The Promise Of A Kiss (Regency Novella Series Book 1)

by K. C. Bateman

  Harry sent her a frustrated look. “You need a man to protect you out here, not a bit of paper. Egypt’s not safe for a woman alone. Even one as intrepid as you.”

  “Oh, pah. Everyone I meet out here regards me as a curiosity. There’s really no need for you to be here. I’ll make my own way back to England in my own time.”

  “There’s every need.”

  Hester glared at him. “Why are you really here, Tremayne?”

  “Well it’s certainly not for the pleasure of your so-charming company. I’m doing this as a favor to my Aunt Agatha. She insisted someone came and collected you.”

  “I’m not a parcel!” Hester fumed. “And I don’t believe you. You never do anything out of the goodness of your heart.”

  “Well, if you want to know the truth, it’s for the money.”

  “What money?”

  Harry grinned—that gorgeous, boyish, wicked grin that did funny things to her insides.

  “There’s a price on your head. A bounty, if you will. Aunt Agatha’s offered five thousand pounds to the man who returns you safely to England.”

  “She did not!”

  “She really did. And unlike you, Lady Morden, I’m not in line to inherit a whopping great fortune. Some of us have to make a living. Plebeian concerns, I know, but there you go.”

  Hester sucked in a deep breath. The scorching desert air burned her lungs. “How could she? And you! You’re nothing but a fortune hunter!”

  Tremayne didn’t even bother to deny it. His shrug was a study in insouciance, and Hester chided herself for noticing the way the thin cotton of his shirt clung lovingly to the muscles of his shoulders. He had a splendid physique, she had to admit. He was almost as broad as Suleiman.

  “I was coming this way, anyway,” he said. “I want some mummies to take back to the Royal College of Surgeons. They want to dissect ‘em.”

  “You can’t do that!”

  “I don’t believe I require your permission,” he said haughtily. “Both you and those mummies are coming back with me to England, whether you like it or not.”

  Hester opened her mouth to say she’d rather deal with the devil himself, but he held up his hand in a conciliatory gesture.

  “Wait! I’ll make you a deal. You say you only need another few days to finish your map. I need a few days to procure some mummies. If you promise to behave—and that means no escape attempts and no trying to get rid of me: no snakes in my bed, no scorpions in my breeches, et cetera, et cetera—then I will let you finish your work before we catch a ship back to England.”

  Hester took a step towards him so they were almost nose to nose. Well, nose to chest; he was a good eight inches taller than she was. She tried not to notice how good he smelled. How was that even possible in this heat? Damn the man.

  “I’d rather be eaten by a plague of locusts,” she said sweetly. “In fact, given the choice between spending even one day with you or experiencing every one the ancient biblical plagues simultaneously, I’d choose the flies and the frogs without a moment’s hesitation. You are a pestilence, Harry Tremayne.”

  His obnoxious smile only widened at her show of temper.

  “If you don’t agree to behave,” he said, equally sweetly, “I will simply roll you up inside a carpet, like Cleopatra when she had herself delivered to Julius Caesar, and transport you to Alexandria on the back of a camel.”

  He studied her hot face with his wicked gaze for a long moment, and Hester’s heart hammered uncomfortably against her throat.

  “Do we have a deal?” Tremayne purred.

  Hester knew further resistance would be futile. She’d always assumed her family would send someone after her sooner or later, and in truth she’d been surprised it had taken quite so long. Still, she’d enjoyed five whole weeks of extra freedom away from the stuffy drawing rooms of London, which counted as a victory of sorts. It was simply a shame that her escort should turn out to be the one man she’d wanted forever and could never have.

  She managed a creditable sigh. “Oh, all right. Deal.”

  Chapter 3

  Tremayne gave a satisfied nod and glanced around them. His brow furrowed. “Where are we, anyway?”

  “The Fayium Oasis,” Hester sniffed. She pointed to the dusty track that led out into the barren desert as far as the eye could see. “That’s the Forty Days Road, the trade route used to transport gold, ivory, spices, and animals for centuries.” She frowned. “Surely you’ve been using a map?”

  He shook his head, and she gasped in disapproval.

  “No, I simply started in Alexandria, asking after a pair of eccentric Europeans: one gentleman of around sixty years old and a young woman with fair skin and light hair. I followed the gossip here to you. You’re really rather unforgettable, Lady Morden.”

  His eyes swept her in a leisurely perusal that somehow managed to make her feel even hotter and more flustered than ever.

  “Being a foreigner, of course,” he added belatedly, his eyes alight with teasing.

  She inclined her head. “You were extremely fortunate to find us. Although, I’ll admit that maps of this region aren’t particularly useful. When Napoleon came here fifteen years ago, he brought a whole army of cartographers to make more accurate ones, but they lost most of their precision instruments when the ship carrying them sank on the way from France. The best map currently available is more than thirty years old—which is why it’s so important that I finish the one started by Uncle Jasper.”

  Tremayne rolled his eyes and pointed toward the well-preserved ruins of a fort on a nearby hill. “What’s that?”

  “The Romans built a string of fortresses to protect the trade caravans from attack.”

  “I was told they used to send ruffians out here. The Egyptian equivalent of transportation to the Antipodes. Seems fitting you should end up here.”

  Hester ignored the jibe. “Indeed. The practice of using the place as a colony for exiles continued well into the Christian era. It became a refuge for hermits who lived in isolated tombs or caves.” She waved toward the rocky outcrops that surrounded the oasis.

  Tremayne cocked a brow. “A life spent far away from interfering women. I can see the appeal.”

  She gave an inelegant snort. “As if you could abstain from female company for more than a week, Tremayne.”

  Back in England his reputation was that of a charming rogue. Women, especially beautiful widows, had always thrown themselves at him, drawn to his sinful good looks and quick wit. His supposed prowess in the bedroom was legendary. He’d doubtless found himself a mistress the minute he’d returned from the wars, Hester thought crossly. Not that she cared. Harry Tremayne’s personal life was none of her business.

  She glanced around to avoid looking at his too-handsome face. The oasis was actually rather picturesque. The shocking green of the date palms was a welcome contrast to the barren, stony desert all around. But for the first time, she became aware of how very remote it was. Where was Suleiman?

  Only a handful of permanent settlers lived in the ramshackle cluster of houses nearby. They tended the narrow strip of fertile land that surrounded the water-filled depression in the sand and shepherded goats through the surrounding hills. She and Tremayne were probably the only Europeans within a hundred-mile radius.

  If she’d had a reputation to lose, being alone with him here would have ruined her utterly, but she was already beyond the pale—thank goodness—and they were far from the preposterous rules and regulations of the ton.

  A handsome Arabian stallion and a bored-looking donkey laden with colorful packs had been tied to a nearby date palm: presumably Tremayne’s transport.

  “I hope you’ve brought sufficient supplies for yourself,” Hester said crossly. “There certainly isn’t room for you in my tent.”

  He sent her an innocent grin. “I never thought there would be. Don’t worry about me. I’m quite used to sleeping out in the open. And since your bodyguard seems to have to deserted you, I’ll gallantl
y position myself outside your tent to protect you from any unwanted intruders.”

  “To make sure I don’t sneak off in the night, more like,” Hester countered bitterly.

  He leaned back against the low stone wall of the well. “That too. Now, I’m sure you’d like to show your gratitude for my rescuing you.”

  He ignored her snort and pointed at the haphazard ruins that littered the hillside. “We still have a few hours left before sunset. Why don’t you show me some nice tombs where I can find a mummy or two? The locals assure me there are plenty left, even if the other grave goods were looted centuries ago. I spoke to a chap named Mehmet on the way here, who said his brother recently discovered the entrance to a new tomb while searching for a lost goat.”

  Hester shook her head. “Why do you need to find one yourself? Why not just buy a mummy if you’re so keen to have one? I distinctly remember seeing any number of sarcophagi being offered for sale in antique shops in Cairo.”

  “Most of those were simply the decorated wooden cases. The good physicians of London want bodies. And, besides, I was warned against fake mummies in Alexandria. Some unscrupulous dealers use recently deceased convicts, apparently. They cover them in tar, leave them to dry in the sun, then wrap them up in bandages and sell them to unsuspecting tourists.” He straightened and stalked off towards the ruins, his long legs eating up the distance. “No, finding my own is the only way to guarantee what I have is authentic. Come on.”

  Hester was tempted to ignore him but then decided she might as well try to dissuade him from his distasteful task. She did not approve of removing mummies from their eternal resting place. It would serve him right if he fell into a burial shaft and cracked his handsome head open.

  She lifted her skirts and hurried after him. “There are bats inside many of the tombs, you know,” she called. “Some of them are the size of pigeons.”

  He glanced over his shoulder and cocked a brow in challenge. “Scared, Morden?”

  “Of course not! I’ve learned to deal with all manner of annoying vermin out here.” She paused meaningfully and hoped he caught the insult. “I was merely concerned for you.”

  She heard him chuckle. “It won’t be the first time we’ve ever been in a tomb together, will it? What about Paris? The catacombs? I rescued you then, too.”

  “You did not. I knew exactly where I was. You gave me the fright of my life, sneaking up on me like that!”

  He chuckled again. “The moment is etched into my memory. The way you clutched at me in fright, you almost leapt into my arms—”

  “What rot!”

  “Your breasts were plastered against my chest. Your arms were around my neck—”

  “If my arms were around your neck, Tremayne, I was trying to throttle you.”

  Hester did her best to ignore the uncomfortable flush that heated her face and the thrill of remembered sensation that swept down her body. He was only teasing her. The man just lived to shock. He couldn’t possibly know how many times she’d relived that moment of being in his arms—albeit temporarily—since then. Or how she’d obsessed over their one glorious, unexpected kiss.

  They reached the edge of the village and started to pick their way between the domed mudbrick mausoleums and ruined walls of the ancient settlement that covered the hillside. Hester had already explored the area on several occasions, although she’d never done more than peer into the entrances of the many pit graves and necropolises. One chapel she’d discovered had been almost intact, with the most beautiful drawings decorating the walls. Uncle Jasper had thought it dated back to the reign of the Persian ruler Darius.

  Tremayne bounded athletically between the huge tumbled stone blocks. The remains of a temple of some sort: twelve palm-columns with stylized tulip-shaped tops lay at odd angles amid the sandy rubble. He glanced back at her, and she reluctantly accepted his outstretched hand to clamber over a particularly large boulder.

  His hand was so much larger than hers, long fingered and strong, and she let go as quickly as possible.

  “I know you disapprove of me taking mummies back to England,” he said cheerfully, “but it’s hardly a new phenomenon. King Charles the second used to collect the dust from them to use on his skin. He believed the ‘greatness’ would rub off on him.”

  “That’s ridiculous.”

  “I’ve also heard of people grinding them into powder to cure all kinds of illnesses.”

  Hester made a face. “Ugh. That’s almost as bad as the Ancient Egyptians. You wouldn’t believe some of the things they used as medicine. A bag of mouse bones fastened round the neck, for example, was a cure for bed-wetting.”

  Tremayne gave a bemused chuckle. “Please use that as a conversation starter when we’re back in England. I can’t wait to see the stunned reactions.”

  Hester ignored him. “Ingredients were often selected because they came from a plant or animal that had characteristics which corresponded to the symptoms of the patient. So they would use an ostrich egg for the treatment of a broken skull, or wear an amulet of a hedgehog to ward against baldness.”

  She glared at the back of Tremayne’s perfect head. He had no need of a hedgehog amulet. His hair was thick and dark, with a slight wave that always made her want to run her fingers through it. Curse him.

  She cleared her throat. “They had some very odd notions regarding anatomy, too. The brain was considered relatively unimportant—as evidenced by the fact that it was usually discarded during the mummification process.”

  She wrinkled her nose at his broad back. “Actually, they may have been on to something there. I can think of several people whose brains could be removed and one would fail to see a noticeable difference.”

  If Tremayne registered her veiled insult, he didn’t rise to the bait. He merely ducked inside one of the small tombs that backed onto the hillside. Hester followed, blinking as her eyes adjusted to the darker interior.

  The back wall of the tomb was built into the bedrock, and Harry smiled as he spied an opening in the craggy rock face, partly covered with a plank of wood. He shifted the wood and uncovered a dark tunnel that seemed to lead straight into the hill itself.

  “Ha!” he shouted in triumph. “Look at that! I bet that goes down to a burial chamber of some sort. Come on.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous. You can’t go down there. For one thing we have no light.”

  He sent her a chiding glance, reached into the leather satchel slung across his chest, and pulled out two candles and a tinder box. The flint sparked as he lit the candles and handed one to her with a grin. Semper Paratus. That’s the Tremayne family motto. It means ‘Always prepared.’ We Tremaynes are ready for anything.”

  “The Morden family motto is Non Perdidi.”

  “‘Never lost,’” Tremayne translated. “An excellent motto for a family of mapmakers.” His smile made her stomach flutter. “Come on. Let’s go.”

  And before Hester could argue, he’d bent over and started down the dark, narrow passageway.

  Chapter 4

  For want of anything better to do, Hester followed him, cursing under her breath as she did so. The candlelight flickered on the rough-hewn walls of the tunnel as it sloped gradually downward. The air was cool in contrast to the scorching heat outside and slightly musty. After approximately twenty feet Tremayne stopped to clear some rocks and other debris out of their path, but once that was done, he continued on, humming a rather tuneless ditty that made Hester grind her teeth.

  The idiot was enjoying himself.

  Hester did her best to ignore the crushing feeling of knowing they were surrounded by hundreds of tons of rock that might collapse on top of them at any moment. She was finding it hard to breathe in the airless space. Her chest felt tight. She took a deep breath—and inhaled the intoxicating scent of Harry Tremayne.

  My goodness, he smelled good. The faint tang of cedar and leather made her stomach curl. Why couldn’t he smell all sweaty and dusty, like a normal person?

  �
��The ancient Egyptians liked to set booby traps,” she warned, her voice echoing strangely off the narrow walls.

  “Really? Like what?” His voice was more eager than fearful, the dolt.

  “There might be other shafts for you to fall down or stones triggered by wires to crush you. If you die, Tremayne, don’t think I’m going to drag your mangled body out of here. I’ll think of some excuse to tell your Aunt Agatha.”

  His amused laughter echoed back to her.

  After another fifty feet or so, his silhouette straightened and then disappeared. Hester hastened forward and emerged into a small rectangular chamber that had been hewn into the solid rock. It wasn’t much larger than a closet or a dressing room. A few small alcoves and recesses had been carved into the walls, but whatever treasures they’d once held were long gone.

  She raised her candle and made a slow turn around the chamber. Each wall was covered in a series of beautiful Egyptian paintings, the colors of which were still remarkably bright and well-preserved. She sucked in an awed breath at the stylized human figures, plants, and animals that seemed to fill every available space.

  “Well, that’s quite something,” Harry breathed.

  He stepped forward and peered into the large stone trough that stood in the center of the room. It had obviously once had a lid, but the shattered remains of it lay strewn on the floor.

  “Empty,” he sighed. “If there was a mummy in there, it’s long gone.”

  “Probably a good thing,” Hester said. “It would doubtless have been cursed. The ancient Egyptians were always putting curses on things.” She gestured at the lines of picture writing that decorated all four sides of the sarcophagus. “That probably says something like, ‘Cursed be he who moves my body. To him shall come fire, water, and pestilence. His liver shall be eaten by a crocodile. His neck shall be twisted like that of a bird. His name shall cease to exist.’”