Ferguson, J. A. - Call Back Yesterday.txt

by Call Back Yesterday. txt (lit)

  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