She let out a soft laugh. “No. I’m fine. Just sleepy.”
Her voice had taken on a dreamy quality, slightly slurred, as if she’d been drinking. Harry frowned. “Well, then. No harm done.”
“Unless I experience the other effects the doctor mentioned,” she murmured.
A fresh jolt of alarm hit him. “What other effects?”
She waved her hand in front of her face and almost swatted herself on the nose. “It’s nothing. Really.”
Harry squinted down at her. Her cheeks had turned a delicious shade of pink. “Are you blushing, Morden?”
“Of course not.”
“What other effects?”
She let out a huff and rolled her eyes. “Like becoming. . . amorous.”
His brows rose to his hairline. “You mean it’s a love potion?” He tried to squash his crow of laughter and failed. “I’ve given you Uncle Jasper’s love potion? Oh, that is priceless.”
She turned her face away but he caught her chin and forced her gaze back to his. Her pupils were dark pools, almost drowning out the color of her irises.
“Look at me, Hester. Are you feeling amorous towards me?”
She batted his hand away and glared at him. “Stop teasing. It won’t work on me. I don’t even like you.”
He chuckled, but she continued to look at him, studying his face with sudden intensity. And then she reached up and traced the line of his jaw, trailing her fingers from his ear to his chin and up over his lips.
Harry was too stunned to move. She’d never willingly touched him, ever, but the potion seemed to have loosened her inhibitions. Her caress left a tingling sensation in its wake.
“You are extremely handsome,” she murmured. “I’ll give you that.”
“Uhm, thank you?” he said faintly.
“The ladies in the harem would be sighing all over you.”
Before he could come up with a suitable answer to that, a frown marred her smooth forehead.
“I’m surprised you haven’t tried to get rid of me by selling me to the nearest harem.”
He fought to keep his tone light, even though her touch was doing funny things to his insides. “Believe me, I’ve been tempted.”
She seemed to have forgotten that she was touching him—she was playing with a curl of hair by his ear now—but he was acutely aware of her touch. His body hardened to the point of pain. He cleared his throat.
“I doubt anyone would have you. Even if I offered to throw in a couple of camels and a nice Hamadan rug. Too much trouble, they’d say. And, by God, they’d be right.”
She wrinkled her nose at him. “In some places,” she said with a touch of asperity, “here being one of them, I am considered exotic. My pale skin and brown hair are a novelty.” She pointed at the bridge of her nose, almost poking herself in the eye in the process. The potion had clearly affected her co-ordination.
“They’ve never seen freckles like this before. In England I might be scorned and left at the edge of the ballroom, but here, why, I bet some desert sheikh would pay handsomely to have me grace his tent.”
She sounded so indignant that Harry had to smile, and yet the thought of another man with his hands on her—any man other than himself—made his blood seethe. An image of her pale limbs entwined with his on silken sheets flashed into his brain and he bit the inside of his cheek.
Good God, had no-one ever told her she was beautiful? The men in England were all blind. Or idiots. They were too used to pale, blue-eyed chits to appreciate the beauty of this one. Skin sprinkled with gold dust. Hair in glorious disarray. He’d always loved her hair; it was sinfully luxuriant, with hints of copper and bronze and paler streaks at the front, gilded by the sun. She was perverse, unusual, unforgettable.
Harry gazed down at her, almost lightheaded with desire. She was uncharted territory, a wonderful, infuriating mystery. He wanted to know every inch of her. To explore every valley and undulation.
Without thinking, he stroked her cheek, and she turned into the caress like a cat. Her eyes were dark and slumberous. Unbidden, his gaze dropped to her lips, pink and slightly parted. He’d never wanted to kiss anyone more.
“Kiss me,” she whispered breathlessly.
Had she said that out loud? Or was it an echo of his own desires?
“I don’t think so.” He shook his head, as if the potion was clouding his senses too. He was a gentleman. He couldn’t take advantage of her in this state. She didn’t know what she was saying.
He summoned all his willpower and managed a light teasing voice. “Not until it rains, remember?”
Her perfect lips pouted in comical disappointment, even as she slid one hand around the back of his neck and tried to tug him towards her. Her other hand slid up his chest, and Harry knew she must be able to feel the pounding of his heart through his thin shirt. He told himself to pull away, but he couldn’t resist the pleasure-pain of her innocent touch.
He bent and scooped her up in his arms. “Come on, let’s get you into bed.”
To his surprise, she didn’t struggle. He stood, enjoying the feel of her, the heady waft of perfume that teased his nostrils when he moved. He ducked under the tent flap and deposited her gently on her bedroll.
Her arms were still around his neck, their faces so close he could feel the warmth of her breath against his cheek. God, if he turned his head just a fraction of an inch, his lips would be on hers—
Her hand slipped down the front of his chest and stopped abruptly as she encountered a hard, rectangular shape in his chest pocket.
Harry bit back a groan. He’d forgotten that damn thing was in there. He closed his eyes in resignation as she pulled out the silver hip flask he’d carried with him forever.
Her eyes widened at the discovery and her mouth formed a perfect O of surprise. He almost caved in right then and kissed her, just to stop her from drawing a conclusion that would embarrass him.
Damn.
“I gave you this!” she said, a note of wonder in her voice. Her mouth split into a delighted smile. “Years ago. I can’t believe you kept it all this time!”
She’d given it to him as a joke one Christmas, filled with his favorite brandy. With her customary dry tone, she’d said it would come in handy to revive all the women who fainted at his feet, or to douse the pistol wounds he’d undoubtedly receive from dueling irate husbands. He’d kept it with him ever since, a reminder of his tart-tongued harridan. It had been all around the peninsula with him, through every battle, every hardship. It was his own personal lucky amulet.
He might not believe in Egyptian curses, like the one associated with that necklace of hers, but he certainly felt safer with the hip flask on his person. He couldn’t rationally explain why, but he knew he was protected whenever he had it.
He took it from her, unscrewed the top, and took a healthy swig, mainly to buy himself some time. The look on her face—soft shining eyes, hopeful expression—almost slayed him. Surely she’d suspect the depths of his feelings now? His heart pounded madly in his chest at the prospect of exposure.
“Ahh. French brandy. The best,” he croaked.
Maybe he should just tell her? Admit that he’d been in love with her for more years than he could count. Admit that he wanted nothing more than to tease her, take her to bed, and let her drive him crazy for the rest of his natural life.
No. God, no. Terrible idea. She was out of her mind on some ridiculous herbal concoction. She wouldn’t know what he was saying. She barely knew what she was saying. She probably wouldn’t even recall this conversation in the morning. Thank the Lord.
She made a grab for the flask, but he fended her off with ease.
“No brandy for you, Lady Morden. You’ve had quite enough intoxicating liquids for one evening, don’t you think?”
She’d managed to wind her arms around his neck again, like an octopus. He gently disentangled himself and stepped back, and she fell back on her bedroll with a little sound of frustration.
; “Why don’t you just sleep it off, hmm? I’m sure you’ll feel much better in the morning.”
She frowned at him, her expression crestfallen, and he experienced a gut-punch of regret. She thought he was turning her down because he wasn’t attracted to her. Which was ridiculous. But better than the truth.
Knowing Hester, she’d be highly dubious of a profession of love anyway. She’d think he was teasing her, or amusing himself, or only after her money. He didn’t know how he’d ever manage to convince her he was serious. If he ever decided to tell her, that was.
He opened his mouth to say something to appease her, but she’d already turned onto her side and closed her eyes.
“G’night Tremayne,” she murmured. “Go to sleep.”
Chapter 12
Harry covered Hester’s sleeping form with a blanket then ducked out of the tent and walked a good distance away. He tilted his head back, lifted his gaze to the stars, and took a deep breath of cold night air.
He was clearly being tested by the gods. Perhaps that damned necklace really was cursed. Here he was, being given Herculean tasks, like being made to remain a gentleman when his every thought was decidedly ungentlemanly. This, surely, was the finest torture the goddess Serqet—or whatever her name was—could devise. To have the object of his affections so close, so uncharacteristically willing and yet be unable to touch her. It was agony. A plague of epic proportions.
He suddenly wanted nothing more than to stay here in the wilderness. To be lost forever, no maps, just the two of them, and never return to England. To hell with Aunt Agatha, the mummies, and Napoleon. He and Hester could live wild and free, make love under these incredible stars, or snuggle up next to the glowing fire. It got cold at night in the desert. He’d be more than happy to share his warmth.
He expelled a slow stream of air and raked his hand through his hair. Impossible. And impractical. He liked the creature comforts of modern life. A whole civilized world awaited them back in London.
He glanced back at the tent. Hester had always professed to hate him. Could a mere potion change disgust to love? Surely not. But perhaps it could magnify a desire that was already there. A warm glow of hope kindled in his chest. Maybe it acted like a fan, to turn the flames of a hidden passion into a conflagration. Perhaps she was coming to love him after all.
The fear he’d felt when he realized she’d been stung had been horrific. The wars had taught him the fragility, the miracle of life. He’d lost friends in battle; he could have lost her. Strong men had been felled by a scorpion’s sting. In Greek mythology the mighty hunter Orion had been killed by a scorpion, hadn’t he? Zeus had placed both the hero and the scorpion among the stars. Harry glanced up again and located the two constellations in the heavens, located on opposite sides of the sky.
Maybe there was such a thing as a curse. Hester had almost been bitten by a snake, almost drowned in the oasis, and then she’d endured a scorpion sting. He shook his head, dismissing the fleeting thought. No. It was coincidence; Egypt was a dangerous place, filled with things that could kill you. If it wasn’t the heat or drought, it was sandstorms or the inhospitable wildlife. And Hester was a woman who naturally seemed to attract trouble.
Harry couldn’t imagine life without her. He needed her to provoke him and challenge him. To entertain him and to improve him. And she needed his protection. He wouldn’t dream of curtailing her adventuring—it made her who she was—but he wanted to be by her side, keeping her safe from the Drovettis and scorpions of the world.
The plaintive grumbling of the camel—no, dromedary—interrupted his brooding thoughts. Harry gave a deep sigh and headed back to the fire. Tomorrow, if Hester’s map was correct, they would catch up with Drovetti. Tonight, he would sleep alone.
Chapter 13
Hester woke in the morning with a sore ankle and a cloudy head. Her mouth was drier than the desert, and with a groan she sat up and groped around for her water pouch. On the other side of the tent fabric, she could hear Bahaba grumbling and the noise of Harry packing the camp. He was up, then.
Her recollections of the previous night were hazy, to say the least. She remembered being stung by the scorpion, and the pain, and Tremayne giving her the incorrect medicine to drink. She remembered the pain easing and then feeling floaty and flushed.
And desire. Her body had definitely experienced desire. Her friends in the harem had discussed the subject at length, detailing all the physical signs, and Hester had encountered every one of them last night. Her skin had been feverish, her heart had been pounding at Tremayne’s nearness. Her stomach had felt all fluttery. Her breasts had ached, as if yearning for his touch. She’d wanted to bury her nose in his neck and inhale the glorious fragrance of him.
Yes, no doubt about it, Uncle Jasper’s Blue Nile Lily syrup was an extraordinarily effective aphrodisiac.
A flush of embarrassment warmed her cheeks. Had she made a fool of herself last night? She’d wanted Harry to kiss her, but he’d refused. How mortifying. She’d practically offered herself on a plate. Clearly her desire was not reciprocated. Which meant the only thing to do was to brazen it out, pretend it meant nothing to her.
As always.
With a sigh, she rolled up the map she and Uncle Jasper had painstakingly produced. The Morden family motto, ‘Non Perdidi’, stared up at her from the paper, along with her uncle’s name. Hester gave a little snort. ‘Never lost?’ What rubbish. She was lost. Not physically, but emotionally. Her heart was lost to Harry Tremayne, and she doubted she’d ever get it back. The only place she wanted to navigate to was into his arms.
Why couldn’t she have a map that would direct her to his heart? She knew the answer to that. It was an impossible destination: somewhere as unreachable as the Mountains of the Moon and as inaccessible as the section that said, ‘Here be dragons.’
When she’d packed up her meager belongings, she ducked under the tent flap to find Tremayne all ready to go. He helped her dismantle the tent—a simple enough matter of removing the central pole and folding up the striped material into a bundle. They set off.
The first twenty minutes passed in awkward silence.
“Do you know the recipe for that Blue Nile Lily syrup?” he asked abruptly. “Or could you get it from the Bey’s doctor, do you think?”
Hester risked a glance over at him to see if he was mocking her. “I could probably get the recipe, yes. Why?”
His lips parted in a delighted smile. “Because it’s a foolproof way to make our fortunes.” He winked at her. “Well, not for you. You already have a fortune. But for me, certainly. Just think, if it works as well on men as it does women, we’ll be richer than Croesus!”
Hester felt an embarrassed flush heat her skin. “Did it have an effect on me?” she said offhandedly. “I don’t remember a thing after I was stung by the scorpion. I assumed I’d fainted and you’d put me to bed.”
He sent her a sideways glance beneath his lashes that made her heart pound, but refrained from calling her out.
“You’ve been complaining about me taking mummies back to London,” he said. “This is a far more ethical opportunity. I’m certain the fine gents at the Royal College will be fascinated by an effective aphrodisiac.”
He gave a chuckle at her horrified expression. “Don’t worry, I’ll give you and Uncle Jasper full credit. I’ll be a silent partner in the enterprise.” He waved one hand dramatically across the skyline, as if reading an advertisement on a banner. “I can see it now. Morden’s Miracle Medicine. Lady Love Potion. You’ll be feted all over town.”
“Absolutely not.” Hester said stonily. “I’d rather shoot myself.”
He took her refusal with a laughing shrug. “Just think about it.”
They lapsed into silence again, but as they crested a slight rise, Harry reined in his horse and sent her a look of congratulation. The city of Alexandria spread out below them, circling the port. Hester could make out several large ships moored in the bay. The sluggish green-brown waters
of the Nile fed the city, channeled by sluices and dikes that nourished the fertile green fields all around.
Harry pointed. “Look! It’s Drovetti.”
Sure enough, a group of riders was visible on the road leading toward the town, Drovetti in his hat clearly distinguishable at the front.
“Clever girl! Your map shaved half a day from the journey!” Harry spurred Makeen onward. “Come on. If we follow him we can find out where he’s staying. Then we can get back that necklace of ours.”
“Of mine,” Hester corrected.
Harry just grinned at her.
“Oh, go and take a swim in the Nile,” she said crossly.
“Isn’t it seething with hippos and man-hungry crocodiles?”
“It is. Take your time.”
They trailed Drovetti and his men through the winding streets of Alexandria, taking care to stay out of sight.
“If he’s keen to get the necklace back to Bonaparte, he’ll head straight to the port and get on a ship to France,” Hester said.
Her prediction proved to be correct. They followed the Italian to the waterfront. Drovetti dismissed the men then hailed the captain of one of the ships and, after some hushed conversation, ascended the gangplank and disappeared through a doorway that led off one end of the vessel.
“Now what?” Hester asked.
“We need to get on board that ship.” Harry dismounted, and Hester did the same. “Have you any money?”
“Some, but not much.”
“We’ll have to sell one of our mounts then.” Harry glanced from Bahaba to Makeen. “There’s no contest. I’m not selling the horse. He’s far too beautiful. Your smelly camel will have to go.”
“He’s a dromedary,” Hester scowled and patted Bahaba’s wooly nose. “Don’t listen to him, Bahaba. You’re very useful.” The ungrateful creature tried to bite her. Hester shrugged. “Oh, all right.”
They managed to sell the dromedary to an unsuspecting tradesman in the marketplace, and Harry used part of the proceeds to purchase a pastry pie and some fresh juice from a street vendor. Hester almost groaned at the delicious taste. She hadn’t realized how famished she was until she took her first bite.
The Promise of a Kiss Page 7