Sir Evelyn’s expression grew suddenly stern. “One thing you must remember, Ravensdale, is though we both work for Egypt, you report to me. Your loyalties can be ascertained fairly quickly with the information presented and how accurate it turns out to be.”
There are ways to appear to assist without actually doing so, how well I know.
“Will you help me? Will you help Egypt?”
Val sighed. The war was over, and the English occupation of Egypt had begun.
12
Thunderbolt
The Black Panther.
It hit her like a bolt of lightning. Alita could only see his back, his features not visible to her, and he was at least one hundred feet away.
And she knew it was him.
I must be losing my mind. This is a man before me, there is no semblance of animal form. He is in civilian garb. He isn’t even dressed in uniform or anything resembling soldier attire, I have no reason to think he is a military man. How can I possibly know this is the Black Panther?
She hoped with all her heart she was mistaken. I’m not ready. I don’t know what to do or what to say—or what my role is. She had thought when she arrived in Egypt she would receive a message from the heavens telling her what she was expected to do.
Nothing. Silence.
So it couldn’t be him.
But she knew beyond a shadow of a doubt it was, even as her body felt an instant tremor and she gasped for air.
Am I being punished? Is this why I have received no guidance? Her destiny had arrived, and she wasn’t prepared in any way shape or form.
In all fairness to herself, it was not that long ago her life had taken an abrupt turn from everything she had ever known towards an unimaginable outcome. At the last minute her grandmamma had decided to accompany her to Egypt, with the one condition they have a male escort since they were descending into the “wilds of Africa”.
The duchess had surprised everyone by producing Lord Sherwood—William—in her carriage as their escort and protector. Six weeks after boarding a steamboat in the London pier, Miss Alita Stanton, The Dowager Duchess of Salford, Lord Sherwood, and the lady’s maid as well as Lord Sherwood’s valet landed in the seaport of Alexandria, Egypt no worse for wear.
By now, Alita was half in love with William—who could not be? The handsome and amiable lord was every girl’s dream. She had conveniently forgotten about her purpose in coming to Egypt when she sensed the Black Panther’s presence.
Alita caught sight of him outside the newly erected British Consulate office in Cairo, where she had heard the gardens were luxuriously ornate, so she and her maid had set out early, as both Her Grace and Lord Sherwood were not early risers.
The walking roads to the office park were a maze—quite literally—and she was already feeling the full effect of the orchestrated confusion even without his sudden appearance.
This is the last place I expected to find him. Who is he?
Involuntarily she covered her mouth with her hand as if to suppress a scream. Here was the person in the world she most longed to know.
And most dreaded to find.
Why is he here? None of that mattered. She caught her breath even as the realization hit her: I have found him.
This is why she came to Egypt, but she never expected—or hoped—to find him so quickly. She had never spoken to him, and she felt as if she knew him better than anyone she had ever known or would ever know.
For some reason he stopped and turned abruptly to scan the people behind him, as if he sensed a threat.
His appearance did nothing to settle her spirits. He was tall and muscular, his coal-black hair brushed back away from his face, with the exception of a lock of hair falling forward across his forehead—no doubt because he had been traversing the lawns at an unholy pace. Despite his speed, even from a distance she could see that he scrutinized his surroundings with watchfulness, as if every moment held life and death.
But it was his spirit rather than his dark looks which told her in an instant this was the man she had come two thousand miles to find.
This is the Black Panther of my vision. She sensed it in his intensity of movement and in the quiet aura of strength and purposefulness emanating from him.
A surge of excitement rushed through her. A man who had entered her dreams but whom she had never met was now within her view.
What will I say to him? How shall I act? Alita stood frozen as she stared at him. Although this was the moment she had made extensive plans for and anticipated for months, somehow she never truly expected to be living it.
The air vibrated with his presence, causing her to tremble. The Black Panther had overwhelmed her being thousands of miles away. What impact would he have on her from this distance?
I should have thought of this earlier! What if she destroyed everything—once again?
He turned to look at her, and she knew he sensed her gaze. The minute his pale silver-blue eyes pierced her facade, Alita felt as if she were suddenly bathing in cool water. Almost immediately, a wave of power flowed through her.
Showing little interest in her, he studied her for only a moment before turning his attentions elsewhere, resuming his pace.
Oh, no! He is getting away. She could not lose him after she had come two thousand miles to find him. She must do something.
Anything.
“Sir, sir, please help!” Forcing herself to act, she began waving wildly and almost shouting—the Saints forgive her—for the first time in her life ignoring her upbringing, which had trained her unrelentingly in refined deportment.
Alita could think of nothing else to do. She therefore did the first thing entering her mind to simply keep him in her vicinity another instant. At least until she could resolve upon a plan.
“Miss, what is the matter?” He rushed toward her without a moment’s hesitation, reaching her in seconds.
Even in an expertly tailored, beige linen suit, she could see his chest was muscled. His waist was slim, but it was a man’s waist, gradually narrowing from his chest. He was long-legged, and his legs had form. Overall, he moved with ease within his body, which somehow complemented his unusual style of dress. He didn’t dress like the British, and he didn’t dress like the natives, seeming to take the best from each.
There were no tails on his suit, no flower in his buttonhole, and no watch chain dangling from a vest. Only a perfectly fitted suit in a rugged yet sophisticated fabric reminiscent of his character. His only nod to hauteur was a slim silk cravat tied in the Windsor fashion, and even that was now loosened at his neckline.
Scrutinizing her, he appeared to draw his conclusions quickly. She caught her breath in her chest.
Here he is, not a foot from me. Her mind was racing for something to say.
Somewhere in the deep recesses of her heart Alita knew everything she needed to say, his presence convinced her of that. Where she had thought she was ignorant, she was only sleeping. All the words were there, demanding expression.
And yet I can say none of it.
She couldn’t quite access the knowledge—or her tongue.
Alita reminded herself this might be the single most important thing she ever did in her life.
And I can’t speak.
She shivered as he hesitantly touched her elbow, preparing to support her. His eyes were a silvery liquid as he studied her. They had a piercing quality, intensely focused and intelligent.
As the sunlight hit his eyes, the depth of his gaze seemed to swallow her. He was devastatingly gorgeous. With an expression that would frighten the dead.
“Miss, are you all right?” he asked, but his disinterest was apparent. When he asked a question, she felt as if she wanted to answer just so his gaze would leave her.
At the same time she longed to stare into those eyes forever.
Val considered that the girl expressed some anxiety, but nothing approaching shock. She appeared to be healthy and unharmed. Her hands shook, but her eyes were bright—shim
mering, in fact—and her skin, well, it was glowing. She smiled up at him, her lips trembling…
What am I doing? He was supposed to be determining if she were in harm’s way or not. Even as he confirmed that she was able to stand on her own, he thought upon closer inspection that she was one of the most gorgeous women he had ever beheld. Her eyes were a sparkling jeweled green, and her skin was the color of peaches and cream. She was slim and dainty in appearance, and she wore a peach silk gown trimmed in ivory lace with a matching hat perched provocatively atop her creamy beige curls.
And she interests me not at all.
She was exceedingly becoming, true. And altogether too young for his taste. She had a shyness and sweetness of manner, which he found both dull and contrived. A pretty, protected child who had seen and experienced nothing of the world and who no doubt lived in her fairy-tale world awaiting her prince charming.
Not this fellow, not on your life. In his early manhood he had attended the balls and soirées of the London season, meeting youthful beauties, and he had never been so bored in his life.
But her smile positively sparkled. And those eyes…like emeralds in a setting of pearls. Val had to admit she was precisely that which most young men liked to encounter—pure, innocent, hopeful.
Uninformed, delusional, vapid.
“Miss, what is the source of your distress?” he asked stiffly without feigning concern. He resolved to quickly exhibit the minimum civilities required so he might be on his way and about his business. He had better things to do than conjure imaginary foes with theatrical females.
She shook her head but no words came forth. One thing he couldn’t tolerate in a female was the inability to use language.
“I don’t recall ever having seen a woman wave quite so frantically,” he voiced without smiling, despite not caring one way or the other.
“I was simply so frightened I would lose you,” she replied as she gasped for air, running her hands along her slim waist.
Val raised his eyebrows in surprise, and she took a step back involuntarily. She glanced up at him with a look so open and yet so demure he was quite taken aback by the overall effect of her unexpected words.
He frankly felt some amazement at her arts. The Earl of Ravensdale was not one to experience surprise, outside of discoveries he might find in ancient texts, but this charming young beauty had almost dropped out of the sky.
For just a moment, Val forgot he was in Egypt and twenty-eight years old and felt himself to be young and eager for the games to begin.
Have I abandoned all reason? I have work to do. Sir Evelyn required several reports. There was important information only he could gather on the other side of Cairo. As much as he hated the idea of British occupation, he had to admit Sir Evelyn was doing an excellent job of running Egypt—lowering taxes while at the same time managing the finances, initiating technological advances, and reducing poverty. And Sir Evelyn was successful, in large part, by keeping his finger on the pulse of the population—which was the job entrusted to him.
And with the conclusion of Val’s duties, he looked forward to pursuing his one true love—translating ancient text.
“If you should require nothing further, Miss, I shall be about my business.” He forced himself to address her politely though he fully communicated in his tone of voice he would brook no nonsense. He looked about and saw her maid some five feet away, watching quietly. There was nothing here warranting his presence.
“Indeed I do. Please do not leave, sir…” She turned and nodded to her maid, who retreated several more feet, insuring that her words were not overheard. Returning her eyes to his, the maiden’s lips parted as she appeared dismayed and unable to find words. Val found himself studying those apricot lips as they opened and closed, offsetting the gold and green in her eyes to perfection.
“Where are you from, Miss? And what brings you to Egypt?” he asked, forgetting himself. In an instant, Val wished he had kept his mouth shut. It surprised him that he had not.
“I live in London.” Her expression was delicate but flustered, almost frightened. She gazed up at him through long eyelashes. She hesitated, as if this was a difficult question to answer. A wave of something approaching pain washed across her face. Suddenly she appeared resolute. “And I came…I came…to find you, sir.”
Lord Ravensdale stepped back on his heels. He could not believe his eyes and ears—a heavenly angel uttering advances in a manner that would do any bird of paradise proud.
“This is a line usually reserved for the gentlemen, Miss, but I admit your delivery is far more effective.”
“Oh, it is not a line, sir, I assure you,” she exclaimed, seeming to find her voice while giving an excellent performance of a young innocent in extreme discomfiture. Her countenance was direct, but her voice soft and shy, her wide eyes filled with awe and admiration. “I did come from England to find you. It has been an obsession these many months.”
His eyes must have revealed his interest, because she started to stammer.
“Oh…I didn’t m–mean…” Suddenly a look of comprehension washed across her face, and she blushed unmercifully. “It isn’t that. I came for your benefit, not mine.”
“Very good of you, Miss,” he murmured languidly. How did she manage the blush? He smiled with appreciation. He was beginning to enjoy the show immensely. Being both handsome and titled, he had had many a trap set for him. He had to admit he found the direct approach, accompanied with blushes and coy looks, by far the more enticing.
Val searched his memory in vain for even one other woman who had expressed her intent so sincerely. He glanced around and saw her maid now standing some eight feet away, her eyes to the ground.
No hatchet-faced maid for this worldly miss, no, but a retiring, docile child.
The Earl of Ravensdale brought out his full arsenal, purposely producing a slow, lazy smile, which ordinarily would have made young maidens wobbly at the knees, he knew from experience. A proper miss would be embarrassed at such a smile—as they should be. But she stood firm, her immodest methods and determination in some contrast to her shy mannerisms but evident nonetheless.
If she wishes to get serious, so can I. He had work to do. His eyes surveyed her with a forwardness he rarely allowed himself, and he found it was a thoroughly pleasant exercise.
She wore a form-fitting dress from neck to floor, with the exception of fabric draped along her hips like a waterfall, bow accents placed tantalizingly along that inviting pathway. Her silhouette revealed an exceptionally slim waist. A pointed bodice with a cascade of lace down the front of that lovely, perk bosom and three-quarter-length sleeves completed the enticing picture.
He could not have been more surprised that she held firm under his sensual glance, making not the slightest movement to slap his face. Astonishing.
She is a woman who knows her own mind. And what that mind consists of is becoming enticingly clear.
“Miss…? I am quite certain I have not had the pleasure of your acquaintance, or no doubt I would have remembered,” he stated in a sultry voice, which was becoming less contrived and more natural in its execution.
“Oh, no, sir,” she protested. “I am only presented to society this year, and it was of very short duration. I gather that you have been away from England for some time. My name is Alita Stanton.”
“Miss Stanton, I assure you the pleasure is all mine,” Lord Ravensdale said as he bowed gallantly, his gaze intent upon her as he surveyed her. He kissed her hand slowly as he looked up at her, making no effort to conceal the invitation in his eyes.
She smiled with some trepidation, once again blushing, all the while appearing quite distracted.
The sincerity of her delivery was bewitching. Though they both knew the truth, she played the game so well he could not help but wish to enter into it.
She gave the appearance of one who was contemplating a problem of momentous proportions. Miss Alita Stanton was a curious blend of naiveté and uneasiness. But
what credible reason for distress could she have?
“But, sir, I am afraid I do not know your name,” she stammered.
He let out a roar of laughter. He had not believed this temptress could shock him any more. “So, Miss Stanton, you do not know who I am. And yet you have come from England to Egypt to find me?”
“Yes.” She nodded self-consciously. She then blurted out without even a modicum of finesse, “I suppose it does sound odd.”
“And I am supposed to believe you did not observe me and suddenly decide to embark upon a flirtation?” asked Val, making no effort to hide the glimmer of hope he was sure burned in his eyes.
Though he fully expected his blunt delivery to result in a swift cessation of Miss Stanton’s advances and her subsequent storming off in anger—one had to play one’s cards correctly to avoid humiliating the gentler sex, how well he knew—he found no pleasure in the exchange if he could not engage in a truthful encounter. He saw no harm in putting an end to this masquerade and sending the girl on her way.
Here was her opportunity to go in search of more receptive prey.
“Oh no, sir, no!” She covered her mouth in alarm, as if to suppress a scream. She gasped, catching her breath. But she did not swoon, and there was not the slightest hint of anger in her expression.
Val liked that about her. It was a rare woman who would have taken no offense at his clarity.
“I have come on a most important mission,” she said.
“A mission, you say? An odd choice of words, Miss Stanton.”
“Not at all.” She clumsily attempted to steady herself where she stood as she glanced around nervously. She reached for his arm, and he offered it to her happily when only a few minutes before he would have been reluctant. “It is the correct word, I assure you.”
“Do explain yourself, Miss Stanton. You have a devoted audience.” And, in fact, he spoke the truth. He didn’t know if he had ever been more attentive to a woman.
The Destiny Code: The Soldier and the Mystic (Daughters of the Empire Book 1) Page 12