by Robyn DeHart
Carefully he placed bottles, and each time they heard the chains. Finally only one bottle remained. He leaned forward, and Sabine put her hand on his arm. “Wait. Before you set it down, examine them all and make certain you’re correct.”
He heeded her advice and checked all the bottles he had already placed. The one in his hand was short, but very round. He looked again at the scale, and the tallest bottle caught his attention. He picked it up and tried to weigh each on his palms.
“I think this is right. Four on this side”—he set down the round bottle from where he’d retrieved the tall one—“and two on this.” He placed the final bottle, and both Max and Sabine stood still waiting for what would happen next.
The chains creaked and through the wall another compartment opened. Inside was a small leather pouch, much like the one they’d found in Mr. Travers’s grave.
He reached in and grabbed the wrapped packet, then handed it to Sabine. “You read this one,” he said.
Sabine reached for it to unwrap it at the same time as the stone shifted back into place, and then the ceiling began to move, shifting downward.
“I think we’ve fallen into a trap,” Max said.
The ceiling had closed in on them so quickly that Max already had to hunch over. He grabbed her hand and pulled her out with him into the spring-fed pool room. Stones fell from the columns, and the amphoras, as if in unison, broke free of the women’s sculpted hands and crumbled into the empty pool beneath them. The pool itself split as if the earth sat ready to consume the entire space.
“We’ve got to get out of here,” Max said.
“Quickly,” Sabine added. Her heart beat so furiously she was certain she’d choke on it. She moved as fast as she could behind Max as he continued to drag her along.
A large stone fell right beside her. She screamed. They kept moving.
The floor shifted, and they both fell. Max sliced his arm on a broken piece of marble, and blood immediately appeared on his sleeve.
“Max, you’re bleeding,” Sabine said, reaching out to touch his forearm.
“We don’t have time.” He pulled her to her feet and out of the arched area just as three columns crumbled to the ground. “This whole place is falling apart. If we don’t get out of here before that happens, we’ll be buried alive.”
They reached the tunnel, and the very walls of it shook. The instability of their surroundings frightened Sabine to her core.
“Run, Sabine,” Max yelled.
She ran. Behind her, the tunnel seemed to disappear into the ground. But she kept moving forward, her heart pumping so fast she felt certain it would explode.
Finally they reached the stairs that wound back up to the storeroom. Max ran up the stairs, and Sabine was right behind him, but once she hit the second stair, something shifted beneath her feet and suddenly she was falling. Strong arms grabbed her wrists, and she met Max’s gaze.
“Do not let go,” he said.
Tears gathered at the corners of her eyes as her legs dangled under her. The floor beneath her completely disappeared, and in its place was a gaping hole that was swallowed in darkness. “Max!”
“I won’t drop you. Hold on.” He leaned on the floor above where the stairs had been and pulled her upward. Her stomach scraped across the rough edge. She drew her legs up, struggling to find her footing.
Once she was able, she pushed herself up onto the floor and fell against him. Their labored breath mingled.
“Thank you,” she said.
“Any time. Now, let’s get the hell out of here.”
Chapter Fifteen
They ran out of the building, Max still holding tightly to her hand. Then they jumped off the front stoop. The wood creaked, and the red bricks started to crumble and fall. Together they stood back and watched as the house shifted to the right, then fell in on itself, until it was nothing more than a pile of wood and bricks.
Sabine swore.
“I’m beginning to wonder if this quest isn’t meant to kill us rather than provide something to save us,” Max said. He took a deep breath. “Where’s that clue?” he asked.
Thankfully she’d stuffed the bag in her pocket when the ceiling had begun to crumble. She peeled away the leather and found inside another papyrus note, written in the same handwriting. “‘Bathed in blood, the dove commands by blade,’” Sabine read. “Perhaps we are to kill him with some sort of knife or sword.”
Max nodded. “I think this confirms that the dove is a weapon. We should get to the carriage before it gets any darker. Hopefully our driver has waited for us.”
“You paid him well enough to wait an entire year,” Sabine said.
They walked in silence for several moments before Max spoke again. “‘Bathed in blood’?”
“Well, that’s not a clue. Where are we supposed to search for a weapon?” she asked impatiently. “There are millions of them all over the world,” Sabine said.
She was not the guardian, but Madigan had sent her to find the map. He’d essentially set her on this journey and whether she felt prepared did not matter. Agnes needed her help.
“Yes, there are weapons all over. But this quest was created by your people, so I believe we’re dealing with only those here in England. And we can assume it’s old. Judging by the age of that house, I’d guess these clues are about three hundred years old.”
She took a sobering breath. He was right. They would persevere. Training or not, she had to succeed in this. And so far, they had managed to accomplish all the tasks set for them. As much as she didn’t want to admit it, they made an excellent team.
“We can start at the British Museum,” Max suggested. “They have a rather large weapon collection.”
Sabine and Max made it safely to the confines of their carriage and set out on their way back to London. They had a few hours’ ride ahead of them, and it was already late. Her heart still beat wildly, pounding in her ears.
Max sat across from her, his legs taking up most of the space between them. “Are you all right?” he asked.
“A little scared, perhaps, but I’m in one piece.”
“Always a good sign.”
Blood still oozed from his wound, so she leaned forward to examine his arm.
“It’s nothing,” he said, trying to pull it away from her.
But it looked deep enough for some concern. “Hold still,” she told him. She grabbed the fabric of his sleeve at the seam by his shoulder and pulled. It ripped, and she kept tugging until it slid off his arm.
“That was my favorite shirt,” he said.
She rolled her eyes. “You can buy another.” She used the inside of the sleeve to wipe the excessive blood away. “This doesn’t look good.” She rummaged through her bag but there were no supplies for stitches. “If we don’t attend to this, it will become infected.”
“No. It will be all right. I’m certain I’ve had worse,” he said, but she could see the pain around his eyes.
She didn’t want to use the elixir, and she wasn’t truly authorized to do so outside of assisting the Healer. But she had no choice. If she did nothing, they risked the wound festering until infection poisoned his blood. So she reached into her bodice and pulled on the gold chain attached to the small vial. She removed the necklace, then popped off the lid. She twisted his arm so she had a better view.
“What is that?” he asked.
She met his glance, but said nothing as she poured one drop onto the wound.
He jerked his arm away. “Bloody hell, that burns!”
“Hold still,” she said. She placed another tiny drop onto his arm, and he didn’t move.
“That’s elixir,” he said. He leaned forward and craned his neck to try to see the vial she held.
She replaced the lid and quickly dropped the necklace back inside the bodice of her dress.
“Do you always carry elixir with you?”
“We like to have some in case of emergency,” she said, trying to keep her face void of expressio
n.
Cassandra lounged on her chaise, sipping brandy. Moonlight poured in off the balcony of her bedchamber, giving her skin a luminescent quality. She wore nothing but a filmy dressing gown.
Johns knocked once, then came into her bedchamber.
She smiled at him, loving the way his eyes darkened as he took in her nearly nude state. “Did you take care of Mr. Olney?”
“I did. He fought me, or tried to, so there was some noise,” Johns said. “The authorities should find him tomorrow.”
“And you?” she asked.
He shook his head. “No one saw me.”
“Excellent. Now then, tell me about your other assignment.” She shifted her position, allowing the dressing gown to open, giving him a full view of her breasts.
He gaped at her display, then swallowed. “We can’t get to the girl,” Johns said.
“You’ve been to her shop.” Cassandra stood and walked over to her full-length mirror. The folds of her dressing gown flowed behind her as she moved. “You know where she is. What do you mean, you can’t get to her?” Cassandra patted her hair, then stepped away from the mirror.
He nodded. “She doesn’t appear to go to the shop much these days. We’ve followed her several times, but she is never alone.”
“Yes, yes, her aunts, I know. But you cannot find some way to dispose of three elderly women to get to the girl?” Cassandra was impatient; she knew that about herself. She’d never been good at waiting for what she wanted. But this was getting ridiculous. That idiot chemist had proven to be a complete waste of time and money. Then he’d had the nerve to think he could threaten her.
“It’s not the aunts,” Johns said. “Though they leave the shop each evening. They are no longer staying above the store.”
“Every night? Where do they go?” Cassandra faced Johns and was struck by the sheer masculinity of him. It intrigued and annoyed her that after all these years she still desired him.
“That man you know. The blond fellow.”
“Max,” Cassandra whispered. So he had brought the whore home with him. “They all go to his townhome?”
“The aunts. The girl and Max left London. I sent Beaver and Platt to follow them. They lost them on a train. But Max and the girl are back in London.”
Platt and Beaver were idiots; they would never be able to find anything on their own. “Tomorrow I will go with you to watch them. I want to know what they are up to.” She walked up to him and ran her hand down his chest to the front of his trousers. Already he was hard for her. “Perfect.”
She shrugged out of her dressing gown.
Spencer made his way into the man’s study. Jennings was an ambitious sort, but neither skilled nor connected enough for those ambitions to take him far. He’d been an easy first choice for a lieutenant-general and now they were days away from his promotion.
“Cole,” he said as he stepped around his desk. “Good to see you again.” He closed the door behind Spencer. His mouse-colored brown hair lay flat against his head, trying in vain to cover his premature balding. Jennings was older than Spencer by at least ten years, but he was neither as cunning nor as gifted, though the man somehow had a brilliant military mind.
Spencer sat on the large leather sofa before he’d been invited to do so. He crossed his legs, resting one foot atop his other knee. “How are the plans coming along?”
Jennings jumped into motion. “I have maps.” He retrieved several maps from his desk and rolled them up, then handed them to Spencer. “We have several alternatives as far as where to land in Africa, and which countries to take control of when. Once we have the native soldiers trained, we shouldn’t have any problem occupying the continent. We’ll have them vastly outnumbered.”
“And with the elixir,” Spencer commented.
Jennings’s eyes nearly glazed over as he stared at the vial Spencer held. “Yes, yes,” the man said. “With that, anything is possible.” He took a step toward Spencer. “May I?”
“One small drop,” Spencer said.
Max and Sabine had no choice but to take time to bathe and change clothes before heading to the British Museum. While they were at Max’s townhome, Max’s chief of security told him about some men who had been spotted outside the building. And they’d also been seen outside Sabine’s shop. They matched the description of the men he’d fought with that night in the shop, the same ones they’d evaded on the train. Whoever had hired those thugs had not relented in their search.
As Max and Sabine approached the museum, they saw that it was full of patrons today—evidently a new mummy exhibit had opened recently and people were flocking to see it.
“Max,” someone called to him. It was a familiar voice, as Max knew only one Scotsman who would call him by his Christian name.
Max turned, and there walking toward him was Graeme Langford, Duke of Rothmore. A longtime member of Solomon’s, Graeme was one of the few people Max trusted implicitly. They shook hands and exchanged pleasantries.
Sabine stopped moving as well, but stood a few paces ahead of them.
“What brings you to the museum?” Graeme asked. “I thought there was nothing of value here for your research.”
Max nodded to Sabine. “I was helping a friend. We are trying to locate a specific sword.”
“Or knife,” Sabine added. “Some sort of blade.”
A low whistle escaped from between Graeme’s teeth. “That’s quite specific,” he said, his Scottish brogue lilting on each vowel. Graeme turned and looked at the museum doors. “They have a good armory here, but nothing compared to Mortimer Flynn’s,” Graeme said.
“Flynn,” Max said, “I had forgotten about him. That’s an interesting idea.”
Graeme took a step closer to Max and lowered his voice. “He doesn’t live too far out of London. You might pay him a visit.” Graeme eyed Sabine, then added, “Quietly.”
Max knew what the man meant. Mortimer Flynn was an exiled member of Solomon’s, and chances were he wouldn’t take too kindly to anyone from the club paying a call on him. They would have to find an alternative means of entry. Not altogether unfamiliar territory for Max.
“Thank you,” Max said.
“You haven’t been by the club in a few days,” Graeme said. He looked at Sabine again. “Busy?”
“Generally speaking. I’ll be by soon enough,” Max said.
“Is that the wee lass who shot you?” Graeme asked.
Sabine burst out laughing, but said nothing.
Graeme held up his hand. “That’s answer enough. I heard at the club that Marcus is nearing the end of his design. Are you really going to ride in that sunken machine?”
Max eyed Sabine before answering. “If I can persuade him it’s a worthy journey.”
“Good luck then, Max,” Graeme said. “Oh, and should anyone need me, I’ll be in Scotland for a while.” Then he walked away.
“Graeme reminded me of a better collection we should start with. Besides, with the crowd here today, we’d be hard-pressed to truly search as closely as we need to,” Max said. Max and Sabine walked to the carriage, which waited for them across the street.
“What club was he speaking of?” Sabine asked as he lifted her into their rig.
“There is a club here in London specifically for people, like myself, who study and try to find ancient or mythical artifacts.” The carriage rumbled down the street toward his townhome. Max had some investigation to do before they could go to Flynn’s estate.
“That Scotsman is in this club of yours?” she asked.
“He is. As well as many others.”
She sat directly across from him, her eyes wide with curiosity and interest. “Are there others who study Atlantis?” she asked.
“No, I am the only one.”
“What is a sunken vessel?” she asked.
“You shouldn’t eavesdrop on others’ conversations,” he said.
“You should tell your friends not to talk so loudly. What is it?” She smiled sweetly.
“It’s a boat. An underwater boat.”
Her breath caught. “And you could take it to try to find what remains of Atlantis?”
“Something like that.”
A bump in the road shifted the carriage, and she fell forward. He caught her, pulled her close to him, and pressed his mouth to hers. She had once kissed him to create a diversion, and he could bloody well do the same. He would not discuss the submersible boat with her. As she kissed him, his motivation turned into something far more primal. Not to mention more enjoyable.
Her hands clasped his shoulders as she opened to the kiss. Her eagerness and greedy passion fueled his desire, and he pulled her onto his lap. He deepened the kiss, plunging his tongue into her mouth.
His hand dipped into the bodice of her dress and cupped her breast. She leaned into his touch, and the tip hardened beneath his palm. Hot, thick desire surged through him, pouring into his groin. His erection pushed urgently against his trousers. He moaned into her mouth.
And then the carriage rumbled to a stop, but Sabine didn’t move, so he continued kissing her, caressing her, tantalizing her. The driver tapped on the door.
Sabine sat up abruptly, then pulled herself off Max’s lap. She swiped at her mouth but would not make eye contact.
“Sabine,” he began.
But she leaped from the carriage and was up the steps to his house before he could finish. Which might have been for the best, because for perhaps the first time in his life, he had no idea what to say.
Johns stepped into the carriage Cassandra had waiting a block away from the British Museum.
“Well, did you find out anything?” she asked.
“They’re leaving tonight to see some man,” Johns said. “Mortimer Flynn. That’s all I heard. That Scottish bloke looked in my direction one too many times. I didn’t want to get nabbed.”
“Truly?” Cassandra asked, not believing her good fortune. “Mr. Flynn lives only four miles away from my country estate. I think it might be time for some refreshing air away from the bustle of London.”