by Cheryl Holt
Supper was over, the weary travelers off to their rooms, but Valois had asked Bryce to join him in his private quarters. He’d just opened a locked safe and pulled out a glorious weapon, and Bryce studied it in amazement.
It was too long to be called a knife, but too short to be a sword. It was what a Bedouin might have wielded in olden times, swinging it to lop off heads as he rode past his enemies on a camel.
It looked ancient and exquisitely crafted, the hilt made of gold and inlaid with gemstones, mostly emeralds and rubies. A leather sheath had been designed for it too, the leather tooled with odd scrolling and even more gems pounded into it.
It was magnificent and deadly and Valois was claiming it had belonged to Bryce’s father.
Before Bryce had trotted off to the desert with Kat, he’d stayed with Valois for several weeks, and while Valois had admitted to having been friends with Bryce’s father many years earlier, he hadn’t mentioned being in possession of any of his father’s things. Why would his father have left behind such a beautiful item?
Bryce was dubious, and Valois noted his skepticism.
“When you were here before, I couldn’t find it, and I didn’t want to get your hopes up.”
“It’s superb.” Bryce ran his thumb over the sharp blade. “Why did he give it to you?”
“I did him a favor once.”
“It must have been quite a favor.”
“It was.”
Valois’s expression was stoic and bemused, informing Bryce that he wouldn’t confess any details. He was always reserved and cautious, and apparently a secret could be safe with him even three decades later.
“Your father was a fine man, Bryce.”
“I’m proud to hear you say it.”
“I’m aware of how he passed on, as well as how your grandfather harmed your mother.”
Bryce shrugged, not eager to discuss it. The topic was painful, and it stirred horrific memories of that day at the dock when his mother had been taken away. If he talked about it, he’d have nightmares for a month.
“It was a long time ago, Valois,” he said. “It’s water under the bridge.”
“Mr. Hubbard tells me you found your sister, Annie.”
“Yes, but her name was changed when she was little. It’s Evangeline now. She married very high, into Lord Sidwell’s family. Her husband is Aaron Drake, Lord Run. Do you know him?”
“No, I don’t know any of them. What about your brothers, the twins? What were their names?”
“Michael and Matthew.”
“Yes. Have they been located?”
“Evangeline is searching for them, and she’s hunting for my mother too. She’s the ultimate optimist, and she has this wild idea that Mother might still be alive.”
“It would be a splendid ending, wouldn’t it? But not likely. The voyage around the globe is treacherous.”
“I realize that fact. It’s why my sister is the optimist, but I am not.”
“Let’s pray it turns out to be true. If she’s alive, your grandfather will roll in his grave.”
“He should never rest easy.”
Valois assessed Bryce, his gaze probing and astute, and Bryce felt ten years old again and about to be paddled by the headmaster for a rules infraction.
“Mr. Hubbard also tells me you will not fight for your legacy.”
Bryce smiled a tight smile. “Mr. Hubbard should keep his mouth shut and stay out of my business.”
“I believed you and your siblings were dead. Everyone thought so.”
“I survived just to spite my relatives, I guess.”
“And now, as an adult you’ve learned your heritage.”
“Yes, but it doesn’t mean much to me.”
“It should.”
“It doesn’t,” Bryce said with a grim finality.
“Your grandfather and your uncle stole it from you! Aren’t you enraged? Have you none of your father’s grit and determination?”
“I’m finding out if I have any. It’s why I traveled to Egypt.”
“You are your father’s son, Bryce. I see it in you more and more every day. You have his bravery and daring, his sense of justice and fairness. You have inherited his very best traits.”
“You’re kind to mention it.”
“He would want you to fight for what is yours. He would want you to right this horrible wrong.”
“I suppose.”
Bryce was extremely uncomfortable to be conferring about his family’s tragedy.
When he’d originally discovered his actual rank, he’d told Evangeline he would attempt to reclaim what was theirs. But the fantasy was much simpler to contemplate than the reality.
How precisely was he to wrest Radcliffe from his wicked kin? He wasn’t the sort to ride into Radcliffe Castle and kill in revenge. Nor had he the funds to hire lawyers and institute legal proceedings. Even if he had the money, how could he prove the truth?
He had an old birth certificate and his parents’ marriage license. So what? How could he establish they weren’t forgeries? He could stand up in a court of law and shout to the heavens that he was Bryce Blair, son of Julian Blair, that he ought to be Earl of Radcliffe. Who would listen? Who would care?
The entire, sad saga was too agonizing to recollect. He never talked about it. What was the point?
Yet as he stared at Valois, as he tried to devise a polite way of telling him to drop it, someone laid a hand on his shoulder. It was a gesture that imbued encouragement and strength, that reminded him he was powerful and tough, that he wasn’t alone.
He glanced around, wondering who had snuck up behind him, but no one was there.
“What is it?” Valois asked. “What are you looking at?”
“Someone laid a hand on my shoulder.”
“How curious. Maybe it was your father’s spirit, stopping by to inform you that he agrees with me.”
“If my father is haunting any spot, it would be Radcliffe Castle in Scotland.”
“Or your mother’s grave in Australia,” Valois said. “He loved her very much.”
Suddenly the air was filled with the scent of red roses, and Bryce glanced around again, figuring someone had entered the room with a bouquet of flowers. But no. They were still very much alone.
“Do you smell that?” he asked Valois.
“The scent of roses?”
“Yes.”
Valois chuckled and raised a brow. “You have many ghosts, Bryce. They’re following you.”
“Just my luck,” Bryce muttered.
“I have many of my own ghosts, as you know. Typically when they are restless, they want something from me. What could your father want from you? Vengeance, perhaps?”
As Valois voiced the word vengeance, the hand was placed on Bryce’s shoulder again. He held himself very still, and a calm sense of purpose flowed through him. Was it his father? Could it be?
Why not…
He liked to imagine his parents were hovering, and he wouldn’t discount any possibility. He’d been distressed all his life by how he’d lost them, by how his family had been ripped apart. Even though he’d been a little boy when it had happened, his mother had commanded him to protect his siblings, but he hadn’t been able to.
He’d always felt guilty and at fault, as if he could have arranged a better path for all of them. He was still enormously troubled by how Sissy had been wrenched from his arms after he’d given her the ivory statue that had been on their mother’s harpsichord.
He’d promised to come for her, to find her someday, but he’d only been five. His father’s friend, Mr. Etherton, had separated them, had sent Bryce to school, then never visited. Bryce hadn’t had the means to search for Sissy.
Did his parents forgive him? Did his mother understand the obstacles he’d faced? He’d failed his mother and his siblings, and the fact tormented him.
Am I forgiven, Mother?
The scent of roses was gradually fading, and he inhaled deeply as a memory from his you
th was stirred.
“Why are you smiling?” Valois asked.
“I just recalled that my mother always smelled like roses. I suppose it was her perfume.”
“Then I’m sure she’s with us too, along with your father. They must be together on the other side.”
“Do you think she’s forgiven me?”
“For what transgression?”
“She told me to watch over my siblings, but I couldn’t.”
“You were five, Bryce.”
“I know, but it seemed that I should have been able to…to…” He stopped and waved away a huge surge of melancholy. “Never mind. It’s late. I should be off to my bed.”
“As should I.”
He picked up the sword or knife or whatever it was. “Thank you for this wonderful gift. I will always cherish it.”
“You’re welcome, and it appears I’ve upset you with this discussion of your past.”
“Well, it’s an upsetting subject.”
“I won’t apologize for raising it though, and I’d like to continue our conversation tomorrow.”
“To what end?”
“I’m older and wiser than you are, Bryce, and I was your father’s friend. I’d like to offer you my advice.”
Bryce could imagine nothing more painful or distressing. “We’ll see how I feel in the morning.”
He bowed and departed, and while he’d assumed he’d proceed to his bedchamber, their chat had been too vexing. It had left him anxious and angry and confused.
What was the best path? How was he to know? Perhaps he should contact a clairvoyant and have her look into his future.
He roamed the dark courtyards of the villa, and for a moment he nearly went to the dock to stare at the Nile and be soothed by its soft currents. But he didn’t want to be by himself. Instead he turned and headed for Kat’s suite.
Since the kidnapping attempt on Nicholas, he’d barely had a private minute with her. Was she lonely? Was she missing him? He’d knock, and if she wasn’t interested in having a visitor, she was fully capable of telling him to go away.
He approached her room, and once he arrived, he decided not to knock. He wouldn’t give her a chance to order him out. He spun the knob and slipped inside.
The sitting room was empty and quiet, but a candle burned in the bedchamber beyond. He could see her bed, and she wasn’t in it. He walked over and peeked in. There was a small alcove behind the bed that led onto a balcony, and she was standing in the moonlight and gazing out at the Nile.
He tossed his father’s sword onto a chair, and she must have heard him, because she asked, “Pippa, is that you?”
She glanced at him, and he tried to read her expression, but she was too far away.
“You shouldn’t be in here,” she murmured. “It’s not proper.”
“I know.”
“But I’m very, very glad you came.”
She flew toward him and practically leapt into his arms. Then he was kissing her and kissing her. He lifted her off her feet and turned them in circles until they were dizzy and breathless with laughter.
“I’ve been dying to talk to you,” she said.
“I was hoping that was the case.”
“That stupid boat was so tiny. There was no spot where I could have you all to myself.”
“My thought exactly.”
“The entire trip to Cairo, I was so upset. I’m still upset. I needed you.”
“I’m here now.”
He began kissing her again, and he swept her around, then tumbled her onto the mattress. They landed in a tangle, bouncing together, giggling like schoolchildren.
She was dressed for bed, wearing a nightgown and robe, so there were no petticoats, no skirt or corset in the way. He rolled on top of her, every curvaceous inch of her body pressed to his, and they moaned with pleasure.
“It seems as if we’ve been separated for years,” she said.
“I agree. I feel as if I’ve been wandering in the desert and finally found you.”
“Was I mad for leaving my uncle’s camp?”
“No. After how he insulted you, I wouldn’t have let you stay even if you’d begged.”
“It wasn’t safe there, was it? Not for Nicholas. Probably not for Isabelle. It’s better that we’re in Cairo.”
“Yes, and Valois has feather mattresses.” Bryce grinned his devil’s grin. “There’s not a camping cot in sight.”
“Thank heavens.” She blew out a heavy breath. “I’m so relieved you’re with me. If I’d had to face the past few days on my own, I wouldn’t have survived.”
“You’d have been fine, Kat. You’re tough as nails.”
He stared into her pretty green eyes, and he was overcome by the most potent wave of affection.
Somehow during their Egyptian sojourn, he’d started to think she belonged to him, that she was his and could never be anyone else’s. It wasn’t a passing fancy, wasn’t a fleeting holiday amour.
He recalled his discussion with Chase, how Chase wanted to draw his wages and head for England. Bryce had briefly speculated over whether he shouldn’t do the same, but the notion of abandoning her was too heart-wrenching to contemplate.
Would she come with him to England? Should he ask her?
He had no money or prospects, but she was very rich, and he wasn’t too proud to have her support him. Should he propose? Would she scoff and assume he was jesting?
What if she accepted? She was an heiress, and he was extremely aware of that fact. If she traveled to London and was confronted by his pathetic situation, would she grow to resent him?
There were too many impossible questions to be answered, and he couldn’t figure them out. He’d much rather focus on her, on how beautiful she was, how warm and fragrant and lovely.
He let his hands roam freely, caressing her hair, her shoulders, her arms. He spent an eternity massaging her breasts, playing with her nipples. She was an eager participant, urging him on with plenty of oohs and aahs whenever he touched a particularly sensitive spot.
He yanked at her robe, pulling it off so she was wearing only her nightgown. It was held up by two tiny straps, the bodice cut very low, which surprised him. It seemed too risqué for the female she exhibited to the world.
He eased the straps down, gradually baring her bosom so he could suck a taut nipple into his mouth. He’d done it before, at the bathing pool at Cedric’s camp, so she knew what was happening, what bliss was hovering out on the horizon.
He was working the hem of her nightgown up her legs, her thighs. He slipped his fingers under the fabric, jabbed at her soft center, once, twice, and she was pitched into a wild, delicious orgasm.
He laughed with joy, happy as he hadn’t been in ages. She was such a treasure, such a gem, and he wondered what it would be like to have her as his wife, to have her in his bed and in his life every day until he drew his last breath.
For a man who’d always been a confirmed bachelor, it was a shocking realization, but he couldn’t put it aside. Was he in love with her? Could that be it?
He’d never been in love, so he had no idea if that was the sentiment rocking him. He constantly pondered her, worried about where she was, if she was all right. Did she suffer similar thoughts about him? Did she pine and mope and fret?
They’d never spoken a word about heightened affection. If he broached the subject, would she be offended? He didn’t think so.
As her orgasm spiraled to an end, she was gazing at him as if he hung the moon, and he’d never felt more powerful or alive. He was the only man to ever know her like this, and if he had his way, he was the only man who ever would.
“You’re so good for me,” she said.
“I’m trying.”
“I’m safe and contented around you.”
“I’m the male in this dashing duo. It’s my job to make you feel safe.”
“You’re succeeding, my dearest champion.”
He kissed her again, keeping on forever, until his ardor gr
ew so unruly that he couldn’t control it. He slowed and pulled away, tugged up the straps of her nightgown to cover her pretty breasts.
“Why did we stop?” she asked.
“You arouse me to such a high degree, I can’t continue. If we’re not cautious, we’ll go places we shouldn’t. You have that effect on me.”
“I never viewed myself as a coquette, but maybe I am.”
He chuckled. “Trust me, you have a coquette’s heart and manner. You’re a natural at these sexual games, and I can’t resist you. You are dangerous to my equilibrium.”
They were silent, pensive, and he was overcome by a pressing urgency, as if these were their final minutes together and if he didn’t tell her certain things, he’d never get another chance.
“Sit up, would you?” he said. “I want to talk to you about something.”
“You look so serious all of a sudden. It’s not horrid, is it?”
“No, it’s not horrid. I promise.”
He helped her up, her hips on the edge of the mattress, while he grabbed a chair and positioned it directly in front of her. They were knee to knee, toe to toe.
“What is it?” she asked. “With all the trouble I’ve had recently, you’re making me awfully nervous.”
“Don’t be nervous. I’m simply wondering if you’d come to London with me.”
“To…London?”
She pronounced London as if she’d never heard of the city before, as if it was an exotic location unknown to mere mortals.
“Yes. You travelled to Egypt because your uncle was here, but he didn’t seem interested in having you visit.”
“That’s putting it mildly.”
“We don’t belong in this unforgiving country. I’ve had enough excitement and catastrophe to last ten lifetimes. I’m eager to go home.”
“But to England…”
“Why not?” he asked. “Where else is there for you? You told me yourself that you have no friends. Let me be your friend. Let me be more than that.”
“What do you mean?”
“Marry me. Be my wife.”
He couldn’t believe he’d blurted it out as he had, without thinking, without easing her into the idea. Yet once voiced, the prospect sounded very grand.
“Marry you?” She laughed as if the notion was hilarious. “I barely know you.”
