Lowering his mouth on hers, he closed his eyes and sank into the lingering kiss. Her arms moved around him, and he allowed himself a few precious seconds to relish the sensations pulsing through his penis before pulling back.

  “You are far too delicious,” he whispered. “Rest. When you wake up, pull the bell cord for Mrs. Melville and she’ll bring you some tea.”

  “No.”

  “No?”

  “You must stay with me,” she insisted, clutching his arm. “I want you to.”

  “I can’t, not now, but the time will come. I’ll see you later.”

  Moving her hand from his arm, he straightened up and walked to the door, then turned around and winked at her as he closed it behind him. Taking a moment to catch his breath and command his cock to return to sleep, he started down the hall, focusing back on the grave matter facing him. Reaching the bottom of the stairs, he ran into Mrs. Melville on her way up to wake Connie for lunch.

  “I just checked and she’s still resting,” Malcolm said. “Please don’t disturb her.”

  “That poor girl,” the woman murmured, shaking her head. “What a state she was in when you brought her into this house. You have a good heart, Mr. Mead.”

  “I can’t imagine anyone tossing her out onto the street that night, thank you for saying so. I’ve told her to ring for you when she wakes up. Please take her some tea and something to eat when she does.”

  “Of course, sir. Plenty of rest and good food is what she needs. Are you any closer to learning her story?”

  “I’m afraid not. That’s why it’s imperative we keep her visit confidential. Who knows what foul play she’s met with.”

  “For what it’s worth, I quite agree,” Mrs. Melville said solemnly. “In my younger years my sister was married to a brute of a man. I had to hide her, and I was happy to do it. Whatever her troubles, Connie seems like a sweet girl, and I do hope she’ll confide in you at some point. I’d like to help if I can.”

  “Your loyalty and consideration to her is already a great help. Since she won’t be coming down for luncheon, I won’t bother either. Please bring a sandwich and coffee to the library.”

  “Very well, sir. I’ll see to it at once.”

  As he turned and marched down the hall, he tried to recall any books he might own documenting the expeditions that had dared to adventure in the dry, hot, exotic Egyptian land. Entering the library, he remembered Egypt: Descriptive, Historical, and Picturesque. The well-known book by George Ebers had been published a decade before. It was a place to start.

  As he pulled it from the shelf and carried it to his chair by the fire, he paused by the window. The drizzle had stopped and the sky was clearing. With any luck the following day would see the sun. Continuing on, he settled in and began flipping through the pages, but quickly realized the comprehensive book gave no information about artifacts. Frustrated, he returned it to its place on the shelf.

  “Your sandwich and coffee, sir,” Corbin announced, walking in carrying a tray.

  “Thank you,” Malcolm replied, ambling back to sit in his chair. “Corbin, I’m thinking about picking up some pieces of Egyptian antiquity.”

  “I understand it is very popular, though not easy to come by.”

  “Please make some inquiries for me. The best dealers, if there are any auctions coming up, things of that nature.”

  “Of course, sir,” Corbin replied, placing the tray on the coffee table in front of him. “Ancient Egypt is certainly a fascinating subject. Will there be anything else, sir?”

  “No, thank you, Corbin.”

  As the butler left, Malcolm placed the serviette across his lap, picked up the sandwich and took a bite. Connie’s parents had been murdered a few short months before, and he assumed the statuette would have been stolen around the same time. He needed to uncover details of the dreadful crime, and information about the stolen relic. Asking at the parties he and Edith would be attending might raise eyebrows, and possibly alert the killer. Though Malcolm wanted to draw him out, he wasn’t yet prepared to deal with a vicious murderer. For that he would need a solid plan. Drinking his coffee, he leaned back in his chair.

  There’s always an answer, my boy. You’re a clever lad. You’ll find it.

  As his father’s wise words echoed through his head, Malcolm smiled. He’d heard them a thousand times. He missed the open spaces of the earl’s estate. He missed hiking through the woods, the sounds of the wildlife, and the clean, fresh air.

  “Connie,” he murmured wistfully, “when this is over I’m taking you to my home in the country. You’ll be able to heal in the peace and quiet. I do enjoy London, but there’s always so much happening. Seems every day I read about—heavens!” he exclaimed, almost spilling his coffee. “Why didn’t I think of it before!”

  Jumping to his feet and leaving his half-eaten sandwich on its plate, he hurried from the room.

  “I must dash,” he called to Corbin, grabbing his coat before his butler could help him. “I’m not sure how long I’ll be. Tell Mrs. Melville to let Connie know.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  But Malcolm was already out the door.

  Chapter Ten

  Though her eyes were closed, Connie wasn’t sleeping. Her thoughts were too tangled up in the handsome man who had rescued her... and his kiss.

  It had sent her pulse racing, a hot flame across her cheeks, and a wonderful wetness between her legs. Clutching the extra pillow, she relived the moment endlessly, willing Malcolm to return and press his lips on hers all over again. He was nothing like Roger, the man her father had wanted her to marry.

  Roger Witherspoon, the eldest son of a duke, would inherit his father’s title and wealth. Connie’s parents had been thrilled when he’d made it a point to dance with her at the balls, and accepted her mother’s invitations to high tea. He’d always arrived bearing an expensive gift, and though he could be boring at times, Connie liked him well enough. Shortly before the tragedy, her father had taken her aside and solemnly said, “Connie, my dear, it appears you have captured the heart of one of society’s most eligible young men. He may not be the handsomest, or wittiest, but marry him, and you and your children will enjoy an excellent life. I couldn’t be happier.”

  Though Roger had always been pleasant, charming, and deferential, in quiet moments when she’d thought about spending the rest of her days with him, she’d found herself sighing in resignation, not smiling with joy. Looking back, she recalled Roger’s two hesitant kisses.

  Both times he’d asked permission, which she’d found wholly unromantic, then pressing his lips against hers for a brief second, he’d pushed lightly, stepped back, and declared, “I say! How splendid.”

  She hadn’t thought so, not for a moment.

  But there was nothing predictable or bland about Malcolm, and everything about him was splendid.

  He oozed authority, determination, and strength, and when his arms came around her, she felt like a willing prisoner, engulfed by him with no chance of escape, but not wanting to even if she could wriggle from his hold. Sinking against his chest, she imagined
him lying on top of her, pinning her wrists on either side of her head as he devoured her mouth.

  Such wicked thoughts were entirely unladylike, but she didn’t care. She’d meant what she’d told him. The rules with which she’d been raised meant nothing to her, not after being so cruelly treated by those who swore by them. With the exception of her aunt, everyone turned their backs on her and labeled her a murderess. In spite of all their money and glory, she saw them as shallow, judgmental, heartless people.

  But they were her past. Malcolm was her present, and she hoped fervently, her future. Lying on her bed, his kiss still tingling on her lips, she smiled as she recalled his words.

  I’m happy I met you because I think you’re altogether wonderful.

  “I think you’re altogether wonderful too, Malcolm Mead,” she whispered. “Hurry home. I need to be with you, I need to kiss you again and be in your arms. My goodness. What’s happening to me?”

  * * *

  Seated at the young reporter’s desk on the verge of answers, Malcolm did his best to hide his excitement. He still found it remarkable the ease with which favors were granted and doors were opened simply because he was a gentleman of means. When he’d inquired at the front desk about researching for information in past editions, he’d been escorted to the desk of a fledgling journalist named Stephen Beaumont. The eager, bright young man was now gathering the newspapers covering the infamous murder.

  “Here you are, sir,” Stephen exclaimed, returning to the desk and setting down half-a-dozen copies. “There are many more. We covered that awful murder for weeks, but you asked for the first reports, and these are them.”

  “Excellent, thank you, Stephen.”

  “I know it’s none of my business, sir, but may I ask what it is you’re looking for? Perhaps I can help.”

  Malcolm was prepared for the question.

  “I was at the house where the grisly murders took place this morning. I even stood in the very room where the crime was committed.”

  “Gosh,” the young man said, his eyes wide. “How did you end up there?”

  “I’m a real estate investor, and the property is for sale. It’s been on the market for some time. I can pick it up at an excellent price.”

  “But who would want to live in a home where two people were so gruesomely killed?”

  “That, Stephen, is an excellent question,” Malcolm replied, raising his eyebrows. “The investment will be a risky one, but if I decide to buy it I’ll have the house completely renovated. Knock down walls and so forth, but regardless, being there sparked my curiosity. I was extremely busy at the time the crime took place, and I didn’t follow it like most.”

  “It’s quite a story.”

  “I’m sure,” Malcolm murmured, scanning the headlines.

  “Would you like a cup of tea? It might take you a while to get through all those.”

  “How kind. Yes, please. A splash of cream and two sugars.”

  “Coming right up, sir.”

  As the young man hurried away, Malcolm read the first report. It was deeply disturbing. When the butler entered the drawing room, he said he found Constance completely hysterical, covered in blood, with the murder weapon in her hand. A garden shovel. It didn’t jibe with what Connie had told him. He frowned, the word ‘conspiracy’ floating through his brain. Not wanting to read any more of the gory details, he turned his attention to his search for articles covering a stolen Egyptian artifact. He discovered one on the third page in the next newspaper.

  “Your tea, sir,” the reporter announced, placing it on the desk.

  “Thank you,” Malcolm said, gratefully taking a sip. “I just ran across something rather interesting. I really should read the paper more often and more thoroughly. I don’t remember this at all.”

  “What’s that, sir?”

  “The theft of an Egyptian treasure.”

  “Oh, yes, that was a mystery worthy of Sherlock Holmes,” Stephen said dramatically. “It still is.”

  “So it appears. The report says it vanished from a locked and guarded room at the British museum.”

  “Yes, sir, though I think vanished isn’t quite accurate. It was stolen. It didn’t vanish into thin air.”

  “Indeed,” Malcolm murmured.

  “Does the report say anything about the curse?” the young man asked.

  “Curse?” Malcolm repeated, raising his eyes. “Not yet, but I haven’t read the whole thing. Tell me about it.”

  “The restorer fell victim to some strange disease and died, the guard outside the room where it was being kept had a heart attack shortly after the robbery, and the museum worker seen loitering near the back of the building that night, the one the police believe stole it, was found dead in the back of an alley two nights later. That’s when the curse became public. It became almost as notorious as the theft.”

  “I can think of many explanations for what happened to those men besides a curse,” Malcolm remarked, “but of all the items that could have been taken, what was so special about this particular statuette? Do you know?”

  “It’s solid gold,” the reporter said, lowering his voice and leaning across his desk, “and absolutely priceless. It was only one of three pieces removed from a chamber deep in the pyramid. Apparently it was extremely dangerous to reach. Of the six people who ventured down there, only two survived.”

  “Goodness.”

  “The warning at the entrance of the chamber where the statue was found, said something like, Death most violent will fall upon those who dare to enter here. Those aren’t the exact words, but close enough. Do you know about the curse found at the entrance to King Tut’s tomb a couple of years ago?”

  “I’m afraid I don’t. I haven’t followed the expeditions very closely.”

  “It said, Death shall come on swift wings to him who disturbs the peace of the king.”

  “They both sound ominous.”

  “They’re still working on King Tut’s tomb, but I wouldn’t. Not if they paid me a year’s salary. What good is money if you’re dead and can’t spend it?”

  “You believe in curses?”

  “Let me put it like this. I don’t know, so why take the chance? What do you think?”

  “The only curse I put any stock in is the curse of a man’s greed,” Malcolm replied. “Tell me, Stephen, were there any photographs taken before this artifact was stolen?”

  “Plenty. It was on display. There should be one in those papers.”

  “I’m running short on time and I’d like to see what it looks like before I leave. I’d better crack on.”

  “And I have work to do. My boss will shoot me if it’s late, but I’ll give you a hand. All I’m writing is a piece about a children’s playground. Not exactly riveting.”

  “I don’t want to get you into trouble.”

  “You won’t. I’m happy to help. I can write that piece in my sleep.”

  “Thanks, Stephen, but if you find yourself too pressed for time, just tell me.”

  It was in the very next edition Stephen came across the photograph of the strange figurine. Though Malcolm had expected it would be the relic he’d found, seeing the image still made him catch his breath. His hunch had paid off. He’d learned the identity of the relic, and from where it had been stolen.

  * * *

  Connie had drifted into a restful doze. Malcolm’s image had remained in the forefront of her mind, and she’d woken up to find her fingers resting between her legs.

  A year before, while at the family’s manor house in the country, she had stumbled across a naughty novel tucked away in the back of a cupboard. Sneaking it to her room, she had devoured the salacious contents. The swashbuckling hero had returned home from a long journey abroad. During his travels he’d experienced all manner of debauchery, and proceeded to introduce his lover to the licentious practices.

  Connie hadn’t thought about the naughty novel since fleeing her house on that fateful night, but a section she’d found partic
ularly tantalizing abruptly sprang to mind.

  You’re being difficult, Lucy, and you must be punished. I will tie you naked over the bed, heat your beautiful bottom with my slapping hand, then torture that knob in your womanhood until you beg me to thrust my member inside you. If you don’t promise to behave I will leave you wet and wanting.

  The odd fluttering burst to life in her stomach. Taking a moment to relish the strangely wonderful feeling, she closed her eyes and imagined the scandalous scene playing itself out with Malcolm. Though her fingers began to rub her womanhood, she stopped, sat up, and stretched.

  “Connie, you are a bad girl,” she whispered, then letting out a sigh, she climbed from the bed, pulled the bell cord, and moved into the bathroom.

  Running a brush through her hair, a cheeky smile crossed her lips. Though she didn’t know why, she thought Malcolm might be the sort of man who would indulge in such lustful behavior. But he was a gentleman, she silently reminded herself, and a gentleman would never treat a lady with such ribald disrespect.

  Mrs. Melville’s voice snapped her from her decadent thoughts, and returning to the bedroom she found the kindly housekeeper waiting.

  “Hello, Mrs. Melville.”

  “Hello, my dear. I’m so pleased you’re up. I was going to bring you some tea and something to eat, but Mr. Mead returned just a short time ago, and he’s eager to see you. He’s in the salon near his room. There’s tea and sandwiches already there.”

  “Wonderful. I want to see him too, and I must admit, I am hungry. A cup of tea and a sandwich is just what I need.”

  “I’m sure. Neither of you had a decent lunch, so dinner will be served early this evening. If you’re ready, follow me and I’ll take you to him.”

  “Is the dress too crinkled? I’ve been sleeping in it.”

  “Not at all. You look lovely, and I’m sure he wouldn’t mind even if it was.”

  Excited to be seeing him, Connie followed Mrs. Melville down the hall. They turned a corner, then stopped at double doors. Lightly knocking and pushing them open, the housekeeper gestured for Connie to walk in ahead of her.