“Yes?”
“With a mummy’s arm in her hands!”
“Evelyn, it is the department of Egyptology.”
“Yes, yes, but what normal young woman runs around with body parts?”
“She must have had it for a reason.”
“Maybe, but her behavior was beyond strange. She was totally disheveled, covered in all that tomb dust, hair escaping, somewhat ashen. And walking around with a petrified arm.”
“Evelyn, you’ve been there when large grave sites were discovered. Locals and foreigners alike have used petrified mummies like firewood.”
“Yes, but even I really don’t like handling them!” she said with a shiver.
“How did the fitting go?” he asked, changing the subject.
Evelyn was silent a minute.
“Was anything wrong?”
“No. Everything was right. Unbelievably right,” Evelyn murmured.
“Well, then…?”
“I don’t know. I’m worried, I suppose. Well, let me go fetch our little mummy-loving belle for you.” She rose and left him, pausing at the door one last time to look back, “I’m sorry, Brian. Yes, it was my idea, but the girl is weird.”
Puzzled, he watched Evelyn go. Since he’d taken his old character of Arboc to the museum, he’d followed people, assessed their work. Nothing out of the ordinary had taken place, nothing at all. But something must have happened today!
Another tap on the door signaled Camille’s arrival. He bid her enter and told her gravely, “Good evening, Miss Montgomery.”
“Good evening.”
Her hair was damp, he noted. She had apparently bathed upon her return to the castle, taking precious moments from her time with her guardian before their nightly meal. Had the mummy dust been too much?
He pulled out her chair, poured the wine, then took his seat across the table from her.
“Long day?”
“Yes, it seemed so,” she murmured.
“Did anything happen out of the ordinary?”
“Everything was out of the ordinary.”
“Oh?”
“No one seemed to be working today.”
“Sir John didn’t come in?”
“No, he was in, but he left. Under peculiar circumstances,” she informed him, eyes on his. “He had to give a lecture in the reading room. I went out to find him to discuss a piece referred to in the hieroglyphs. He wasn’t there, but a clipping about your parents’ last expedition was on his desk. His little jackknife was on the desk, as well—with the blade through his face in the picture.”
“Interesting. Go on.”
“Well, Sir John returned and was very distraught. Then he left.”
“Do you think he’s being blackmailed?” Brian asked.
“Blackmailed!”
“Yes, it happens. As you know.”
“Um,” she murmured dryly. “You think he knows something and he’s being threatened?”
“Possibly.”
“Do you know anything about a golden cobra with jeweled eyes?” she asked him.
“A golden cobra? No. I never saw such a piece listed, not on the crates that came here or those that went to the museum. The cobra was the symbol for royalty, of course, but I haven’t heard of many such pieces. Was it supposed to be part of a funerary mask?”
“I don’t think so. I don’t know. But it’s mentioned in the text I translated.”
She leaned forward suddenly, looking at him intently. “I’ve been thinking, trying desperately to sort this all out. You truly believe that your parents were murdered, and that may well be what happened. But there must be a reason, a…”
“Motive?”
“Yes, exactly. If someone working at the museum really wanted to steal something for a great deal of money, well…there are many pieces worth a fortune. Yet to sell something here, in England, even illegally, well…someone would surely find out. Why have such a treasure without being able to show it off?”
“One might well find such a piece and get it to France, the United States, or some other country,” he told her.
She nodded. “But still, if we’re talking about someone at the museum, they would have the opportunity to steal many an object.”
“But those objects on display are all recorded, accounted for,” he said simply. “My turn. What else happened today?”
She eased back and shrugged. He thought that she was watching him carefully, weighing her words.
“Sir John dropped his keys. I used them to get into the storage room.”
“And is that where you decided to inspect a mummy’s arm?”
She looked at him with stark surprise.
“A little bird with a big beak told me,” he said.
“You see, there was someone in there with me, and the lights went out.”
He frowned fiercely, tension constricting his muscles. “You know that someone else was in there, and the place went black? Are you certain?”
She was staring back at him evenly. “Yes. Actually, I think it was Mrs. Prior in there with me. I’m going to assume Mrs. Prior is the little bird with the big beak.”
“What!” He was so startled that he stood, not realizing he towered over her, or that his voice was harsh and rasping.
Her features went rigid. She didn’t cower or back away. “I told you, none of the usual workers were in the museum. But Mrs. Prior was there.”
“Yes, at the museum, and you found her in the offices. As to lurking around with the mummies, may I remind you that Evelyn was not just mother’s lady’s maid, she was her best friend.”
She stood, as well, leaning toward him, her teeth clenched, her eyes flashing. “Fine! You started this, bringing me here every night to question me. I’ve tried to give you answers as honestly as I can. You ask, I answer. I’m sorry if you don’t like the answers I give!”
“Are you supposed to be in that storeroom?” he demanded.
Her eyes faltered.
“Don’t go in it again. Don’t go anywhere in the museum where there aren’t other people and lights, do you understand?”
“You are constantly asking me if I understand!” she cried. “Yes, I understand! You lost people you loved dearly. You owe it to them to know the truth. Yes, I understand! That someone might be dangerous, yes, I understand. You’re using me in your own pursuits, yes, I understand that, as well. You’re the fierce, rich, titled Earl of Carlyle, I even understand that. But I am heartily tired of you shouting at me, roaring like a beast. Do you understand?”
Her passionate outburst startled him into utter silence. With her words out, though, she, too, appeared at a loss, an impasse, not sure whether to fight further or retreat. She chose retreat, a dignified retreat. Tossing her napkin down on the table, she said, “Forgive me, Lord Stirling. It has been an excruciatingly long day.”
She turned, heading for the door.
“Lock yourself in,” he told her harshly.
At the door she paused, turning back. “Yes, I understand. And don’t come out at night, because God alone knows what really goes on here!”
“That’s what I’m trying to find out, Miss Montgomery.”
“At the cost of all else!” she informed him.
With that she exited, not slamming the door but closing it firmly in her wake.
He was stunned at the sudden coldness, the loss of life and vitality that seemed to pervade the room. He was tempted to race after her, to stop her in the hallway and drag her back, by force if necessary. She didn’t understand…And he didn’t understand himself.
He swore vociferously. Ajax whined. He looked over to the hearth. “Sorry, old boy!” he said, gaining control. Good God, she was the ward of a thief who had just happened in here, and he was the damn Earl of Carlyle! A beast. An image he had created himself and seemed to be maintaining quite well.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
HE WAS CERTAINLY the most infuriating creature on earth, Camille decided. She hadn’t slammed his door, e
xiting with all the dignity she could muster, but she slammed her own, simply because it felt good. Really good. She hoped she broke it, ripped the hinges right off!
But, of course, she didn’t. The hinges and the door were solid. Ancient. They’d been working for hundreds of years and they would continue to do so.
She prowled the room restlessly, furious, and not completely sure why. He asked her to be his eyes and ears and then he didn’t trust her! So he had known his precious Evelyn for years. She had been his mother’s best friend. She was…What? Was she more to him? Another mistress? And the child, Ally…
“Why do I care?” she whispered miserably to herself.
But she did care. Even when she was furious with him, he was everything. A towering figure, seeming so indomitable, keyed with constant energy and fire. She knew the sound of his voice so well, the length of his fingers. She had watched his hands time and time again, and his eyes…
“He is a monster,” she said aloud, but she knew the real problem was that she did understand him. And she was drawn to him for his passion and fury just as much as she was drawn to him for that gentle, tender side she had glimpsed so briefly.
She paced the room, admitting to herself that perhaps she shouldn’t have suggested that someone he apparently loved and trusted might be working against him. It had just been a suspicion on her part, nothing solid.
Her fire was dying. She prodded the logs and ashes, took a deep breath and reminded herself that tomorrow would be a longer day. The fund-raiser would last long into the night. And she had her gown, her beautiful gown. For a few minutes, she would be able to shine, to dance in his arms.
Biting her lower lip, she changed into the nightgown Evelyn had supplied for her and crawled into bed. But she was loath to douse the lights completely, so she allowed the little lamp at her bedside to burn. She beat her pillow, determined that she was going to sleep.
She lay awake.
She wasn’t afraid of mummies or curses. But that day, with the dead and all that they had taken with them to their graves, she had felt a terrible chill. And when she had heard that voice…She tossed, hit the pillow again and then went dead still.
There it was again…that sound. Like a scrape against rock from deep below. It was almost as if the castle were a living entity itself, groaning from the depths of its being.
She shot out of bed, listening. Nothing. Then…again.
She hesitated, frightened, yet so weary of being afraid that she wanted to race out into the hall, turn on all the lights, cry out her presence and demand to know why everyone wasn’t awake and searching.
No! She couldn’t race into the hall. Right or wrong, something warned her not to do so. Then her eyes fell upon the portrait of Nefertiti and she remembered his words.
If you need me, just pull on the left side of the portrait.
She hesitated, recalling how they had parted. But she couldn’t stand it any longer, so she walked resolutely to the portrait, set her hand upon the left side and pulled.
The wall opened toward her. It was dark within his chambers, but there was a soft glow from his hearth.
“Brian?” She whispered his name.
Then she longed to close the panel, pretend that she had never opened it. She was suddenly aware of exactly why she hadn’t gone into the hall screaming. She wanted to go to him alone. She still wasn’t certain that he wasn’t a little mad, that he hadn’t taken his quest so far that he was creating the drama around him. Yet…
“Camille?”
His voice came to her, rich and reassuring through the shadows. And all anger was gone.
She stepped in, still half blinded by the dimness. He had risen and was wrapping a robe around himself, coming toward her.
“Did you hear it?” she whispered.
“Come in,” he said, and she found herself doing so, shivering once she was on the other side of the panel. The fire burned low. She could make out the massive, draped and canopied bed, the wardrobe before it. A record player sat on a table to the right, and books and newspapers were scattered on various dressers and tables.
“Did you hear it?” she asked him.
“Yes,” he said. And then he added, “Stay here.”
“No!”
“Camille, I’m begging you, listen to me, please.”
She realized then that the dog was by his side, whining softly. She saw Brian, felt him, sensed him, as he stepped by her, securing the hidden door. She couldn’t make out the painting that had caused it to open from his side.
His hands fell on her shoulders. She knew then, too, that before he had slipped on his robe, he had gone for his mask. She found herself wondering just how hideous his face might be. And not caring.
“Stay, please.”
“But—”
“Camille, someone is playing for keeps.”
“I don’t want to stay alone!” she told him.
“I’ll leave the dog.”
“No! You need to take Ajax with you.”
“I doubt that I’ll discover more tonight than before. The noise always stops before I find the source. Please, Camille, wait here. Lock yourself in.”
He must have decided to trust her, because he left without her agreeing, going out through the sitting room. She followed him, locking the door as he had commanded.
She turned around. There was more light here. Perhaps his grounds were a wild tangle, but the room had been cleared of their dinner and appeared spotless. She saw the small occasional table with its decanter of brandy and rushed to it, deciding to help herself. As she sipped it, she wondered if he didn’t have at least a small suspicion that danger might come from within his own house. Why else insist that she lock herself in all the time?
She started, hearing a noise, closer this time. She turned around. And then she wasn’t sure…Was someone trying the knob to the door? Had it turned or had she just imagined it? Was it twisting again?
BRIAN HURRIED DOWN the stairs, Ajax at his heels. It had taken Brian months, but he knew that the source of the noise came from the crypts.
He crossed through the great hall, the ballroom, into the chapel and then, as silently as possible, followed the stairs down.
On the crypt level, he came first to the large, cold, outer chamber. At one time it had housed instruments of torture, but that was long ago. It had been a workroom and storage area for his parents. There were two desks, his father’s and his mother’s, file cabinets, boxes and a number of the artifacts they had kept themselves for study. Cartons from the last expedition were piled high, some that he had gone through, some which he had not. All were neatly catalogued.
Beyond the main chamber were the family crypts. His parents were not there. They rested in Carlyle Church, centered in the farmland that surrounded the castle. No one had been interred in the family crypts in over a hundred years. The massive iron gates that separated the burials from the workroom hadn’t even been oiled in aeons.
Ajax sniffed and barked and ran around the workroom. At last he stopped, sat, looked at Brian. The noise hadn’t come again.
“Good thing I don’t believe my own ancestors are rising, boy, eh?” he asked. He had gone over every inch of the stone that made up the work area. Now, he stared at the rusting iron gates.
“Tomorrow we get an iron worker in here,” he said softly. “Come on, boy. There’s nothing to find tonight.”
Ajax followed him as he made his way back up the stairs. The castle seemed empty and yet mocking as he walked back through the great rooms. At his own door, he tapped lightly. It swung open immediately.
She was there, eyes brilliant, hair free and flowing down her shoulders. And that gown…sheer, soft, floating about her form like a wisp of cloud. He could actually see the beat of her heart as it thundered against her chest.
He pulled her to him before even closing the door. “What’s wrong?” he murmured.
She didn’t pull away. She lay against his chest. At length, he felt her shake her head
.
“Night, darkness, the human imagination,” she whispered in return. Then she pulled back, searching out his eyes again. “There was nothing…no one, right?”
“Oh, there is someone. I didn’t find anything tonight, but I will.” He smoothed back her hair. An ungodly agony suddenly burned through him. He needed to step away, but he didn’t.
“You’re cold again,” he said. She shivered with a tremendous energy and every measure of movement against him was a stroke of the sweetest touch, bringing about a rise of heat that should have surely consumed them both.
“Cold,” he murmured again, but the word that echoed in his mind was anything but. Her hair, so subtly scented, teased his chin and nose. Simply breathing was intoxicating. She lifted her head, and the eyes that met his were bright. He felt again that he could drown in the color, the marbling of emerald and gold, dark and light in one, the mere crystal of the tone allowing for a sheen that mesmerized. He touched her cheek with his knuckles, wanting to assure, and finding that his throat was thick, his jaw all but locked.
She whispered, “Not with you.”
A groan ripped from his lips. He cupped her chin, his thumb padding over her lips before his mouth moved down upon hers. All the tension leashed within him became a vibrant explosion of want and need and desire. She tasted sweetly of brandy and mint. Her lips held for a moment, then gave. Again, he felt that he would drown in the wild sweep of staggering liquid and warmth the depths of her mouth seemed to promise. He was a man of reason and logic, but both fled. His fingers tangled into her hair, and just the silk of it was another unbearable sensation against his flesh. His hand swept down the perfect line of her back, cradled her hips, curved over her buttocks and drew her ever closer. Her fingers crept around his neck, and he realized that she, too, had discovered any bit of space between them to be too much. She craved the erotic contact of flesh against flesh, figure against form. Warning voices arose at the back of his mind and were promptly dispelled in another wave of stark desire.
He lifted her, swiftly striding into the next room where the massive bed awaited in the gloom lit only by dying embers. At her side, he hungered. As if some long-dormant energy had exploded from the deep, he felt the electricity of life and longing rip violently through him. His fingers played upon her face. Again he found her lips. His hands strayed over the gossamer fabric of her gown and found the fire beneath, the heat of her body and the feminine perfection of it. His fingers teased her collarbone and the fullness of her breast. She moved against him, volatile, smooth…a little gasp escaping her lips beneath the frenzied onslaught of his kisses.
Wicked Page 18
