twisted through his hair, her other hand guided his mouth
to her hungry one. His lips against hers, his body
welcoming hers, his fingertips trailing down her spine and
setting each nerve afire, she could imagine nothing more
wonderful. She loved this man as she would no other, now
or forever. Falling to her knees before him, she pressed
her face to his firm abdomen.
“You came, Kafele,” she whispered between
shuddering sobs as she gazed up at him from where she
still knelt. “You did not leave me in the darkness alone.
You came, Kafele. You came. I wanted to believe you
would, but I lost faith. Praise Ra you are here at last.”
“Darcy?” Hands took her by the shoulders and shook
her gently. “Darcy, what are you talking about?”
Darcy shuddered, opening her eyes. It was not dark,
for the single lamp she always kept lit was burning. The
draperies in her bedchamber had been blown back by a
storm that had left raindrops on the sills. Past them, she
could see stars poking through the night sky.
She looked up toward the ceiling. The light was there,
but it seemed to be glowing more faintly. When another
gaslight was lit, she hoped her companion was not fading,
but just overwhelmed by the lamplight. She hid her face
in her hands and leaned forward to rest her elbows on her
knees. She was safe. The darkness was gone.
“Are you all right?”
Her head jerked up, and she stared at Simon in horror.
His disheveled hair and his shirt hanging half out of his
trousers as well as his braces looping down around his
hips instead of over his shoulders told her he had come to
her bedroom swiftly. In her nightmare, she had screamed
for help. Had her voice reached out of that terror into the
waking world?
“Darcy?” He knelt beside her, his hands gentle on her
arms. “Are you all right?”
“Yes. Yes, I think so.” Her throat burned on each word
as if she had screeched until it was raw or as if she had
been fighting for one more breath in the overwhelming
darkness.
“You must have been frightened.”
“I was.”
“Of what?”
She raised her gaze to meet his eyes that once again
reminded her of a cat’s. Could he see in the darkness?
Was that why he had no fear of it? She bit her lip. Could
he see the light lingering near the ceiling?
Not looking away, she whispered, “When I was a child,
the coming of twilight always was my favorite part of the
day. At that hour, the blessed winds, swirling blood hot
across the sunset-stained sands, flickered through the
campfires and twisted the robes of the men as they squatted
to listen to old tales. But I have always feared the night.”
“Why? There is nothing there in the night that isn’t
also there during the day.”
“I know that. I simply can’t set aside the fear of
darkness.” She quivered again. “And of small spaces. I
know it’s silly, but no matter how much I try to persuade
myself differently, the fears always return.”
He frowned. “You called me Kafele when you kissed
me.” His hands drifted along her arms, and his voice
dropped to a whisper, “I envy this Kafele.”
“Kafele?” She rubbed her forehead and noticed her
companion light had vanished as if with the dawn. “Dear
me. I must have been dreaming still.”
“A nightmare, I would say, save for Kafele. Who is
he? Someone who waits for you in Egypt?”
Darcy knew she should nod, letting him believe a lie,
but she heard herself saying, “Kafele is a character in the
story I’m writing.”
“A story you are writing? You are an author, too?”
“I have begun to write down a collection of old tales I
heard in Egypt. That is what I’ve been doing when Mrs.
Pollock thought I was writing long letters.”
“You lived in Egypt?”
“Yes, when I was a child.”
His eyes widened. “Is this Egyptian?”
She started to pull back, but gasped as his fingers
brushed her breast with the power of lightning. Trying to
come to her feet, she was too late, for his hand cupped her
pendant with its engraving of the green-eyed Thoth. The
emerald stones glistened in the lamplight.
“Yes, it’s Egyptian,” she said. “It is a picture of Thoth,
the ibis-headed god.”
“Thoth?” He smiled. “I seem to be lisping to speak its
name.”
She tucked it beneath her nightgown, but, as never
before, was aware of its warmth against her skin. Had
Simon’s touch heated the gold? “It’s a good luck charm
my grandmother gave me.”
“Has it worked?”
“Infrequently. Please don’t speak of it to anyone,
Simon. There are those who would denounce it as heretical
and barbaric.”
“If you’re worried about Andrew—”
“I’m not.” She had not given the vicar a thought.
She let Simon bring her to her feet and seat her on the
sofa. When he sat beside her, she tried to stand. Her legs
wobbled.
“Sit here before you fall on your face,” he ordered
with a smile that eased the sting of his words.
“If you’ll promise me you will tell no one you saw
this.” She folded her hands over the amulet, then realized
what a mistake she had made.
His gaze seemed to burn through her hands and into
the pendant, heating it and the surrounding skin until she
was sure both must be glowing. “I promise, for there are
some sights a man prefers not to share,” he murmured as
he hooked one finger beneath the chain and lifted it from
behind her hands. He held it draped across his palm, but
did not look at it. Instead he raised his eyes to meet hers.
She lowered hers, not daring to let herself be caught
up anew in the desire aching within her. A desire his eyes
revealed he shared.
Again she started to rise, but he halted her and asked,
“What do you need?”
She almost said, “You.” She halted herself. He was
not Kafele, and she was not Meskhenet. That was simply
a story told for so many centuries no one could tell if any
part of it was true.
When she pointed to her wrapper, he plucked it from
the back of a chair and handed it to her. She pulled it on
and buttoned it closed, trying not to notice how his shirt
was undone and had fallen open to reveal the smooth skin
of his broad chest.
“So why do you wear the good luck charm if it doesn’t
bring you good luck?” Simon asked.
“As I said, it was a gift from my grandmother, so it’s
precious to me. Yet it was more than that. When I first
went to school, I wore it openly to irritate Miss Mumsey.
She considered me a heathen.”
“Heathen?”
“I spent part of my childhood in Egypt.” She knew
she must say no
more than she had to Hastings. If either
man learned of her mixed heritage, she might be sent from
Rosewood Hall without a recommendation. Or was it really
a recommendation that concerned her? If Simon knew the
truth of her parents, would he despise her as Grandmother
Kincaid had? Choosing her words carefully, she added,
“Living there, in Miss Mumsey’s opinion, defined me as a
heathen. She followed my grandmother’s orders to beat
every remnant of Egypt out of me. Of course, that made
me only more determined to cling to what I’d learned.”
Simon rested his elbows lightly on his knees. His shirt
drooped forward to hide his chest. “What were your parents
doing in Egypt? Digging for antiquities and all?”
“No. My family wouldn’t have taken part in the rape
of Egypt’s past.”
“Darcy Kincaid, such language!”
Darcy did not laugh when he did. “How would you
feel if foreigners came to England and started stealing the
stones of the Tower or dug among the royal graves in
Westminster Abbey? You would consider that barbarous,
yet no one seems to be bothered by those stealing Egypt’s
past.”
“I didn’t mean to upset you more.”
She rested her head against the back of the settee,
stared up at the ceiling, and sighed. “Forgive me. I believe
I’m still half asleep.”
“Then I should leave and let you go back to sleep.”
He stood.
Grasping his shirttail, she cried, “Not yet!”
Puzzlement darkened his eyes. He lifted her hand off
his shirt and went to the table by the window. Pouring a
glass of wine from a bottle there, he brought it to her. “Here.
This may calm you.”
“Do you want some?”
“I think not. Tell me, Darcy, why your family was in
such a far-off place.”
Again she thought about what she had told his father.
The truth was safe as long as she hid the damning facts.
“My father was a well-respected merchant whose ships
plied the Nile. We lived in a wondrous house with every
window and door open to the river.” She sipped on the red
wine. “It was the perfect place to be a child.”
“And that is where you got Thoth?”
“It was a gift from my father’s mother on the day I
was born.” She touched the chain. “Thoth was one of the
most powerful of the old gods, for he was the guardian of
the Book of Thoth.”
“What’s that?”
“A book with two spells. One allows a man or woman
to speak to animals and understand them. The second
guarantees eternal life.”
“A very powerful god indeed.”
She took another drink. “I’m sorry to have disturbed
your rest.”
“I wasn’t sleeping yet.” Pulling his braces back over
his shoulders, he buttoned up his shirt. “I was thinking.”
“About your book? The section on Anglo-Saxon words
seems to be giving you some trouble.”
He sat beside her and took the glass of wine from her.
Setting it on the table, he ran his hands along her shoulders.
“I tried to think about my book. You have no idea how
hard I tried to think of my book, but I couldn’t stop thinking
of how appalling I’ve been to you since we went to
Halyeyn. How appalling I’ve been since I kissed you by
the pool.” He closed his eyes. “Then I was fool to kiss you
last night. I thought kissing you once more would compel
me to be sensible, for I would discover my longing for
you came from the fact I haven’t held a woman in so long.
But all I did was whet my longing to hold you again.”
“You said in the carriage it should be only business
between us, and you are correct.”
His hand curved along her cheek, and she closed her
eyes as she instinctively nestled her face against its rough
warmth. “Darcy, I have lost too many of the people I care
about, and I don’t want to go through that pain again. Do
you understand?”
“Yes.”
When he tipped her lips beneath his, he whispered,
“My own private road to hell is paved with my good
intentions . . .”
His mouth captured hers. She should push him away,
but she could not. He might not be Kafele, yet she wanted
his kisses as Meskhenet had wanted her lover’s. When her
arms rose along his to curve across his back, he pressed
her down onto the cushions.
She gasped with pleasure as his lips eagerly explored
her neck, each touch leaving a sizzle like water on a hot
stone. His arms closed around her as he shifted to pin her
to the cushions eagerly. She savored the sensation of every
inch of him over her. He reached for the uppermost button
along the front of her wrapper. His fingers splayed across
its high collar.
She gazed up at him, wanting so much more, but unsure
how to put her longing into words. How could she explain
it seemed that they were not sharing this pleasure for the
first time, even though they were? She could almost feel
his fingers sliding down over her breasts and his warm,
smooth skin on hers. Nothing had ever been as luscious as
this anticipation of what she seemed to remember with
vivid longing.
He reached for the second button, and her fingers sifted
through his hair as she brought his mouth to hers again.
His hand was caught between them, each finger a separate
caress.
At a shriek, Darcy froze. She opened her eyes and
saw Simon’s were diffused with bafflement. Another cry
followed, and he jumped to his feet. She heard a series of
thuds. She stood, but he pushed past her and out the door.
She rushed after him. The low flames on the lamps
left the hall in shadow, but she did not slow as she followed
him to the stairs. She gripped the banister as Simon ran to
a body crumpled at the bottom. He bent toward silver hair
which burned like cold fire in the faint light.
Hastings. He must have fallen down the stairs.
Simon called, “Get someone to help me get him to his
rooms, Darcy.”
“Is he—?”
“He is alive.” His voice broke. “But I don’t know for
how long.”
Eight
Darcy ran along the hall to the closest room. She went
in and jerked on the bellpull. When a footman appeared,
she ordered, “Send for a doctor. Dr. Hastings has been
hurt!”
The young man rushed away to obey, shouting as he
reached the end of the corridor opening into the servants’
section.
Mrs. Pollock must have heard the bell as well, because
she hurried toward Darcy. She was dressed in her
nightclothes, her gray hair hastily pinned back, her feet
nearly out of her slippers. “Miss Kincaid, I heard—”
“Send some of the footmen to help Simon at the foot
of the front staircase.”
“What has happened?”
“Dr. Hastings
is injured.”
As soon as Mrs. Pollock gave the orders to a maid
who had followed her, Darcy grasped the housekeeper’s
hand and led her toward the stairs. Mrs. Pollock followed
only a few steps, then halted. Darcy tugged on her hand.
When the housekeeper did not move, dismay carved into
her face, Darcy hurried to where Simon was bent over his
father.
“How is he?” she asked.
“Unconscious.” Simon frowned when his father’s eyes
opened, but were glazed with pain. “Barely conscious, I
should say.”
“Help is on the way.”
“Take this.” He handed her a handkerchief. “See if
you can stop the bleeding on his head while I check to be
certain no bones are broken. I don’t want to risk moving
him until I’m sure.”
She nodded. Murmuring apologies, she dabbed at the
wound on the side of Hastings’ forehead. He must have
struck it on the floor because there was no blood on the
steps. Something clicked against the buttons on his high
collar, and she looked down to see her pendant had fallen
out of her wrapper. She stuffed it away quickly. Now was
not the time for irrelevant questions.
“No bones broken.” Simon stood. “Step back, Darcy.”
“I would be glad to help.”
Mrs. Pollock came forward and drew Darcy to one
side. “Listen to Dr. Simon. Stay out of the way, Miss
Kincaid.” Her face was almost as gray as her hair.
Darcy edged back farther when Fraser ran along the
hall with a quartet of footmen. The butler and the footmen
carried blankets. With Simon helping, they tucked blankets
around Hastings as tightly as a mummy’s wrap. Together,
they carried the elderly man up the stairs. His shoe fell
off, and Darcy picked it up.
She frowned. The bottom was wet. Had Hastings
slipped on something that had been dripped at the top of
the stairs? She looked down at the hem of her wrapper.
There was no dampness there. Raising the shoe to her nose,
she was able to catch no odor. It must be just water. Maybe
it had been on the floor where he had fallen. Any signs
had been obliterated by the footmen’s boots.
“Come along,” called Mrs. Pollock as she followed
the men up the stairs.
Darcy stepped around the blood pooled on the floor,
then sent a maid to get cloths to clean it. None of them
Ferguson, J. A. - Call Back Yesterday.txt Page 13
