Meredith couldn’t move, nor find the breath to fill her lungs. The fire crackled in the hearth, their labored breathing a counterpoint to the soft tap of snow against the windowpanes.
“I still want you to leave,” she said.
His head lifted from the mattress. “Don’t say that.”
She measured his critical gaze for a moment and then softly exhaled. “How does this”—she gestured weakly—“change anything?”
He rolled away, reaching for the sheet. “Does your meeting with Hamilton not make you suspicious in the least? A man whose interests serendipitously align with yours—the Rosetta stone and The Book of the Dead?”
She rolled her eyes, flinging an arm over her forehead. “Not this again,” she moaned.
He growled deep in his throat, a contemptuous sound, and glared at her for a second. “And what about the child’s toy from the nursery at Claire de Lune? How have you reconciled that bit of evidence?”
“Do not let’s begin again,” she muttered. “I don’t wish to hear it. So please leave.”
“I’m not leaving without you.”
Sitting up, she pulled a portion of the sheet around her shoulders. The silence was oppressive. At once pleased and disappointed that she’d locked the door to the room, she pushed a hand through the tumble of her hair. “Will you not give me some credit, Archer? Do you really believe that I would give over my independence for whatever it is you are offering?”
He looked at her, his expression swept clear of all emotion. “You hide behind these bluestocking notions, Meredith, when truly, they do not exist for you. You are a beautiful, passionate woman, and there’s no use denying it. Your father and Faron have much to answer for in terms of your unorthodox notions.”
She began to rise from the bed.
“Not just yet,” he murmured, grasping her wrist.
“Release me.” Her voice was cold.
“Because you are afraid to hear the truth.”
She was rigid, her gaze filled with rage. “Do not dare judge me or my past.” Each word was a chip of ice.
He raised a brow. “And why would I? You spend enough time there as it is.”
She seethed. “Did you ever think that I might be able to piece a few things together myself? Of course not, that would be too much to expect from even a bluestocking.” She edged closer to him on the bed, fearless now. “I know what I must do. I know the possible danger that Hamilton represents. I know better than anyone the implications of Rowena and Julia’s kaleidoscope from the nursery at Claire de Lune. And further,” she spat, “I know what I must do to confront my past.”
His gaze turned cynical. “I don’t believe you have the courage to finally leave the past behind—where it belongs.”
“You have no right—”
“I have every right. Particularly, when I see you marching straight into danger.”
“What do you mean?” As she rose to her knees, he hauled her back, his grip on her waist firm. The lamp at the side of the bed sputtered.
“You are going to France, to Claire de Lune, are you not?”
The sheet fell from her hands. She was not ready for this, never would be.
“Not so much to escape from danger,” he said slowly, “but to discover whether you still love him. Faron.”
The lamp at the bedside sputtered one last time and went out, leaving the room bathed in shadow and moonlight. It was difficult to ascertain the moment when she knew, except to note that the euphoria erupting at his touch had not dissipated and that she finally understood she’d been fooling herself. She tried to capture the memories, but like fine-grained sand, they slipped through her fingers. She could explain none of it, either to herself or to Archer. They faced each other on the bed in silence, still holding themselves away from each other, almost as if they were afraid to move closer, that one or the other would prove a phantom.
Then Archer said softly, “Come here.” He pulled her across the bed toward him, slipping his hands into her silky, dark red hair, drawing it forward over her shoulders.
“I have never seen hair this rich, this beautiful.” He traced her mouth with his fingers. “How can you doubt what happens when we come together?”
She tried to disguise the huskiness in her voice. “I don’t doubt it,” she said. “I’m just not sure what it means.”
He shook his head. “I know what it means.” He pulled his shirt over his head and tossed it aside. His nude torso was burnished by the remaining light, his virility impossible to ignore. “We have all night.”
Warming to the thought, Meredith stretched luxuriously, her breasts snagging his gaze. “We have all night,” she murmured, honey replacing the anger in her veins in a heartbeat.
“If you need proof”—his voice deepened to a gravel pitch—“look at what you’re doing to me.” His erection surged higher. There was a stomach-wrenching jolt when he touched her and she knew that she’d made the right decision. His scent flooded her senses as his hands slid over her shoulders, arms wrapped around her, locking her tightly against him. His mouth came down on hers. Without letting go of each other, they fell back into the enormous bed.
Meredith kissed him hungrily, tongue twining with his. He slid one hand under the batiste of her chemise and rolled it off her with an impatient tug. And then she reacted as he knew she would, helpless to do otherwise. They wanted each other again, there and then. From the waist down she moved under his hands with slight rotations of her bottom. He fondled her everywhere, parting the shadows, viewing her, telling her how beautiful she was and how wondrous their coming together had been. He teased and taunted her with memories, the memories that they had made together, driving them both further down the road toward momentary oblivion. He knew how to set her aflame, how to hold back to increase the pleasure. He thrust swiftly, deeply and after one powerful movement, Meredith placed a hand over her mouth to stifle her moans, abandoning the world as she rode out her orgasm.
He stayed with her, never stopping the careening pleasure, continuing until she crested again, slowing only when they came together. When he finally withdrew for the last time, his hands still on her slender hips, he pulled her into his arms. Neither of them moved.
“I won’t let you go. You know that, don’t you?” he finally said as the pale light of morning leaked into the bedchamber.
She turned her head toward the pillow. “I know,” she said softly. “But I must resolve this, as only I can.”
“With me by your side,” he growled, temper and passion rising within him.
“There is no need to be so high-handed, Archer.” Her fists clenched in the sheets.
“Trust me. I’m not usually like this. Only with you. I don’t seem to have any other way of expressing my feelings.”
“I do trust you. In every way,” Meredith said, forcing a calm into her voice she didn’t feel.
Archer loomed over her in the bed and took her head between his hands, his fingers in her hair. “You don’t know how long I’ve waited to hear those words,” he said savagely.
“I trust you,” she repeated, the notion entirely foreign. “But on my own terms.”
His fingers tightened in her hair with passionate intensity, his eyes darkening. “I will be there, at the Fitzwilliam,” he said darkly. He brought his mouth to hers and the instant before their lips touched, Meredith knew she was truly lost.
Chapter 13
The Fitzwilliam Museum was hard to ignore, a looming neoclassical building with an aggressive portico on Trumpington Street. It was decked out in full Corinthian style, unparalleled in a university town that was accustomed to architectural marvels. The entrance to the museum was suitably impressive, approached by two flights of ascending stairs.
The collections of the department of antiquities offered superlative galleries displaying Egyptian artifacts, ranging from stone and wooden coffins to painted pottery, marble portraits, figurines and cuneiform tablets. The treasures had grown over the centuries through th
e vagaries of archeological explorations and imperial theft, the upheavals of war and the passage of history.
Lord Archer had arrived early, his anxiety deepening with each passing moment. He still felt the weight of it, here in the museum’s atrium, just as he had when he’d slipped with heavy reluctance out of Meredith’s bedchamber earlier that morning. Upon her terms, as she’d dictated, and against his better judgment.
He felt like a rutting schoolboy, as though last night and a million more would never be enough. All the previous affairs, all the entanglements in his life, had simply fallen away. He only remembered Meredith Woolcott as his lover, remembered the sensation of her long legs clenched around him, her face buried in his shoulder, the unmistakable sighs of a well-satisfied woman. He’d nuzzled the soft skin of her neck when she’d curled up against him, pillowed her head on his chest, a hand lazily circling his ribs. And then she kissed him again, lingeringly, before settling into his arms and seeming to immediately fall asleep. He lay there for what felt like hours, watching her, his head swimming with plans before he finally moved from beneath the covers, pulled on his clothes and slipped through the window from which he’d come.
A light crowd now circled the atrium, perusing guidebooks, brandishing umbrellas and wearing studious expressions. Although taller than most men, Archer knew how to lose himself in a crowd, fading into insignificance, edging himself close to the porter’s office, his eyes scanning the expanse of marble and stone. He shoved a hand through his hair and kneaded the muscles bunched at the base of his neck. Lack of sleep sent an exhilarating rush through his bloodstream. Meredith had finally let him in, allowed him his victory. The intensity of her response attested to the transformation of their relationship. From the first instant he’d set eyes upon her in the drafty entrance hall of Montfort, he’d sensed that she was like no other woman. But now, months later, he understood how it had all begun, understood her passion, her intellect and her courage. Difficulties aside, including her pride, her stubbornness and her acute need for privacy, he had little intention of leaving her vulnerable to Faron’s ghost, particularly now that the pursuit had taken a distinctly aggressive turn.
Archer had not wanted to learn in the eleventh hour that Crompton was part of the chase. Brutal beneath a thin veneer of civility, Lowther’s henchman had just raised the stakes. Archer’s gut tightened.
He had never counted upon finding himself entirely consumed by an unfathomable contempt for what he’d done, what he had promised to do. Accusing Meredith of clinging to the past was rich when he himself refused to admit what was right before his eyes. No matter that he’d never experienced such consuming desire or incomprehensible pleasure as when he was with Lady Meredith Woolcott, the fact remained—this woman was the first weakness he’d ever known.
In the old days, once he was seated behind his desk delving into mounds of briefs or at the helm of The Brigand, a singular woman would be forgotten in the amount of time it took to wash her perfume from his skin. Unbidden, he remembered Camille’s words. And he smiled, aware that he was no longer running away.
Ignoring consequences was what he did best, usually as a gambit to keep boredom at bay. But this was entirely different. He knew only that he would protect Meredith Woolcott from the specter of Faron—and Crompton—with his last breath. To hell with carefully laid plans created solely for the sake of preserving Whitehall’s flow of information. To hell with safeguarding the ancient artifacts whose provenance was murky at best. And to hell with anyone like Hamilton or Crompton that got in his way. A buoyancy suffused his being, as if the shackles he’d borne for years had fallen from his shoulders and limbs.
A few moments later, he glanced at the open doors of the museum. A coach emerged onto the square, a light mist enveloping it with an eerie sheen. Several other coaches clogged the boulevard, along with growing crowds hurrying to take in the exhibits. Five men in top hats and afternoon suits slipped from one of the conveyances and mingled with the crush now spilling through the Fitzwilliam’s doors. Archer heard Crompton’s voice before he saw him, the man’s booming tones reminiscent of a night not long ago in the belly of the British Museum. Elocution lessons could not quite change the long vowels bequeathed by an East London childhood. Short but stockily built, Crompton moved through the doors and into the crowd brandishing a walking stick, the superb tailoring of his suit coat sitting awkwardly on his shoulders. He looked like the pugilist he once was.
And then he saw her, with Hamilton. The dark red hair, the full lips, under a small cloche bonnet, hiding her expression. He swallowed thickly, lust and fear for her rushing through him, fire shooting from heart to groin. She moved like a beacon in the crowd, the dark blue of her dress standing out against the dull browns of the greatcoats surrounding her.
Archer pushed himself away from the wall, veering left into a narrow passage that led to the rear of the building and closer to the Egyptian antiquities. His eyes never stopped tracking her, though she moved in the opposite direction.
Something jabbed into Archer’s ribs. “I would advise you to let Lady Woolcott go about her business, Lord Archer.” Archer glanced at a man who shared his height but was at least two stone heavier. It would take nothing to disarm him, but he was not quite ready to do so. Instead, he poked the bear with a stick. “I’ll make that decision,” he said coolly. His response elicited a deeper jab of the pistol into his ribs. Archer sensed the eagerness in the man’s heavy finger as it slipped over the pistol’s trigger.
On his other side, another man, with a ginger beard, appeared and it was clear that he had a weapon tucked within his greatcoat. Yet they looked, by all outward appearances, like any of the other gentlemen in attendance, ready to partake of great cultural offerings.
“Wonderful day for a stroll,” Archer said, as they turned into a corridor leading to a flight of stairs. They had been ready for him, but not prepared well enough. When they entered the coolness of the stairwell, he decided he’d had quite enough. With sudden violence, he thrust himself at both men, simultaneously twisting the pistol from one grip while deftly extracting the other from the ginger-haired man’s waistband. The larger of the two retreated a step, but not soon enough. In a series of rapid blows, they crumpled at his feet. With careful calibration, Archer had ensured the injuries were minor; both men were still able to speak.
“Now,” Archer said, pocketing one pistol, his breath even, “let’s review our options again.” He aimed the second pistol with enviable nonchalance. “You may begin by telling me what Crompton is doing masquerading as the Earl of Warthaven?”
A voice came from behind him. “Why don’t you ask me yourself?” Crompton hovered on the landing above, a pistol shoved against the back of Archer’s head.
“We meet again,” Archer said.
“It seems like only yesterday,” Crompton concurred, his elocution overly precise, his vowels smooth. “The British Museum, am I correct? Your colleague Rushford displayed a particular penchant for punishment, if I recall. And I assume you, Lord Archer, were along for a lark.”
The stairwell was narrow, voices bouncing off the elongated space. “Good thing I came along,” he continued, motioning for the two men at Archer’s feet to rise. “I suppose some assignments must be accomplished on one’s own. I don’t much care for the mess you made of my men, Lord Archer.”
Archer shrugged, heedless of the snub nose of a pistol at his head. “You might think to choose better next time.”
Crompton nodded contemplatively. “I shall take that under advisement. Thank you. In the interim, please keep your hands precisely where they are.” He gestured for his men to reclaim their weapons, which they did with haste.
“Why are you at Warthaven?”
A flicker rose in Crompton’s small brown eyes. “Useless question. You will not live long enough for the answer to make a difference.”
“Has Faron promised you an English castle of your own? Or perhaps a packet of sovereigns is all it takes to buy your loy
alty?”
Crompton pursed his lips, leaning against the balustrade. “While you are asking useless questions, I am considering whether you will take your last breath here in this narrow, mean corridor, or whether I will have my men throw you into the Thames. Perhaps I should leave the choice up to you.”
Archer crossed his arms over his chest, the innocent movement causing the two men, still wiping trickles of blood from their faces, to startle. “You’re certainly taking your time.”
“My prerogative,” Crompton tossed off.
“And what has all this to do with Lady Woolcott?”
Crompton puffed in derision. “As though you have to ask, Lord Archer.” He continued genially, “You know how difficult the Woolcott women are. And yet in the case of Lady Woolcott, useful at long last.”
Archer’s eyes flicked toward his. “In terms of her expertise.”
“Lord Archer,” Crompton reminded him, still deceptively gentle, “it is quite apparent that Lady Woolcott presents us with a host of possibilities, none of which I choose to discuss with you at the moment. Or ever, for that matter.”
Under the glass, the papyrus glowed, a four-thousand-year-old testament once placed in the tomb of a deceased nobleman to keep him company on his perilous journey through the netherworld of the afterlife. Suddenly finding themselves alone, Meredith and Hamilton lingered over the magical inscription. It was breathtaking, the hieroglyphics dancing across time and space, their secrets unfolding before their eyes.
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