“Oh, yes, I should be opening the grounds to orphans, I remember,” he murmured.
She stood, and to his astonishment let out an infuriated “Oh!” before slamming her napkin down on the table and heading for the door.
He let her go so far, then called out her name sharply. “Miss Montgomery!”
She went as rigid as steel and turned back to him slowly. “Forgive me, but I am not hungry this evening. And I’m very afraid that I’ve told you everything I can about events at the museum today.”
He stood, walking toward her.
“You cannot force me to eat dinner!” she cried.
He stopped in front of her. To his frustration, he found it a difficult place to be. Every muscle in his body seemed to blaze and stretch and groan. It took every fiber of self-control not to seize her by the shoulders, pull her to him…
“You will not wander the castle alone,” he said, the words somehow sharply enunciated despite the tight clench of his teeth.
He threw open the door, eyes burning and narrowed, and waited for her to exit. She did so with a slight lift of her chin. When they reached her door, he reminded her, “Don’t ever, ever, wander the castle alone at night, do you understand?”
“Oh, yes! I understand.”
“Do you?”
“Far too much!” she replied.
And to his absolute astonishment, she had the nerve to slam the door in his face.
CHAPTER EIGHT
THE DOG WASN’T WITH HER that night. Either the earl didn’t think she needed to be guarded anymore, or else he didn’t believe that the castle needed to be guarded against her anymore.
It had been a very long day, and a long bath had been in order. And when she was done, she should have been very tired, but thoughts continued to race through her head and she couldn’t sleep. He wasn’t always a monster. He had tried to be courteous at dinner.
Surely he knew she had seen the child. Was he just so callous that he didn’t care she knew the truth? Really! After the confession she had raged out to him the other night, he might have realized that men having children but refusing to be responsible for them was a real issue for her.
Yet he was responsible. The child was being raised by loving sisters—without a father.
She hadn’t known her biological father, but at least she’d been blessed with Tristan…Well, blessed might not be the right word. After all, she wouldn’t be here now if he could just learn to behave.
She frowned suddenly, aware again of a noise. She heard it…and then she didn’t. She wondered if she was imagining it, and then she was certain that she wasn’t. It almost seemed to have come from within her room.
She sat up, turning on the oil lamp at her bedside. From across the room, the deadlike eyes of an Egyptian clay cat stared back at her. She ignored it; she had studied all things Egyptian in the museum since she’d been a small child. The past did not frighten her. But the sound…
She got out of bed and walked around the room, trying to find the source. Finally, she thought that it wasn’t coming from the room, but from below it. She hesitated. Then, carefully walking with bare feet, she went to the door. She hesitated, wondering if she would find it locked from without. But it wasn’t locked.
She opened it carefully and looked into the hallway. She saw nothing, no one. The hall lights were very dim, but she sensed there was no one near her.
Then…the sound came from somewhere below.
She moved out into the hall, not really intending to go down the stairs. But the noise propelled her. Instinctively she moved against the wall, following the stairway down to the entry of the castle. In the dim light afforded by a few low-burning lamps, the arms upon the walls took on a faint but sinister glow. She moved through the great hall, realizing that she knew nothing of the layout of the castle. She had come up and down the stairway before, and traveled the hall above, but she didn’t know what lay to the left or the right of the great entry.
At the foot of the stairs, she turned to her right, since she was certain the strange scraping noise had come from beneath her. Thankfully massive double doors beneath a Norman arch were ajar; it was easy enough to slip into the next room. There, the light was even dimmer. Only one lamp burned against the night. She held still for a minute, allowing her eyes to adjust.
She had come to another long hall, which in better times, might have been used as a ballroom. There were love seats and settees against the wall. A large piano loomed at one end, and near it a harp and several string instruments rested on stands.
She traveled the hallway, aware that an uneasy feeling was creeping over her as she did so. She tried not to shake. The empty ballroom, however, seemed to whisper of ghosts of the past as no object, artifact or even mummy could do.
In the center of the great room, she paused, swirling around, feeling as if she were followed. But there was no one behind her; she was alone in the cavernous space.
She continued onward until she came to two doors, the wood beautifully carved, beneath ancient archways. She hesitated, then chose the left. As quietly as she could, she pressed against the door. Someone used it frequently, for it opened without a sound on well-oiled hinges.
The room she entered was a chapel, small but distinct. Unchanged, she thought, in hundreds of years. The altar was of stone. A metal crucifix rose above it. There were flowers placed upon it; their aroma struck her immediately.
She hesitated again, some part of her longing to return the way she had come, to race back up the stairs and bolt herself into her room. But something stronger drew her onward, toward another door at the end of the chapel. Though she called herself an idiot with every step, she knew that she must discover where it led.
Slowly, carefully, she opened the door. From somewhere down below, a light burned. It occurred to her that since she was in the chapel, the stairs probably led to a family crypt. But why would a light be burning in the crypt?
Don’t go down! a sane and fervent voice begged in her mind. But her feet were already moving. The stone stairs were old, hundreds of years old, worn, slick and smooth. And cold, like ice against her feet.
Still, the flickering light drew her as if she were the proverbial moth.
The steps curved, and she told her thundering heart that all she needed to do was get low enough to peer around and discover the source of the light. Then she would obey all reason and sanity and race straight back up to her bedroom. Just a few more steps and she’d be able to turn.
She reached the bottom, but an old stone support blocked her view. Her hands were against the dampness of the wall. Suddenly, the light went out and the world was cast into absolute pitch. There was a whisk of sound from….behind her on the stairs? Or had it come from the darkness that lay before her?
She froze, straining with every sense, trying to fathom the source of danger. Then hands reached out, touching her.
IT WAS LATE AT NIGHT, very late. But time made little difference to Sir John Matthews.
The rest of the museum lay in shadow. Just recently, in 1890, the galleries had been fully lit with electricity. But it was an expensive undertaking, and when the museum closed down, so did most of the light. He worked in his office, the soft glow from the lamp on his desk casting eerie shadows on his face.
Notebooks and news clippings were strewn before him. He muttered to himself, carefully reading a clipping, casting it down, frowning and picking it up again. From beneath the pile of clippings he drew out a small journal. His own. From that time. The expedition to Egypt.
It had been extraordinary. All of them there. Arguing, of course! They were scholars. They were opinionated. They were well-read. And they all had their ideas.
He read a page in his journal, then closed his eyes, shaking his head sorrowfully. He could still see Abigail Stirling so clearly! Her simple skirt, so perfect for the desert sands! Her light-colored shirt, utilitarian, as well, yet with the embroidery that gave it a feminine touch. He could hear the sound of her
laughter. She would always smile and say that the next day would be better. She never gave way to exhaustion; she never lost her enthusiasm. Gentle and kind, she was a woman the workers would move mountains for, and in the end, that’s what they had nearly done.
Then there was Lord Stirling—George. Not to be fooled. Not to be taken. He loved the quest as much as any of them, but never forgot that he was Lord Stirling. He was a man with responsibilities to country and Queen, and his own home, as well. He was concerned with his property, with his tenants and with his obligations to Parliament.
Wherever he went, he had a movable office. The telegraph wires clicked constantly. Yet that didn’t stop him from seeing everything, from knowing everything. The man had been endowed with keen powers of observation. He kept a mental catalogue in his head, and knew if anything—the smallest object—had been moved.
Lady Abigail had been sweetness itself. And Lord George was a man of steel. But they had died.
No one could best death. They all knew that, had all seen the pathetic remains of the ancient Egyptians who thought they could cheat death and take their treasures with them into the afterworld.
Lord George had been the first one into the tomb, with Lady Abigail at his side. And there had been a curse.
Suddenly, a little desperately, Sir John began to dig through the news clippings once again, seeking a certain paper, an Egyptian paper. A noise startled him. He looked around in the darkness but saw nothing.
“Good God, old man!” he chided himself. “You’ll be thinking that the mummies awaken and walk!”
It was his exhaustion. He had been a fool to come here tonight, but his workload had been so heavy lately. It was time to leave.
He shoved the papers and the notebooks into his desk drawer and slammed it shut. He rose, amazed to realize that he was suddenly frightened. Truly frightened.
“I’m leaving now!” he announced aloud.
He hurried out, not stopping to lock the office door, not stopping at all until he was out on the street. There, as required by his position, he assured himself that the great doors to Britain’s national treasure were secured. He nodded to the policeman on night duty.
He turned and rushed from the great edifice. Only later, when he had reached his cozy little flat, when he was sipping tea and whiskey, did he realize that he had fled the museum when he thought someone might have been up to no good, when it was his duty to make sure that no one invaded the hallowed halls.
But even as the thought struck, he remembered his journal, and his hands began to shake, his teacup clattering against the saucer.
TO HER AMAZEMENT, Camille didn’t scream. At least, not out loud. But then, her terror at that moment was so great, no sound would issue from her lips. Surely the whole of the castle had to hear the pounding of her heart; it thundered in her own ears.
Despite the sheer loss of sight in the stygian darkness, other senses rose to the fore. The touch fell upon her shoulders. Knuckles brushed over her breasts, barely covered by the thin material of the nightgown. In seconds, she knew the figure that had come upon her, knew him innately before his fierce and ragged whisper touched her ears.
“Camille!”
He was furious. And maskless.
Amazingly, she was no longer afraid, but as the sense of relief and security filled her, a voice awakened within her. Instinct cried that she should trust him, but logic condemned her.
She reached out blindly, touching his face in turn, and felt the texture of his skin. Her fingers swept over high cheekbones, a strong nose, full lips. She was about to speak when he caught her hand, and she heard his whisper.
“No!”
She swallowed hard. He indicated that she should remain where she was. Then he disappeared.
She waited for a flood of light to break through the world of ebony, but no light came. She remained totally motionless against the stone-cold walls of the castle. He must be seeking a source of light, she thought. He would know, certainly, where any source would be; he was master of the castle.
And when the light flared, she would see his face. See what must be so horrible and monstrous beneath the mask.
But still no light came. She nearly cried out when he returned to her, for she had heard nothing. Indeed, seconds before he touched her something within warned her that he was near. Scent, body heat, a whisper in the air, but not so much as a whisper of sound. Perhaps the total darkness played havoc with her mind, for when he touched her again, foolish as it might be, she clung to him, trembling. Beneath the cotton fabric of whatever covered his arms and torso, she felt the tension and power that constricted his muscles. He leaned against her. She felt his breath against her ear, and the word he whispered had bare substance.
“Up.”
She nodded. Still clinging to his arm, she turned. The stone wall was cold as ice to her left, while to her right was the warmth and vitality of his length and form and the reassuring pressure of his fingers upon her wrist. They reached the top of the stairs that led to the chapel. They entered and he firmly closed the door behind them.
She realized then that he hadn’t left her to find light; he had gone into the black netherworld to procure a mask. He must have several, for this one was different, a simple, thin tanned leather without the least resemblance to any beast, real or mythical.
The light here in the chapel was still dim. With the door to the stairs and the crypts closed behind him, Camille felt a certainty that they were alone.
“Why did you do that?” she asked.
“You were told not to wander the castle alone at night!” he returned.
“I—”
“You were told not to wander the castle alone at night!”
She wrenched free from his hold and started quickly out of the chapel. He came up behind her, his strides long. She knew when he was almost upon her, and spun around. To her astonishment, he swept her up and threw her over his shoulder. The impetus robbed her of breath, and she couldn’t protest for several seconds. In that time, determined strides brought them to the stairway. As he took the first steps, she tried to rise against him, but the force of his angry movements sent her flopping back on his shoulder, breathless once again.
They passed the door to her room and came to the carved entry of his chambers. He pushed open the door with his foot, slammed it behind him in like manner and deposited her crudely in one of the great upholstered chairs before the hearth.
By then she was trembling in earnest, absolutely indignant. Her teeth were chattering and she gripped the sides of the chair, staring at him with eyes that all but spit fury as she said, “How dare you! I don’t care if you are the earl and I the child of a prostitute! How dare you!”
He was hunkered down before her, the flash of his blue gaze like a smoldering flame as he returned her anger. “How dare you! You were told not to wander. How can a guest abuse her position so blatantly?”
“Guest! I’m a prisoner.”
“You were told not to wander. What in God’s name would allow any sane person to seek out family crypts in the middle of the night—even if they hadn’t been told not to wander!”
“I heard…a noise.”
“Ah! So something might be wrong—that would make you rush right to it?”
She didn’t know why she had done what she had done, didn’t know how to explain to him that she had been compelled to go forward when all sanity suggested she retreat.
His next words stunned her.
“What are you really doing here?”
“What?”
“Which one of those bastards are you working for?”
“What?”
“There is an entry, right?”
“I don’t know what in God’s name you’re talking about!” she cried, suddenly alarmed. He was on fire, his jaw clenched, eyes brilliant, muscles constricting with such tension that she could feel the ripple even beneath the simple cotton shirt he wore. She recoiled on the chair.
“Good God! After
all this, don’t act the innocent with me,” he warned.
She exhaled, understanding then exactly what he meant. “You are not just a beast or a monster, but a lunatic!” she said icily. “You are obsessed, and you’ve come to see so much evil in life that you think it exists everywhere. I am not working for anyone—I work for the museum.”
“Why else wander naked in the night?” he demanded.
“I am not naked!”
“You might as well be,” he informed her.
She hadn’t realized that the nightgown was so sheer, or that words could have such a profound and instant effect upon one. She suddenly felt as if she burned, as if her flesh, blood and even bones were on fire. The sensation stole breath from her.
Then she wondered if it was the words that caused such a reaction, or the fact they were spoken by him. What was it about him?
For the first time in her life she felt a rush of hunger, of longing. She wanted to be held by him, to feel the molten-steel strength of his arms around her, the whisper of his voice in assurance rather than anger. She yearned to know the man beneath the mask, the man with fire and fury and raw determination.
“I—”
“You what?” he demanded.
She shook her head helplessly, hugging her arms around her chest. “I don’t know what to say to you. I don’t know how to prove that I have no evil intentions. Damn you! I’d help you if I could, if there were a way…don’t you see? But there is no way! We can’t put asps on trial. They cannot bear witness. Nor am I part of the hierarchy of the museum. I wasn’t employed there when the expedition took place. I wish that I could help you but I cannot!”
He was still for a long time, and when he did move, she froze at first, afraid that he intended some kind of violence. But to her amazement, he reached out for her, pulling her up and into his arms.
Just as she might have wished, desired…
He took the chair himself, cradling her there, his arms around her to give her warmth. “You’re shaking like a leaf blown in winter, you little fool,” he said gruffly. “Dammit, lass, I’m not going to tear you to shreds. I’m merely trying to give you warmth!”
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