by Adele Clee
Excellent, she thought, watching him blink rapidly to replace it.
“Mr. Stone,” she began, her tone conveying an inner confidence. “I am Miss Linwood. I called on you this morning. You shooed me away from your steps with the threat of being washed to the Thames in a stream of soapy suds.”
Gabriel Stone did not reply. He did not even have the decency to look embarrassed. But as his gaze drifted over her face, she felt a sudden jolt of awareness that forced her to swallow.
“Come with me, Miss Linwood,” he said, taking her by the elbow and guiding her along the busy corridor.
Rebecca ignored the raised brows and gaping glances. In an attempt to keep up with his long strides, she had no choice but to totter along behind him. In his impatience, she imagined him throwing her over his shoulder or waving a crude club as he grabbed her hair and dragged her off to his cave.
“Where are we going?” she asked, wondering if she had pinned all her hopes on a man who was quite clearly insane.
“To talk.”
His reply was cold and blunt and suddenly the noises at night didn’t seem quite so terrifying.
Mr. Stone strode into the library. Seeing it was empty, he let go of her elbow and closed the door. He retrieved a pair of spectacles from the inside pocket of his coat, fiddled with the wire and put them on.
“Do you mind telling me what this is?” he said, pointing to a lectern.
Rebecca couldn’t concentrate on the piece of wooden furniture, as her heart started pounding in her chest. In his spectacles, Gabriel Stone looked wise and scholarly while his firm jaw and full lips presented a perfectly wicked contradiction.
Dismissing the odd feeling the vision roused, she walked towards him. “I think you’ll find it is some sort of display case in the shape of a lectern. I imagine it is used for —”
“Not the lectern,” he said with mild irritation. “Can you tell me what’s inside it?”
Rebecca stepped closer and peered into the glass case. “Why? Don’t you know?”
“Of course I know,” he said with a dismissive wave of the hand. “I want to know if you do.”
Did he think her some sort of fool? How could someone with an interest in Egyptian antiquities not know of Becanus?
“Oh, that. It is a sixteenth-century parchment detailing the transcription of the pictorial language of the ancient Egyptians.”
Gabriel Stone raised an arrogant brow. “Lord Banbury could have told you that.”
“Becanus dedicated his life to deciphering their language,” she added.
“A textbook answer, Miss Linwood.”
Ignoring his tempting countenance, she thrust her hands on her hips. “What exactly is the problem here, Mr. Stone? What is it that disturbs you? That I am a woman or that I possess a modicum of intelligence.” When his mouth fell open, she added, “Of course, you must know Becanus’ theory is flawed.”
The muscles in his jaw twitched and his lips thinned. “I am aware of Becanus’ interpretation, Miss Linwood. But I am interested to hear your opinion.”
He was not interested in her opinion at all.
This was a test to undermine her position. Gabriel Stone wanted to make her look foolish; he wanted to trample all over her until she knew her place.
She felt her chest grow warm, and it became hard to swallow, but it had nothing to do with the close proximity of his powerful body. Small bubbles were forming in her blood, simmering and popping until she wanted to put her hands around his throat and throttle the man.
“Becanus’ theory is based on a symbolic translation,” she said, slapping him across the face with her gloved opinion. “Whereas, with the discovery of the Rosetta Stone, we now know that the pictographic script is more representative of sound.”
He narrowed his gaze, his brown eyes intense and focused as though he was thirsty to hear more. “Anything else?”
“What do you want me to say, Mr. Stone? That one must consider many facets when studying hieroglyphics: alphabet signs, syllabic signs … must I go on? Must I tell you that I can translate the Coptic language? Must I stand here and provide a detailed list of my credentials in order to appease your warped sense of curiosity?”
Gabriel Stone sucked in a breath. “You can translate Coptic?”
“Of course,” she replied with an arrogant wave.
He closed the gap between them and the air crackled with some undefinable force. Under the scrutiny of his gaze, she felt like an exhibit in her own museum.
“Who are you?” he whispered, his head so close to hers, she could feel his soft breath caress her skin. She could not take her eyes off his lips, as some fanciful notion of being kissed filled her head. The thought melted her ice-cold shield to warm her lonely heart.
When he shook his head and stepped back, she suddenly felt more alone than ever, the few feet feeling as wide as a ravine.
“I am just a stupid woman,” she said, anger and bitterness woven through every word. She had made another mistake in seeking this gentleman out.
“Anyone who can translate Coptic, Miss Linwood, is far from stupid.”
“I am not an expert in the ways of the Egyptians, Mr. Stone. I do not profess to be a scholar. Indeed, I only wish I were, as I have made a terrible, terrible mistake.”
Gabriel Stone removed his spectacles, his gaze sharp. “Why? What have you done?”
“I have read from an ancient scroll, and now I fear I am cursed.”
Chapter 3
“I am cursed, Mr. Stone, and I implore you to find some way to break it.”
Gabriel stared at her, his mouth hanging open while his mind conjured all sorts of strange images involving deadly serpents, thunderbolts of fire and plagues of locusts.
He shook his head.
A curse!
The woman had been reading too many Gothic novels and frightened herself half to death.
“Contrary to what you may have read, Miss Linwood, there is no such thing as a curse. Not an Egyptian one, at any rate.”
She took another step, closing the gap between them as suppressed emotion burst forth. “Do these eyes lie?” she cried. “Do you not see the red lines? Do you not see how they are sore and swollen from lack of sleep?”
Gabriel witnessed nothing other than the most captivating, most vibrant green eyes he had ever seen. They reminded him of ripe apples and lush summer meadows, of gaiety and laughter. Indeed, he found it hard to focus on anything else and had to drag his thoughts back to the present, had to force himself to examine her countenance.
She seemed different now, conveying a level of vulnerability so opposed to the confident, defiant lady who’d sat on his front steps. The same lady who had shone with brilliance in the ballroom. And he found the contrast intriguing.
“Look at them, Mr. Stone,” she said thrusting herself forward as she pointed to the offending lines. “Are they not evidence enough?”
“Yes,” he whispered, not really seeing anything at all. Perhaps it was all a figment of her wild imagination. “I do not deny the Egyptians believed in curses. On the contrary, as I am sure you know, they used them on tombs to protect the dead and as a way of preventing looters.” He softened his tone. “But there is no record of such things ever affecting the living, no record of anyone ever suffering from a curse.”
With an audible gasp, she sucked in a deep breath. His traitorous gaze could not help but glance down at the mounds of soft, creamy flesh, swelling and rising up to meet him in all their wondrous glory.
Bloody hell!
For a moment, he felt deprived of air and had to shake his head to regain focus. These were precisely the sort of temptations he chose to avoid. The sort of distractions that appeased the body but plagued the mind.
This lady was dangerous, and he needed to get rid of her now.
It should not be too difficult to convince her of her error, to prove her fears were a result of her own creation. Once he had examined all the facts, there would be a rational explanatio
n.
“This ancient scroll you mentioned. The one you read from. How did you come by it?”
“I found it in a wooden crate,” she said, her eyes reflecting a level of gratitude that he had bothered to ask the question, “along with the staff. Most of my father’s objects are on display at the museum, but there are still some items in the storeroom that need sorting and recording. I found the crate in there.”
Her father’s objects?
Gabriel knew the location of all the genuine Egyptian relics. He scoured the recesses of his mind in a bid to recall someone with the same surname who had an interest in Egyptology. “And your father is —”
“Dead, Mr. Stone. My mother, too.”
He felt an instant tug in his chest. The feeling one gets when meeting someone whose fate had followed a similar path to one’s own.
“As are mine,” he replied for no other reason than to acknowledge the similarity.
Her eyes searched his face as though looking for a sign that the thought still pained him. “I do not recall seeing the scroll on the list of inventory,” she said, returning to the matter. “Indeed, I have never seen it before. Perhaps that’s why I doubted its authenticity. Why I foolishly read from it without fear of reprisal.”
“We are all guilty of foolishness,” he found himself saying, wondering why he felt the need to offer comfort. Particularly, when he was still trying to fathom out why a woman with her intelligence would believe in such a ridiculous notion.
Miss Linwood managed a weak smile. “But I should have known better. I should not have doubted the power of the dead to exact their revenge on the living.”
The rattling of the door handle drew his attention, the sudden noise causing Miss Linwood to jump, her hand flying to her chest as the other grasped his arm.
“There is nothing to fear, Miss Linwood,” he said, trying to determine which thought disturbed him the most. Was it the thought that such an erratic action was a sure sign she truly was suffering from a curse? Or the fact he felt desire shoot through his body at the speed of a lightning bolt.
When the door burst open, even he was relieved to see the curious gazes of a young lady and her male companion. What was he expecting, the towering figure of Anubis dangling a pair of weighing scales?
Witnessing the room was occupied, and with a fit of the giggles, the lady dragged her admirer back out into the corridor.
Miss Linwood breathed a sigh of relief and promptly let go of his sleeve. “Forgive me, Mr. Stone. I’m afraid my wits appear to have abandoned me.”
His wits had all but up and left him, too, and it was imperative he focused on the task. “If you read from the scroll, can I assume it was written in English or Coptic?”
“English,” she nodded. “It was written in English.”
“Was it written on papyrus, parchment, vellum?”
Tiny furrows appeared on her brow and after a brief silence, she said, “No, Mr. Stone. It was not written on papyrus or vellum.”
Gabriel shrugged his shoulders and threw his hands up in the air. “Well, there you have it then. The scroll does not appear to be Egyptian at all. And if it is not Egyptian, then there can be no curse.”
There. Now he had solved the problem he could put this tempting lady far from his mind and continue with his research.
Miss Linwood simply stared at him, her face ghastly pale as though drained of all blood. She blinked a few times, and he noticed her eyes brimming with tears. “Then I am sorry to have troubled you, Mr. Stone. I am sorry to have wasted your time.”
She turned abruptly, picking up her green silk skirt as she hurried towards the door and before he knew what was happening, he caught her by the arm and pulled her back around to face him.
“Surely, you understand the logic in my questioning,” he said, feeling a strange urge to banish those tears, to see her eyes bright and bold once again. “Surely, you understand how the mind can play its tricks. How easy it is in times of fear to believe in the illogical.”
“I do,” she replied, “but you have not heard the cries. You have not felt your bed shake, felt the floor shudder beneath your feet.” She sucked in a breath, and he could see she was shaking. “People almost died, Mr. Stone, and it is all my fault.” Anger surfaced as she yanked her arm free from his grasp, anger mixed with a look of disappointment and she struggled to meet his gaze. “It is not your concern,” she said. “I was mistaken. You are not the man I hoped you would be.”
Gabriel let her go, watched her run through the door and did nothing.
He felt her words like a fresh sting, his body throbbing and sore with his own inadequacy. It was not a new feeling. He had lived with the same pain for years. Had he been any other man, he would have chased after her; he would have pulled her into an embrace, eased her fears, and pledged his help.
Yet even in his melancholic mood, he could not quash the urge to return to his work. He could not abandon the need to fulfill his ambition. And so he wandered over to the parchment and let Becanus be his solace. As studying the ancient world was the only thing he knew how to do.
When the old words failed to rouse his interest, he glanced back over his shoulder and stared at the open door.
Perhaps he should visit Miss Linwood’s museum and try one last time to convince her of her error. Perhaps he would find something of interest amongst the relics, something to nurture his passion, something to feed his obsession. Then he would walk away from her, happy in the knowledge he had done his best.
Chapter 4
Gabriel stood outside Miss Linwood’s museum: an elegant townhouse in Coventry Street, and surveyed the exterior.
His first thought was that her father must have been wealthy, or perhaps she had a gentleman sponsor whose interest extended beyond the preservation of historical objects. Feeling the urge to banish the thought from his mind, he focused on the facade. The impressive Doric columns supporting the portico reflected the character of its owner perfectly, as they suggested pride, strength and a wealth of wisdom.
Miss Linwood had impressed him with her knowledge of Becanus. If she truly could translate Coptic script, then she may prove to be a valuable asset. This, he decided, was the reason he chose to seek her out. He would help her to see that the curse was something concocted by the imagination. In return, she would make herself available should he find himself in need of a translator.
After paying the entrance fee, he wandered around the downstairs rooms, moving past an array of nautical paintings as he had no interest in them. Then he discovered that the Egyptian antiquities were on the upper floor. So he decided to peruse the objects, in the hope of clarifying whether the lady was a fraud or a person to be admired in their field of expertise.
There were more than twenty people milling about upstairs, browsing the various display cases and plinths supporting masks and statues. In an area separated by a length of red rope, there was an assortment of stone tablets, some of them as tall and as wide as a man.
Without revealing his impatience, he waited to examine the first display, disappointed to find nothing but an old toothpick and ivory combs carved into the shapes of animals. The display of canopic jars proved to be a little more interesting, and he scanned the cards to check for errors.
“Do you have a particular interest in canopic jars, Mr. Stone?”
Her soft, melodic tone caused the hairs on his nape to tingle. When he turned to face her, he was surprised to find her wearing a rather dreary looking dress.
“I have an interest in anything Egyptian, Miss Linwood,” he said trying to remain emotionless while scanning the brown ensemble that did nothing to enhance the shape of her figure.
Her gaze followed his, falling to the plain material. “Visitors pay to see the exhibition, Mr. Stone,” she said as though she had the ability to hear his thoughts. “And so I do my utmost to move about here unnoticed.”
The image of her generous bosom encased in green silk flashed into his mind, and he blinked to dism
iss it. He glanced into those luscious emerald eyes, moving up to the mass of rich copper curls. A man would have to be blind not to notice her. Even in such dull attire, she had an inherent sensuality that called out to him. It was there in the way she spoke, in the way she walked, in the way her face revealed the emotion behind every word. Then his mind decided to add further weight to his assessment, for he imagined her sweet body welcoming him, imagined the feel of that first delicious thrust.
“Bloody hell,” he muttered in frustration, pushing his hand through his hair by way of a distraction.
“Is there something wrong, Mr. Stone?”
Yes, damn it, everything was wrong. He should have stayed at home, his rampant mind engaged in his books.
“I said you’ve done well, Miss Linwood,” he replied, making a quick recovery. “I particularly like the jars in the shape of the four sons of Horus.”
She smiled. “I’m rather fond of the jackal, although I cannot claim the credit for their discovery. Surely, as a scholar of Egyptology, this is not your first visit to the exhibition?”
What was he supposed to say? That he had sworn never to set foot in the place and expected her to be a dimwit with a crate full of forgeries? He wondered if her question was intended to force him to reveal the reason behind his visit. “Yes, this is my first visit,” he said, deciding to reserve his opinion until he had assessed the evidence.
“Then let me direct you to the stone tablets, they are most impressive.” She hesitated, perhaps waiting for him to offer his arm, but then chose to lead the way while he followed. “As you probably know, this one depicts the weighing of one’s heart against the feather of Ma’at.” She gave him a moment to study it before pointing to the next one. “And here we have servants praying to Osiris and Imentet.”