Tempt Me Twice

by Olivia Drake

  “I’m not filthy, either. I just stepped out of my bath.” To fluster her, he made a show of tucking his shirt into his breeches. Her gaze wavered slightly, but she kept her eyes glued to his face, never once glancing below his neck. “Come and sit down,” he coaxed, gesturing at the single chair by the fire. “You look as if you’re ready to bolt.”

  She remained by the door, her gloved fingers clasped together at her waist. “I’m ready to hear some explanations from you. First and foremost, why you never thought to tell me that my father had found the fabled lost city. That he’d made the greatest discovery of his life.”

  Bloody hell. “I did think about it,” he said, flashing her his most charming smile.

  “I haven’t come here to trade witticisms,” she snapped. “I read my father’s journal, and I want to know all about this statue.”

  She was like a dog gnawing a bone. Restraining his annoyance, Gabe said, “The statue came from a ruined temple. Henry believed it to be an ancient fertility goddess, predating the time of the Egyptian pharaohs.”

  “Where is it now?”

  “I wish I knew.”

  She gave him a withering look. “You were willing to pay one thousand guineas for the contents of that crate. You must have believed the statue was hidden inside it.”

  “You’re wrong, Kate. I knew the goddess had been stolen.”

  “Oh? Then you did the deed.”

  “No.” Keeping a tight lid on his temper, he leaned his shoulder against the bedpost and crossed his arms with deliberate relaxation. “The statue was never in the crate. We couldn’t leave it unguarded on the dhow in the harbor. We kept it with us at the inn.”

  He watched the rounding of her eyes, the little tremor that shook her. “Are you saying...whoever killed my father...also stole the statue?”

  “Yes.”

  She closed her eyes a moment, and he shifted his bare feet uneasily, fearing she might lapse into weeping. This was exactly the pain he’d hoped to spare Kate. He hadn’t wanted to involve her in such an ugly, dangerous affair. His plan had worked—until Damson had come sniffing around her and Meg.

  When she looked at him again, her eyes shone clear and cold. “Sir Charles said thieves were following Papa, and Papa feared for his life. That’s why he asked Sir Charles to act as my guardian.”

  Gabe snapped out an oath. “He isn’t your guardian. Henry would never have signed such a paper without telling me.”

  Planting her hands on her slim hips, Kate took a step toward him. “You must have known Papa was being stalked. So why did you go out that night? Where exactly were you while my father was fighting for his life?”

  She’d struck a nerve on that one, but Gabe wouldn’t tell her why. “Henry wasn’t being stalked. Else he would have told me so immediately.”

  “So who am I to believe? Sir Charles, who came straight back to England to offer me his condolences? Or you, who hid the true circumstances behind Papa’s death?”

  He’d hidden more than that. For her own protection, he didn’t want to tell Kate any more than necessary. But now he wondered if his silence might well prove the greater danger to her. “Damson is a liar and a thief—”

  “Not that again.” Marching forward, she braced her gloved hands on the copper rim of the tub and glared across it. “Why are you so determined to discredit him?”

  “Because,” he said tightly, “Damson stole the statue.”

  In the early morning light, her face went as pale as milk, her eyes huge and impossibly green. A few wisps of red- gold hair had escaped the confines of her bonnet to curl like corkscrews on her brow. For a long moment, she stared at him until a little sound of disbelief huffed out of her. “Then you’re saying...he also killed my father.”

  Gabe nodded curtly.

  “No ... it can’t be true,” she whispered, shaking her head. “That’s a wicked lie.”

  He crossed the bedchamber and took hold of her elbow. “Sit down before you swoon.”

  She let him lead her halfway across the broad-planked floor. Then she wrenched away and pivoted to face him. “Don’t coddle me. Have you any proof to support your accusations?”

  Gabe’s mind went back to that darkened chamber in Cairo, to the robed figure standing in the shadows, a short distance from Henry Talisford’s crumpled form. Swallowing a glut of rage, he said, “I saw Damson holding the statue. One of his minions attacked me from behind. A weasel named Figgins.”

  “It was nighttime. How can you be so sure?”

  “Any artist remembers faces. Figgins has distinctive features—deep-set eyes, squashed nose, bony angles like skin stretched over a skull.”

  Kate stood very still, and he wished to hell he could read her mind. But she was no longer the openly expressive girl who wore her heart on her sleeve. Turning away, she walked to the window and looked down at the quiet back street. “Dear God,” she murmured, her voice thin. “This is impossible. Yet...if what you say is true, then I’ve welcomed my father’s murderer into my home, drunk tea with him, enjoyed his company.”

  Gabe stepped to her side and touched her shoulder. “Damson has fooled a lot of people. I warned you to stay away from him.”

  Her chin shot up, her gaze snaring his. “And you refused to tell me why. Was I to take your word for it?”

  “Better mine than his.”

  She gave an unladylike snort. “You told me yesterday that you didn’t recognize those men. If you lied to me once, you could be lying to me now.”

  Gabe hissed out a breath through his teeth. “It’s the truth, I swear it. I never expected him to visit you. Or to offer you money for your father’s possessions.”

  “You said Sir Charles collects...unusual artifacts. So why would he pay so much for beads and spears and drums?”

  Gabe shrugged. “Maybe he’s looking for directions to the temple, to see if we missed anything of value. We’d barely begun to excavate the site.”

  “Then why were you so anxious to pay me a thousand guineas? And don’t say you merely wished to thwart Sir Charles.”

  He gazed down at her angry, accusing face and cursed his idiot chivalry. “You and Meg need the funds.”

  “I won’t accept a penny from you.”

  Gabe swore under his breath. “Kate, I don’t like this predicament, either. But I made a vow to your father, and I intend to honor it.”

  How keenly he recalled that night in the desert, when Henry had reread a much-folded letter from Kate, informing him of his wife’s death. Though a reticent man, Henry had had tears in his eyes when he’d spoken of his daughters, left to fend for themselves. As a precaution, he’d asked Gabe to watch over them, and Gabe had agreed reluctantly. The last thing he needed was to be responsible for two young women—one of whom despised him.

  “My great-uncle will see to our care,” Kate said, her tone dismissing his claim. “There’s no need for you to trouble yourself.”

  “Henry thought otherwise. He considered Nathaniel Babcock a corrupting influence on you and your sister.”

  Kate gave a disbelieving laugh. “And you’re not?”

  A cord of tension constricted Gabe’s chest. If only she knew, renouncing his duty would be a relief. “You ought to be grateful to me. I could have walked away.”

  “I wish you had.” Kate cast him a scathing glance up and down. “Understand this: you will not dictate my life.”

  Frustrated by her stubbornness, he took a step forward, crowding her against the roughly paneled wall. “Understand this: I’m in charge of you now. You and Meg. Henceforth, I intend to provide for both of you.”

  For the barest instant, her pupils dilated slightly, betraying a physical awareness of him. He felt it, too, in the hot rushing of his blood. Whether she wanted to admit so or not, he did have power over her. The power of his charm. He could use that charm to his advantage.

  “At least accept the money in exchange for your father’s writings,” he said, softening his voice to a persuasive pitch. He though
t of his long-burning desire to make a name for himself, to achieve a fame outside the shadows of his two older brothers. “I need Henry’s journals. I want to publish a book about our travels together.”

  Her mouth dropped open. “You? I’m writing a book.”

  “We’ll collaborate, then,” Gabe said on inspiration. The notion of spending long hours with Kate Talisford appealed to him. Perhaps once he’d dealt with Damson, he could enjoy her company, banter with her, find out all her secrets.

  Her lips curled in sour distaste. “I’d sooner collaborate with Jabbar. He’s far better company than you are.”

  He chuckled. This was the Kate he remembered. The fiery, clever Kate. “Jabbar can’t draw as well as I can. You need me, Kate. Remember your attempts at drawing?” With her pad and pencil, she’d observed him at work in her father’s study. Gamely she’d attempted to sketch, too, but her awkward stick figures had testified to an appalling lack of talent.

  Pinkness swept her clear skin. “I’m quite capable of managing without your help, my lord.”

  Without touching her, he braced his hands on the wall on either side of her. “Call me Gabe,” he murmured. “There’s no need to practice formalities between friends.”

  “We aren’t friends. Not anymore.”

  Yet her lashes lowered slightly, betraying the fact that she too felt the spark between them. The spark that had been there since she’d been a saucy sixteen-year-old. “We were friends once,” he said. “Remember when I went to sketch Folly Bridge? You were so intent on spying on me that you fell into the river.”

  “That isn’t true! You pushed me.”

  He chuckled. “I bumped into you, I’ll admit. But how was I to know you were standing right behind me, peering over my shoulder?”

  “You knew. You had that look in your eyes.”

  “What look?”

  “That wicked look. It’s there right now.” Pressing her back against the wall, she regarded him primly. Although she could have ducked under his arms easily enough, she made no attempt to escape him.

  Perhaps he hadn’t destroyed her girlish ardor, after all. Certainly he had never forgotten the feel of her lithe body in his arms or the softness of her breasts. Now that she was a woman, he was free to court her.

  The thought came out of nowhere, and he summarily rejected it. He had no right to touch her. Kate Talisford was a lady, not a courtesan he could dally with and then toss aside. He was duty-bound to let no man sully her innocence.

  Least of all himself.

  But the temptation was there, so strong he could almost taste it. He wanted to reawaken the passionate girl inside the prudish woman. The dingy brown draperies protected them from view of the street below. He could kiss those full, inviting lips, and no one would be the wiser ...

  By degrees, he lowered his head until he could almost feel the warmth of her breath. The faint flowery scent of her soap wafted to him. It made him want to bury his face in the tender hollow of her throat. “Say my name,” he commanded again. “I want to hear you say it.”

  “Lord Gabriel.”

  The breathy catch to her voice encouraged him. “Coward,” he said on a low chuckle. “I believe you’re afraid of me. Or perhaps...intimidated.”

  “Gabriel,” she spat out. “There, are you satisfied?”

  Her hands flashed out to shove him away. Caught off guard, he stepped backward and bumped into the bedpost, which only served to magnify the throbbing in his skull.

  Kate walked to the chair and took up a dignified stance behind it, her gloved fingers resting on the rounded back. “I’ll thank you to keep your distance, Gabriel. We’ve strayed from the topic of the goddess.”

  Perversely gratified by her show of fire, he let his eyes roam up and down her slim figure. “Have we?” he drawled.

  Her telltale blush deepened. Her voice tight and controlled, she said, “If as you claim, Sir Charles did steal the statue and smuggled it into England, then where has he hidden it? At his estate?”

  He grimaced. “Possibly. That’s why I stayed out of sight last evening. The less he sees of me, the better.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “I intend to break into his house. To retrieve the goddess.” The cold, angry need for retribution invaded him. He didn’t tell her the rest, that once he had the proof in his hands, he’d see Damson pay for murdering Henry Talisford.

  “I have a better idea,” she said. “Sir Charles has invited me for a visit. So I can simply walk in the front door.”

  “The devil you say!” Struck by icy fear, Gabe aimed his finger at her. “You won’t go near his house. I forbid it.”

  “And let you abscond with a valuable statue? I think not.” She regarded him with steely resolve. “My father paid for that artifact with his life. As his heir, I’m claiming it.”

  “I found the statue. While Henry was digging up shards of pottery, I noticed a gap in the stones behind the altar.”

  One delicate eyebrow arched, Kate regarded him as she might a tiresome menial. “Then I’ll grant you twenty-five percent of the sale price.”

  “Twenty-five—” he sputtered. “The goddess isn’t for sale. She belongs in a museum.”

  “If the directors want the statue badly enough, then they’ll pay the price. That one diamond alone must be worth a fortune.”

  She wore a look of headstrong determination. He didn’t need for her to capsize his plans and endanger herself in the process. “The statue is priceless,” he said. “Nevertheless, I’ll give you a thousand guineas for your share. That’s more than generous.”

  She shook her head, the black ribbons on her bonnet swaying. “I want no more or less than my due. We’ll find the statue together, have it appraised, and then split the proceeds.”

  A cynical laugh broke from him. “Give up, Kate. You aren’t going with me.”

  “We’ll see about that.” Her lips pinched, she marched toward the door. “Good day, Gabriel.”

  His bare feet slapping the floor, he strode forward and caught her by the wrist. For all her steely strength of will, she felt soft and fragile to the touch. He fought the urge to put his arms around her, to hold her close and protect her from harm. To have what could never be his.

  Gruffly, he said, “I’ll be watching you, Kate. And take care. When Damson wants something, he’ll stop at nothing to get it.”

  The Black Sheep

  A raucous noise yanked Kate from the oblivion of sleep.

  Her heart racing, she sat up straight in bed and blinked into the darkness. The black lumps of furniture dotted the dense gloom. The only sound was the faint ticking of the clock on her bedside table. Straining her eyes, she could barely make out the time—three o’clock in the morning. Had she been dreaming? She felt sluggish and disoriented, vaguely aware of having been lost in a strange, unsettling fantasy about half-naked savages who looked rather like Gabriel Kenyon ...

  The screech pierced the air again, a ghostly howling from the bowels of the cottage. The cacophony raised a flurry of goose bumps over her skin. Then she realized the source of the wild cries.

  Kate bounded from the bed, her toes curling against the cold, bare floorboards. She seized her dressing gown from a chair, threw it on, and ran for the door.

  In the narrow passageway, she nearly collided with Meg. Her hair tied up in little rag curlers, Meg had lit a candle, and her panicky eyes glimmered in the pale glow. “It's Jabbar,” she whispered. “Gad-a-mercy, there must be a burglar! He’ll murder us!”

  Kate forced herself to speak calmly. “Hush. You’re being dramatic. It’s probably nothing.”

  “Nothing! What else could frighten him so?”

  “The scrape of a tree branch on the window. Or the barking of Mrs. Beasley’s dog.” As they spoke, they made their way to the top of the stairs. Kate thrust out her arm to stop Meg from descending. “I’ll go first.”

  For once, her sister didn’t argue. Gripping the rail, Kate felt her way down the steep wooden ris
ers and wished desperately that they weren’t two women alone. Coward, Gabriel had called her. It galled her to admit he was right. If only she possessed real courage instead of this false bravado. Her palms felt cold and damp, and she kept a close watch on the murky depths of the entryway. If someone really had broken into the cottage...

  The chimpanzee’s long, drawn-out wailing grew louder as they reached the ground floor. If it weren’t for Jabbar, she’d haul her sister out the front door and flee to a neighbor’s cottage. But they couldn’t abandon the poor creature.

  At the base of the stairs, she grabbed a folded umbrella from the stand by the door and brandished it like a weapon. Meg hung back, though clinging to Kate’s sleeve. Together, they navigated down the corridor, past the piles of packing boxes, and into the shadowy kitchen.

  Jabbar jumped up and down in his large bamboo cage in the corner. His lips were peeled back in a ferocious scowl, his hair bristling. When he saw them, his fearful cry diminished to an anxious chattering.

  Thrusting the candle at Kate, Meg hastened to the cage and unlocked it. The chimp leapt into her arms, nearly knocking her over, clutching at her like a frightened child. “You’re safe now, darling,” she crooned, petting him. “Silly boy, there’s nothing wrong.”

  Kate checked the back door, relieved to find it securely latched. Yet she couldn’t shake a shivery sense that something was wrong. Returning to her sister, she said, “I’ll have a look around just to be certain.”

  When she started toward the front of the cottage, Jabbar increased his babbling again.

  “Perhaps he wants to show us something,” Kate said dubiously.

  “There’s only one way to find out.”

  Meg let him down and he loped out of the small kitchen, pausing only to look back and see if they were following him. Kate cautiously trailed the monkey down the corridor to her father’s study, where he slapped his palms against the closed door and screeched again.

  Meg grabbed Kate’s arm. “There must be someone in there,” she hissed. “Let’s send to Lord Gabriel for help. Or Sir Charles—oh, but he’s gone to Cornwall.”