She stilled as she heard movement in the room adjacent to her own; the sound of feet and a splash of water. And then the door next to hers opened and Raven stepped out onto the balcony.
He wasn’t wearing a shirt. She almost groaned. He was like some bad genie, always appearing at the most inconvenient times, making her yearn for wishes he had no intention of granting.
He held a clean shirt bunched in his fist and Heloise couldn’t prevent her gaze from sliding over the intriguing ridges of his chest. He was lean and muscular, with broad shoulders that tapered over his ribs to narrow hips and long, long legs. His tawny skin was smooth, except for an intriguing line of hair below his navel that arrowed down and disappeared into the waistband of his breeches.
She swallowed. With great strength of will she dragged her eyes up to his face. His jaw was clean shaven and his hair damp, and his mouth held that annoying half curl at the corners that said he knew exactly what she was thinking. She drew her brows together in a stern, disapproving line. “Put some clothes on, Ravenwood.”
He laughed. The muscles on his stomach tensed in relay as he raised the shirt and pulled it over his head, completely unself-conscious. She stifled a private moan of disappointment. He might be a scoundrel, but there was no denying he was pleasing to the eye.
He treated her to a slow head-to-toe sweep that left her body tingling. “What’s this? Brushed hair? Clean face? A dress? You look almost female.”
She narrowed her eyes and subjected him to the same leisurely inspection. “Why, thank you. You look almost civilized.”
He laughed and offered her his bent arm. “Ready? Or do you need more time to sharpen your tongue?”
—
“Thank you, Private Canning.”
Major Scovell nodded at the young soldier, no older that eighteen or nineteen, who served them tea from a huge silver tray. The china was beautiful, although Heloise couldn’t help noticing that every single piece had a hairline crack or a chip to the rim. She smiled, comforted by the familiar ritual that was afternoon tea, the last bastion of Englishness in an exotic land.
“Thank you.” She smiled graciously and accepted a cup.
The young soldier flushed beet red at the attention. “Welcome, ma’am.”
Raven caught the boy’s eye and the private hastily backed away.
“Do try one of these.” Scovell offered forward a plate of small, silk-wrapped parcels. “It’s a delicacy they bring here from Istanbul. The locals call it lokum, from the Arabic for ‘morsel’ or ‘mouthful.’ ”
“How interesting. The history of words is a particular hobby of mine, you know.” She stole an amused glance at Raven and unwrapped one of the sweets to reveal a pale pink cube covered in a light dusting of white powder. She took an experimental bite and closed her eyes in pleasure at the tooth-aching sweetness that melted on her tongue. It was delicate and exotic, like rosewater mixed with honey.
Unable to resist, she leaned forward and took another. What a sinful, decadent taste. As she licked her fingers to remove the dusting of powdered sugar she became aware of Raven watching her, his eyes fixed on her mouth. Her lips tingled and something seemed to stretch taut between them, like an invisible thread. Her blood warmed. She licked her lip. A muscle ticked in Raven’s jaw.
Scovell broke the moment, unaware of their silent byplay. “Legend has it the sultan requested his artisans provide something that would stop the women in his harem from fighting.” He chuckled. “This was the answer.”
Heloise took a calming sip of tea. “A better solution would have been to stop having a harem,” she countered sternly.
“I like this one better,” Raven murmured. “Hold still.” He leaned forward and caught her chin between his fingers. “You have some on your lip.”
Heloise sat paralyzed as he casually traced the contour of her top lip with the pad of his thumb, under the guise of friendly, impartial help. Her heart rate doubled.
“There.” He leaned back, licked his thumb clean, and turned to Scovell with a bland, innocent smile. “Delicious.”
Scovell, thankfully, was too busy drinking his tea to notice the shocking intimacy of Raven’s gesture. Heloise tightened her fingers on the handle of her teacup. The wretch turned her brain to mush. Even worse, he knew it.
“Raven explained the situation to me,” Scovell said heartily. “I must say, I think your determination to find your missing colleague is commendable. And I do indeed have several messages written in the same code you’ve cracked, which we could decipher together.” He smiled eagerly. “I’m extremely keen for you to show me how you did it. This code has been annoying me for months.”
Heloise nodded, grateful for the distraction. “I’m as eager as you are to read them, Major. We’re hoping one of them might contain another mention of Kit Carlisle.”
—
The library of the palace filled Heloise with instant envy. She craned her neck to take in the wall-to-ceiling shelves and the pierced metal rail that ran around the balcony of the second tier. The familiar scent of leather bindings and dust lingered in the air and made her feel instantly at home.
She walked over and touched an astrolabe—a scale model of the solar system with concentric brass rings and tiny metal balls depicting the planets in orbit around the central sun—and set it in motion with a light touch of her hand. The planets started to swing and circle one another like dancers in a graceful celestial waltz. It reminded her of the Ancient Egyptian story of the sun and the moon, chasing each other around the heavens. According to legend, they were doomed lovers who never met except for a few stolen moments at dusk and dawn. The thought was depressing. That was just like her and Raven, always destined to be on opposing paths.
“We have eight messages awaiting translation.” Scovell handed her a pile of papers and she glanced down eagerly.
“Can I have a pencil and paper?”
“Of course.” Scovell hastened to make room at a handsome bureau plat and pulled out a chair for her. He dragged another over and positioned himself next to her. Raven took up residence in a comfy-looking wing armchair some distance away and sprawled at his ease, watching them.
Heloise began scribbling notes, and Scovell watched closely.
“I am in awe of your skills, my dear,” he said.
Heloise blushed. “I’ve only built upon the methods I learned from your work.” She glanced at Raven and saw him roll his eyes at what he no doubt considered a nauseous display of mutual admiration. She bent to the paper once more. “It takes a certain fiendish brilliance to come up with a code as ingenious as this. I have a great deal of respect for whoever it was, even if they are, technically, the enemy.”
Raven’s jaw clenched. “You admire some cross-eyed French linguistic freak?”
“Speaking as a fellow freak, yes.”
“Well, you’re never going to meet him, whoever he is.” Raven snapped. “Get back to work.”
Chapter 19
Raven sprawled in his chair and watched the unlikely duo at the desk. Scovell, blustery and gray-haired, Heloise, petite and perfect. Both equally brilliant.
They were clearly having a wonderful time debating the pros and cons of something called multiple substitution. They kept muttering words like “polyalphabetic cypher” and “anagramming” and he had absolutely no idea what they were talking about. He wasn’t usually the stupidest person in the room, and the feeling of being excluded stung. He drummed his fingers on the arms of his chair.
Heloise’s face was animated as she explained her workings and the old man was leaning toward her, enraptured. He had no interest in her except as a fascinating colleague, but Raven still wanted to throw him out the window.
Come to think of it, he hadn’t liked the way that young soldier, Canning, had looked at her, either. The randy little sod probably hadn’t seen a decent woman in months. Raven frowned at the rush of possessiveness that filled his chest. Heloise needed to be protected. She was under his aegis, his responsibility.
> He remembered with awful clarity the way she’d looked when he’d pulled her from the river; her face pinched and pale, her eyes dazed and far away, still lost in remembered horrors. Something raw and painful had stirred in his chest then, too, as he’d held her. He’d been seized by a sudden urgent tenderness, a need to comfort and protect. To give it all, his strength, his warmth, his life, whatever she needed to make her better. He shook his head. What was she doing to him?
He watched as she bit her lower lip in concentration. Naturally that made him think about kissing her. She’d taste of rosewater, like that pink lokum. He tapped his thigh, impatient with himself. He needed some air.
He stood and strode to the door. “I’ll leave you to it.”
Neither of them looked up. He suppressed a growl, even though he knew he was being churlish. He’d brought her here to read the codes, as much as to keep her safe. He couldn’t complain when she actually did it.
He headed out into the city and spent a couple of hours reacquainting himself with old haunts, making contact with a couple of informants. He was on his way back to the palacio when he saw the bookstore. Buying her a gift was ridiculously impractical. But he’d seen it in the window and known instantly that she’d want it. And that had been reason enough.
In the courtyard he met Scovell, who told him Heloise was still ensconced in the library. She was so absorbed in her work that she didn’t hear him push open the door. He leaned on the doorframe and watched her in silence. Dust particles danced in the rays of light that slanted in through the windows. The pink-gold tinge gilded her hair and caressed the curve of her cheek, as if even the sun felt compelled to touch her.
Heloise, of course, was oblivious to the picture she made, head down, studying. He could hear the faint scratch of pen on paper as she made her copious notes. She made a small huff of frustration and crossed something out with a vicious swipe of the pen, then balled the paper in her fist and groaned.
“Time to take a break.”
She jumped, then glanced at the windows with a slow blink of wonder.
“Oh. I hadn’t realized it was so late. Major Scovell went to talk to his men.”
She rubbed the back of her neck and rolled her shoulders. The movement squeezed her breasts up and together above her bodice.
“I found something for you. While I was out. I thought you’d enjoy it,” Raven said.
He placed the large book in front of her on the desk with a thump.
She read the embossed gilt letters and glanced up at him in amazement. “Description de l’Égypte. For me? Truly?”
“Think of it as a reward for crossing that river.”
He hid a smile at her evident delight. She looked like a child on Christmas morning, wide-eyed with disbelief as she stroked the linen cover. “Goodness! Thank you.”
He felt her smile like a punch to the gut. She opened the book and he leaned over her shoulder, shamelessly exploiting the opportunity for proximity. Her tantalizing midnight-and-roses scent wrapped around him and sank into his bones.
His elevated position afforded him a lovely view of the smooth curves of her breasts and the shadowed valley in between. With a superhuman effort, he forced his eyes back to the book. The illustration was of a tomb interior. “What’s happening here?”
Heloise pointed to a set of giant scales. “Anubis is accompanying the dead to the Hall of Ma’at to have judgment. Their soul is weighed on the scales, see.”
Raven murmured something appropriate. At least, he hoped he did. Her nearness was playing havoc with his brain.
“You’ve heard the phrase ‘my heart’s as light as a feather’ and the word ‘heavyhearted’? They come from the Egyptian.” She moved her finger. “The soul is weighed against the feather of Ma’at. If the good deeds outweigh the bad, they’re escorted to the afterlife. If not, they’re given up to the fearsome Ammit, ‘the devourer.’ ” She pointed to a hideous goddess with a crocodile head, a lion’s body, and the rear end of a hippo. “She eats the souls of the unworthy.”
“No wonder she’s so fat.”
Heloise turned the page and pointed to an illustration of a stately cat. “Bastet is the goddess of protection. She’s also known as Pasht, which is the root of our word ‘passion.’ ”
A pink flush warmed her cheeks.
“I thought we agreed no more etymology?”
She gave a martyred sigh. “In Book of the Dead she’s mentioned as destroying the bodies of the deceased with the royal flame if they failed the judgment.”
Raven raised his brows. “So she’s Anubis’s partner in crime? Fancy that, a cat and a dog in harmony.”
She ignored his teasing and pointed to the figures in another illustration. “Look here. The women are the same size as men, indicating they had equal status. I sometimes think we’ve gone backward in terms of female emancipation. It’s worse now than it was thousands of years ago. A woman today is basically a chattel, but in Ancient Egypt women inherited land and property, made detailed prenuptial agreements, and received fair treatment in cases of divorce.”
“No wonder the civilization died out,” Raven teased, and watched in fascination as a furious blush made its way up her neck and across her cheeks. He never got tired of baiting her.
“Women’s minds are as strong and as cunning as men’s!” she fumed.
He injected just the right amount of skeptical scorn into his tone to infuriate her. “You think you’re a man’s equal?”
“Of course I do! The only reason everyone thinks we’re less intelligent is because we’re continually denied the right to an equivalent education. If that were remedied I’m convinced there would be equal numbers of females in every single profession.”
He leaned in closer. “Mentally, perhaps, you might have a point. But you can’t claim to be physical equals.”
She rolled her eyes. “Of course not. Women have no need to develop muscles. We have you men to do all the mundane jobs, like lifting heavy objects.”
“You don’t need to keep proving yourself as capable as your brothers, you know.”
She jerked away from him. “I know that.”
“It wasn’t a criticism,” he said. “Don’t ever think that what you do is any less important than fighting. Your mind is a weapon that can save lives, not take them.”
She shifted in her seat, uncomfortable with his praise. He glanced down at her notes. “So how many codes have you translated so far?”
“Six. But none of them contain anything useful about your friend Kit, I’m afraid.”
He shrugged. “I didn’t really expect them to. Come on. You’ve been cooped up here all day. It’s time for some brawn instead of brains.”
Chapter 20
Heloise followed Raven out into the gardens. When they were some distance from the house he drew one of the pistols from his back and offered it to her, butt first.
“It’s time you learned how to defend yourself. Your mind might be a weapon, but when a man’s about to kill you, a pistol is better.”
The gun was beautiful, with scrolling tendrils engraved on the silver metal parts and a cross-hatched pattern on the wooden grip. It looked expensive; she was almost afraid to touch it.
“I don’t need to learn to shoot.”
“You do. I want to know that you can pull the trigger if you have to.” His tone brooked no argument and Heloise sighed inwardly. It was pointless trying to change his mind. She’d just have to humor him.
“Fine. Give it here, then.”
He stepped behind her and placed the butt of the pistol in her right hand. His arms enclosed her as he molded her left hand over her right, forcing her to grip the gun’s handle, then pushed her arms straight out in front of her. The handle was still warm from his body and Heloise was horribly aware of his chest pressed against her back, his cheek so close to hers.
“What am I aiming for?”
He pointed. “There. Shoot that squirrel.”
The small rodent was snuff
ling in blissful ignorance at the base of a nearby tree.
Heloise glared at Raven as if he’d just suggested infanticide. “I’m not shooting a squirrel!”
“Why not? They’re just rats with bushy tails.”
“They’re sweet! I’m not shooting anything sweet.”
He gave an exaggerated sigh and glanced upward. “All right. What about a crow?”
“I will not kill an innocent creature.”
“You can’t just shoot things that deserve it. I’d suggest something repulsive, like a cockroach or an earthworm, but even with a pair of Manton’s finest—which is what these are, by the way—you won’t manage much smaller than a squirrel. I might be able to hit a cockroach, but I’m a damn good shot.”
She set her mouth into a stubborn line.
He rolled his eyes. “Fine. Something inanimate, then. Seeing as you’re so squeamish.” He scanned the garden and pointed at a marble statue positioned on a plinth halfway down one of the walks. “That statue over there. See it?”
Cupid had been depicted in his traditional pose. The chubby cherub balanced improbably on one foot, a quiver of arrows on his back and his bow outstretched, ready to fire at some poor unsuspecting mortal.
“I can’t shoot that! It’s an antique!”
Raven slid her a smug, patronizing smile. “You won’t even hit it, trust me.”
Heloise clenched her jaw. Arrogant idiot. She might not be able to swim, but she certainly knew how to shoot. She’d stolen her father’s pistols plenty of times and sneaked off to practice in the woods.
Raven’s cheek brushed hers and her stomach fluttered. It was hard not to notice the conflicting textures of their skin—his faintly scratchy, like fine sandpaper, hers soft and smooth. He smelled ridiculously good, too, like wood smoke, leather, and man. Ugh.
“Just aim straight down the barrel and pull the trigger.”
Heloise closed one eye, aimed, and squeezed her finger. The gun exploded with a loud crack. Her hand kicked back at the recoil and the acrid scent of gunpowder filled her nose as the cloud of blue-gray smoke floated away on the breeze.
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