Siren's Secret

by Trish Albright

  Olivia reached into her leather bag, and walked toward the nearest wall torch, holding something out. It made Samuel nervous. She was too trusting.

  “Olivia,” he said. “No.”

  “I have the disc, Moreau. I put it in my journal and wrote all the translations. It was the key to open the treasure room. The sarcophagus moves. Can you believe that? An astounding mechanism moves it, opening the entrance to all that you seek.” She kept talking, her voice getting a little softer, but with increasing excitement, drawing the men into her tale.

  “The secrets of the lost realm are here. We’ve found it. And a treasure beyond imagining fills the great chamber below us. Moreau …” She glowed with excitement. “The treasure is here. Wealth and power beyond what you can imagine.” She held up the book to the light on the wall, opening to a written page and turning to the guards. “It says here, ‘The man who owns the key, owns the world.’ ”

  Samuel moved closer, slowly. There were four guards, but how many more awaited? He’d worry about that later. He just needed to get Moreau. Two men stood between them, mesmerized with the others by Olivia’s temptations. The moment allowed him a chance to reposition and strategize.

  Olivia turned a page, getting closer to the light to show them the future that could be theirs. Only, she was too close to the flame and didn’t realize it. Or did she?

  The pages caught fire.

  Olivia continued to talk. “I wrote all the secrets, Moreau …”

  A guard yelled, reaching for the journal. Olivia reacted, screeching, then shoving the burning book at the man and grabbing the torch off the wall to attack another.

  Damn the woman. She was brilliant!

  He used the empty musket to attack. His target fought with equal vigor.

  “Olivia, run! Run!”

  Olivia did run. But not before taunting Moreau and the others with a tap on her bag. “You think I’m going to give the power of the world to you? Come and get it—if you can.”

  Then she spun and darted like a streak of lightning down the tunnel.

  Samuel felt a dangerous jab cut through his side, but it was nothing compared to the horror of Moreau’s enraged scream.

  “Get her!”

  Olivia knew she had to distract the guards from Stafford. Gads. How many bullets could one man survive? The thought made her breathless. She skidded on the claylike surface and grabbed for a wall, spinning into a turn and entering an unlit area. A sound caught her attention, and she saw Moreau behind her, cast eerily in the light.

  He must have seen her. He guessed correctly, coming her way.

  Olivia felt with fingertips and made another turn into darkness. She went a few feet. Dead end. Literally.

  She inched back toward the corner, panting, struggling for air while trying not to make noise. The light flickered closer … and closer. Nowhere to turn and no weapons, except—

  Olivia reached by feel for the remaining items in her carryall. There!

  Moreau’s steps became cautious, ready to attack.

  Stafford, please be alive. I can manage this, if only I know you are alive.

  She pressed against the wall, preparing herself. With any luck he would look right first, and she could strike from the left.

  Another step. She could see the torch held out in front. Closer.

  Closer.

  He turned.

  No luck.

  A small pistol aimed at her chest. He smiled.

  “Moreau!” A deep voice rumbled behind him, like a feral animal ready to strike.

  Stafford! Alive!

  Moreau spun, alert to danger. She knew it would only be a split second. A split second when she could get close enough to …

  Olivia leapt. Her body hit his, his gun went off, and they both fell to ground, the torch rolling to a stop against a wall.

  She cried out in both horror and pain.

  Moreau gasped. Olivia pulled her weapon out of his throat and the air hissed free. She rolled over on her side, stiff, her fist cramping from the tight grip around the weapon in her hand.

  Samuel landed next to her somehow. Sliding or falling, she wasn’t sure. He was bloody and pale.

  “Olivia, my God. You are well?” He pushed her coat aside, checking for blood or injuries, she supposed. His left arm did not function well. He became clumsy.

  I’m losing him.

  Moreau gurgled next to her. Samuel saw the blood seeping from his throat, then spotted the weapon.

  “I stabbed him.” Her voice was faint. “With my inking pen.” She reached to stop his tumble forward. “You were right, Stafford. It does indeed make a useful weapon.”

  He smiled. And closed his eyes.

  “Stafford! Stafford?” she called.

  He nearly knocked her back onto Moreau. She caught him and laid him on the chilly floor. He bled from the side, so she took off her coat and pressed it into the wound. “Please, Stafford. Don’t die.” Tears flooded her eyes. “You don’t want to die in a tomb, do you?”

  It worked. His lids fluttered open and he looked up, his golden brown eyes glowing with tenderness. “Olivia …” His voice was filled with sorrow. “I’m sorry.” He touched her cheek. “My love.” Then his hand fell and his eyes closed.

  “No! No! You’re invincible, Stafford!” She shook him. Grabbed his lapels. Screamed. “Get up! Get up, damn you!

  I will not allow this. You bastard! I will not allow this. Now get up!“ She slapped him. Hard. Her palm stung. She slapped him again.

  When he didn’t respond she pulled on his good arm, succeeding in getting his upper body in sitting position. She pulled. His weight was impossible. He didn’t budge.

  She started crying in earnest, losing strength. “I hate you.” She hissed, angry. “Do you hear me? I hate you.” She wrapped an arm under his shoulder and another around his neck, holding him to her, her sobs choking her, burning her eyes as tears mixed with layers of dust. “I hate you. You bloody stupid … American!”

  He moved. A hand touched her lower back.

  Olivia lifted her face.

  He opened his eyes, staring in pain. “Not exactly … the response … I was looking for,” he gasped.

  “Stafford!” She planted a hard kiss on his mouth. “We’re getting out of here. Help me.”

  They managed to get him up. Olivia tucked Moreau’s pistol in her belt, threw his bag with the funerary cone over one arm, and kept her body under Stafford’s shoulder. They limped along at a painstaking rate, Olivia all the while praying he would not fall unconscious again. His breathing was labored.

  “Just a little more, Stafford. You’re doing well. Keep it up.”

  “Reward?” His voice was soft, getting faint.

  “Of course there’s a reward. A soft bed, good rum, a view of the harbor.”

  “You?”

  Olivia smiled. “Only if you live.”

  “Very well.”

  They reached the main rest chamber. And stopped.

  There were at least fifty guards with weapons turning on them. Olivia counted her weapons.

  One. And empty.

  She pulled the gun anyway.

  Lampley stepped forward. “Where’s Moreau?”

  “Dead,” Olivia stated loudly aiming the pistol at Lampley. “And if you and your men don’t put your weapons down now … I’ll kill you too.” She held the gun unwavering.

  Lampley waved a hand down and all lowered their weapons—much to Olivia’s astonishment.

  Lampley’s smile turned up on one side. Then Worthington and the duchess ran forward, sheathing their own weapons. Elizabeth and Olivia’s father were right behind.

  Worthington caught Stafford, and Kelley ran forward to assist them.

  “How?” Olivia asked, looking around, confused.

  “Nathan’s plan to contact Riad succeeded,” Elizabeth said quietly.

  “And Lampley turned out not to be such an ass,” Alex added.

  “Did you hear that, Stafford? Not everyone want
s to kill you.”

  He closed his eyes, mumbling about some kind of a reward.

  Olivia quickly told Lampley about the guard still trapped in the tomb chamber, then turned and confronted the hard face of the duchess. She viciously wiped her tears, sliding the bag from her shoulder, facing Alex. “You can take this. I’ve no need for it anymore.” She handed over the funerary cone of the Librarian of Alexandria. “What I seek, I already have,” Olivia said.

  Olivia took Stafford’s hand and led the men upward, instructing them every step of the way. “Careful! He’s been shot at least three times.”

  His eyes were already closed, but knowing he was conscious, she was reassured. “Don’t worry, Stafford. I won’t let them periclitate you. I promise.”

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  The wounds healed quickly. The heartaches would take a little longer.

  They buried Nathan at the other end of Alexandria in a spot with a view of the sea. Samuel promised Elizabeth he would visit every time he came into port.

  He spent his convalescence at the hotel, wooing Olivia at every possible moment—once he was conscious. She made wooing easy, taking delight in each day, sharing the latest discoveries from the site and trying desperately to beat him in chess. And his wounds were not so bad that he did not find any number of ways to lure her to his lap, especially with her father being so preoccupied with running the site and transporting the finds to England.

  He loved her. And he told her. He was certain she loved him too, but as the days progressed and she did not return the sentiment, he began to doubt.

  “Olivia, I can’t stay here forever. It’s time for me to leave soon.” He turned to the window, away from her suddenly worried expression. She liked having him around for security, but perhaps that was all. “I would like you to come with me.”

  “Stafford—” she started, then stopped. “My father and I are just reunited, and he needs me.”

  “Do you love me?” There. He’d put it out in the open. It was either going to be the best or worst moment of his life.

  She stuttered.

  Worst.

  “You know how I feel about you,” she said, uncomfortable.

  “Not exactly. But you’re an articulate woman. Please tell me in your own words.”

  “Stafford, you’re putting me on the spot. You are everything to me. But I cannot abandon my father. It will be months before he is able to return to London, and then we will have so much to do. I just need more time. Please understand.”

  He pulled her into his arms and kissed her, a long and lingering kiss, memorizing her scent and feel as his hands roamed freely over her. She clung to him, her response equally passionate. Then he let go. “Take all the time you need.”

  He left Alexandria the next day.

  Dressed in her professor gear, Olivia spent the next morning in the market purchasing necessities to send to the site. When she returned to the hotel it was oddly quiet. She checked her messages.

  “Yes, sir. One letter.”

  “Thank you,” Olivia said. “I’ll take them to Lady Olivia.” She rubbed her mustache, smiling at the man.

  The letter was from Elizabeth. Olivia froze. Elizabeth should be upstairs, not leaving her letters. Finding a private corner to huddle in, she ripped open the letter.

  Dearest Olivia,

  Forgive me for not saying farewell in person. I did not feel I could bear another good-bye. I’m going to America to see the land Nathan told me about. I want to find a piece of him, even if it is just a small one. I know you will find this hard to understand, but I feel I will be happier there, and the Staffords have welcomed me into their home until I determine what comes next.

  Please know I don’t blame you for anything. In fact, I’m grateful to you. Had I not been on this wonderful adventure, I would never have found Nathan nor had our short time together. The truth is that I have changed too much ever to go back to what I was, now that I know the possibilities that the world might offer. I don’t know what my next adventure will be, but I will embrace it, knowing that time is too short for anything else.

  Mr. Stafford has offered me passage, and I have accepted. Be safe, Olivia. I hope that your explorations prove to be all you dreamed.

  Last, my dearest Olivia, if you are reading this letter you are the biggest fool on earth and have learned nothing from me.

  With loving regard always,

  Elizabeth

  Olivia swayed.

  Stafford is gone.

  She crushed the letter in her trembling hand. She’d thought Elizabeth would come home with her. But she understood her friend’s desire to see Nathan’s homeland. It made perfect sense. It hadn’t required months or years to know it. They met, they loved, and they lost.

  Elizabeth would not be coming home with her.

  Stafford is gone.

  She walked out of the hotel. It couldn’t be. He would not leave without a note or farewell. She stumbled onto the street, walking toward the harbor. Then running.

  She ran until she was breathless, certain she would see the sleek lines of the Avenger at any moment. She pushed around people and knocked into carts, looking toward the water to wait for the ship with the tall masts to get her attention, or to run into a sailor she knew.

  She made it all the way without seeing any of that.

  She stopped, breathless, disbelieving. Neither in the bay nor on the horizon were any sails she could identify as his. “Samuel,” she gasped, tears filling her eyes. “Samuel. My love.”

  As tears rolled down her cheeks and the sounds of the small harbor buzzed around her, Olivia realized how much she had changed. She did not feel empty or alone or even lonely.

  She felt like the stupidest woman on earth.

  Her father found her in her room when he returned to the hotel. She sat still at her window, not speaking. Only thinking. Usually she did too much thinking, but now was not one of those times.

  “Stafford and Elizabeth have left,” she said.

  “I know. Elizabeth left me a letter. Stafford did not, but I suppose you two spoke.”

  “No.” It was all she said as she continued to stare out the window.

  Her father seemed to think that strange. He came and knelt in front of her. “Olivia? Did he not ask you to go with him?”

  Olivia woke from her reverie, surprised by the question. “Did you think he would?”

  “I thought he loved you.” He rephrased, “I’m pretty certain he loves you.”

  “Do you love me?” The question popped out, surprising her. And him.

  “Of course, my dear.” Merryvale stammered, then laughed. “I don’t know why it’s so hard to say.” He laughed again. “I must be sorely out of practice. I love you, daughter. Forgive me for not loving you well enough or saying it so infrequently that it caused you doubt.”

  Olivia didn’t know what to say. She struggled to understand.

  My father loves me.

  She would need time to get used to that concept. “How do you know? How do you know you love someone?”

  Clearly the worst question she could possibly ask. Her father stared dumbfounded. “I don’t know,” he said. There was a long silence before he added, “I think you choose to do it.”

  “Choose? Who would choose love, when love is such a mess?

  Her father laughed.

  She twisted the iron ring on her finger. Stafford had kept his ring on as well. They’d never said anything about it.

  “I’m afraid I have not loved you very well, Olivia. I guess I always thought you would be happy in London, chatting about literature and politics, enjoying the theater and resources of home. Never did I think you would choose dusty tents, or logging notes about old objects, or weeks with no entertainment and conversation in some desolate location.”

  “It always sounded much more exciting when you came home and described it.”

  “I didn’t want you to feel too sorry for me. I missed your mother, originally. Then I think
I just became used to isolation. I don’t want that to happen to you. Unless it really is your dream. You know you can stay and be my partner,” he said. “I would greatly enjoy your company. I just didn’t think that was what you wanted.”

  “What would you do without me?”

  He smiled. “It will be a trial, but I will survive. Lampley has tolerable conversation. I’ve written to the museum. They will send a team, I’m certain. And back in London I will have many cronies to share my adventures with. You will have to attend any presentations, of course, and share your experiences.”

  “It’s just …” She felt guilty and sad. “We have only now come to know each other, it seems.”

  “Olivia, if this is what you want, I welcome you wholeheartedly.” He looked toward the harbor. “But if you have a taste for adventure and want to see the world”—he squeezed her hand—“and make a certain American man very happy, then I would love to visit you in Boston, or have my grandchildren come to England or whatever outpost we find ourselves at. We will still find a way to be together. I won’t let so much time pass again. We can make sure of that. I don’t want to be the man who forsakes his daughter for sand and dust. Stafford had that right about me. It was a hard truth to hear.”

  “You always wrote and made sure I was in good hands, Father. And Elizabeth was a true friend. In some ways a mother to me when I needed it.” She tentatively reached for his arm and he patted her hand. “And I loved our time together when you were home. You made discovery so exciting.”

  She twisted the iron ring on her finger again. She’d not taken it off. She’d been choosing not to.

  “It’s strange, with my extensive vocabulary and language skills, that not once did I ever come across a definition of love proclaiming it to be a choice. And yet, if it is a choice, what is this feeling? My chest aches. My body is weak. My head throbs and my eyes will not stop burning.”

  “Sounds like love,” the duchess said. She stood by the door. “It was open.”

  “This is love? This is horrible! Love is horrible?”

  Alex entered and put a sympathetic hand on her arm. “Only when you lose it.”

  Merryvale got up and kissed his daughter on top of her head. “I’ll leave you two. I’m down the hall, Olivia, should you need me.” He closed the door behind him.