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

by K. C. Bateman

  Harry made a dismissive noise. “Ha. There’s no such thing as curses. A man makes his own luck. I discovered that in the wars. Mind you, it does show how very uncreative we British are when it comes to insults. All we do is sneer at the cut of a man’s coat or disparage his sister. I’m going to memorize some of those, to use when I’m back home.”

  Hester rolled her eyes. “Well, if you’re quite satisfied there’s nothing left to steal down here, perhaps we can make our way back?”

  “Steal?” Harry protested. “I never steal!”

  “Oh, really? What about that time in Venice when you stole that gondola from those nuns?”

  He raised his brows. “I prefer the term commandeered. Or borrowed. I borrowed that gondola. And in my defense, I had no idea they really were nuns."

  “The wimples weren’t a sufficient clue? And the rosary beads?”

  “It was Carnevale. I thought they were in fancy dress.”

  “Well, they weren’t. They probably told the Pope to excommunicate you.”

  “It’s hardly the worst thing I’ve ever done,” Harry shrugged. “And you got home safely that night, did you not? I was sparing you the attentions of that slimy Count whatever-his-name-was.”

  “Count Trastevere,” Hester sniffed. “And he was charming.”

  “He was a penniless fortune hunter,” Harry said bluntly. “I was helping you as a friend.”

  Hester showed her teeth in a smile that was almost a snarl. “Why, thank you, Tremayne. But I don’t recall asking for your interference.”

  He shrugged again, unimpressed by either her sarcasm or her ire. “You’re very welcome.”

  She turned back towards the tunnel with a frustrated huff. “You are so annoying. I hope your camel bites you. I hope you get eaten by sand flies. I hope a scorpion takes up residence in your unmentionables.”

  “Now that’s just being mean.”

  A mirthless chuckle escaped her as she started back along the passageway. She could sense him following behind her and instantly wished she’d allowed him to go first so he wouldn’t have a close-up view of her posterior.

  “I don’t know what it is about you,” she marveled. “No one else manages to irritate me quite so thoroughly.” She stepped briskly over a pile of rubble.

  “Have you ever wondered why that is?”

  “Why what is?”

  “Why I’m the only man who has this effect on you. I’ve seen you deal with imbeciles back in London with the utmost calm. You suffer fools with a polite smile. But me? I drive you crazy.”

  He sounded insufferably pleased.

  “I suppose you have some wonderfully enticing theory?” Hester called back along the tunnel. She could see the faint rectangle of light ahead. Almost there.

  “I do, as a matter fact.”

  “I’m all agog to hear it,” she said waspishly.

  “It’s because you have feelings for me.”

  She almost dropped her candle. “I most assuredly do not!”

  “You must have, otherwise you’d have no problem ignoring me, as you do everyone else, or reasoning with me. But I get under your skin. I ruffle your feathers. I alone drive you insane.”

  Hester stepped out of the tunnel into the tiny mausoleum and straightened. She extinguished her candle then whirled round to face Tremayne as he, too, left the shaft. “You are insufferably conceited.”

  “And right,” he added cheerfully. He blew out his own candle, plunging them into shadow, and took a step toward her. Suddenly the small room seemed smaller. Hester could feel her heart racing madly against her ribs.

  He raised his brows at her in mocking challenge. “Admit it. You like me. I might even go as far as to suggest that you desire me.”

  “Desire you?! Ohh! You deluded—”

  He moved closer still, and a mocking smile curved the corner of his lips. “Let’s test my theory, shall we? If, as you claim, I have no effect on you, then I should be able to kiss you and elicit no response whatsoever, except revulsion. Or boredom.”

  Hester could barely breathe. What game was he playing now? Why was he taunting her like this? She should call his bluff. She should kiss him and stay as still as a statue, as unmoved as one of the carvings that adorned the temples by the Nile.

  But then she remembered the last time he’d kissed her, two years ago, and all hope of remaining unaffected fled. Just the thought of it made her stomach coil in excitement. If he kissed her now, she’d embarrass herself by responding. It would mean nothing to him, of course. It would be a game, a tease. But it would mean everything to her. He could never know just how much she wanted him.

  “Kiss me,” he murmured.

  He leaned in, but she turned her head so his lips only grazed her cheek. Even that brief contact was enough to make her pulse accelerate and her knees go a little wobbly. She stepped back with what she hoped was an easy laugh.

  “I’ll kiss you the day it rains in the desert, Harry Tremayne. Which is to say, never.”

  She turned and escaped out into the afternoon heat. The sun dazzled her eyes.

  Tremayne followed. He glanced up at the cloudless azure sky and smiled. “I’ll hold you to that.”

  She sent him a smug look. “It hasn’t rained here for over a hundred years. It would be nothing less than a miracle.”

  She turned to go back down the hill, but the glint of something metallic in the sand caught her eye. She poked it with the toe of her boot, and the glitter of silver flashed in the sun. She bent down to examine it further.

  “What’s that you’ve found?”

  “I’m not sure.”

  She tried to pick it up, then snatched her hand back as her fingers touched the gleaming metal. It was burning hot—presumably from being out in the sun all day. More cautiously, she brushed the sand aside, exposing the object. A red stone flashed, like a tiny drop of blood, and to her amazement a chain, followed by some kind of jeweled pendant, emerged from the sand.

  Hester stared at it, her heart racing. The thing was undoubtedly ancient, although she wasn’t sure how she knew that. Perhaps because the design was oddly seductive.

  She lifted the thing fully free of the sand. The pendant was shaped like a scorpion gripping the silver chain in its pincers. One large cabochon ruby was set in the center of its back, and smaller gems glittered along the slender curve of its tail. It was extremely realistic, almost life-size, and Hester gave a shiver of fascinated revulsion. The reticulated silver sections of the body and tail allowed it to move; it undulated sinuously with the faint tremor of her hand.

  It seemed ridiculous to think of a piece of jewelry as threatening, but for some reason the description fit. She gave herself a mental shake and stood.

  “Good heavens. Look at this.”

  Chapter 5

  Tremayne gave a low, impressed whistle. “You have the devil’s own luck, Morden. Let me see.”

  Hester lifted the necklace for inspection. Without thought, she undid the clasp, reached around her nape and put it on. It was surprisingly heavy. The high neck of her cotton dress prevented the hot metal from touching her skin, but she could feel the weight of the pendant pressing against her.

  Tremayne reached out a finger and traced the chain across her collarbone. Her breath caught in her throat. He reached the pendant and paused, and Hester was sure he must be able to feel the telltale thundering of her heart through the silver. Intent on his task, he followed the shape of the scorpion’s body down, down, flattening the creature’s tail against her breastbone. The tip of it, the sting, uncurled to nestle perfectly in the valley at the top of her breasts.

  Hester’s skin burned. A rush of some strong emotion—anger or passion—flashed through her veins.

  “Beautiful,” Harry breathed.

  He lifted his eyes to hers, and for a split second she glimpsed a depth of feeling that was shocking in its intensity. Was it anguish? Desire? His gaze burned into hers, direct and faintly challenging. He parted his lips as if to speak,
and Hester leaned toward him, desperate to hear what he was about to say—but a dog barked in the distance, and the odd moment was broken.

  He blinked as if coming out of a trance, dropped his hand, and stepped back.

  “It suits you.” He cleared his throat and sent her an easy smile. “This proves the utter injustice of life. I noticed it during the wars. Brave, decent men got blown to pieces, while others—cowardly, undeserving idiots—dodged bullets time and time again.” He indicated the necklace. “This is another example. The universe throws a ridiculously valuable artifact into the path of the one woman in a hundred-mile radius who doesn’t need the cash.”

  Hester unfastened the necklace with a deep feeling of relief, as if a weight had been lifted off her shoulders. She placed it carefully in the pocket of her split skirt.

  “What are you going to do with it?” Harry asked casually. “If you sell it, then I should definitely get half the proceeds.”

  She gave a choked laugh. “And how do you figure that?”

  “You would never have been up here if it hadn’t been for me. Admit it.”

  That was undoubtedly true.

  “If you give me half the money,” he coaxed, “I won’t need to sell any mummies. I bet Henry Salt or the British Museum would pay handsomely to add it to their collections.”

  Hester shook her head. “You’re such a jackal. This should stay in Egypt. It’s part of the country’s heritage. I’m going to hand it over to the Bey himself. He told me he has plans to open some kind of national museum.”

  Tremayne gave a disappointed sigh. “I’ll just have to keep my eye out for some mummies, then.” He laughed at her frown as he stepped past her and started down the hillside. “You have no right to look so disapproving. I’m only a second son. I’ve left it a bit late to become a doctor or a tutor. And I doubt I’ll be allowed to join the clergy—remember the Venetian nuns?”

  “That’s what the marriage mart is for,” Hester said lightly, ignoring the twinge that pierced her heart. “You need to find yourself a nice, rich heiress. Some sweet, biddable thing who covets the illustrious Tremayne ancestry.”

  He sent her a lopsided smile. “Tried that. The last heiress I asked to marry me turned me down flat.”

  She tried not to wince.

  “That was you, by the way,” he added unnecessarily.

  As if she needed clarification. “I’m hardly the biddable sort,” she said tartly. “I’m nothing like the fashionable women of the ton. I am freckled—”

  “Sun-kissed,” he amended.

  “With sun-bleached hair—”

  “It’s golden. Honey and copper.”

  “Oh.”

  Hester stammered to a stop. Tremayne always managed to do this to her, to leave her bemused and tongue-tied. He flirted so effortlessly; it was as natural to him as breathing. He probably flirted with his donkey when there were no other females around. And yet he seemed to like—appreciate, even—all the qualities she herself disliked. He was a singularly unusual man.

  Why hadn’t he married? He was certainly a catch. A tall, dark, handsome, titled Adonis who also happened to be funny, kind, and incredibly alluring. Any woman would be desperate to have him.

  Hester glanced at his profile. It was like gazing at one of the statues of the great pharaohs, all straight lines and attractive masculine angles. She wondered what he’d look like in just a pleated loin-cloth, bare-chested, and a hot flush warmed her skin.

  He could be as autocratic as a pharaoh, too, she reminded herself sternly. He just loved bossing people around, having everyone jump to do his bidding.

  “You won’t have any problem finding a husband when we’re back in England,” he said abruptly. “With your fortune, any number of men will be willing to overlook your unfashionably tanned skin and your even more unfashionable intelligence.”

  “Who says I want a husband?” Hester said crossly. “What use are they?”

  His smile was entirely too wicked. “Oh, I daresay they have their occasional uses.”

  She refused to rise to the bait. He was, presumably, referring to a husband providing amorous services, but she was well aware one didn’t need to be married for that. The Bey’s concubines had been most instructive on the matter.

  “Actually, come to think of it, you don’t need a husband,” he said. “You need a keeper. Like the wild animals at the zoo. Someone to steer you away from—”

  “Stop!” Hester croaked. “Hold right where you are, Tremayne.”

  Thankfully, he did as he was told. He froze, just as she had done, and swiveled his gaze downward to see what commanded her attention.

  A cobra, a dark, deserty brown, swayed back and forth on a sandstone block within striking distance of his foot. Its hood was extended. A warning hiss issued from its fanged mouth.

  “Don’t move,” Hester whispered urgently.

  “Can it bite me through my boot?” Harry whispered back.

  “Do you really want to find out?”

  With almost imperceptible slowness, she stretched her hand toward a loose piece of masonry about the size of her fist. The movement caught the snake’s attention. It turned its body away from Tremayne, just as she’d intended, and fixed its malevolent glare on her. Quick as a flash, she grabbed the rock and hurled it at the snake.

  The serpent appeared to jump into the air as the fragment hit its body. It made a lightning-fast turn and disappeared into the gap between two blocks.

  Hester let out a relieved breath then shot a slack-jawed Tremayne a cocky look.

  “Good shot,” he breathed with genuine admiration.

  She decided there was no need to reveal how surprised she was at her uncharacteristic accuracy. It was as if she’d been bestowed with supernatural powers.

  She raised her brows. “You were saying something about me needing a keeper? As you can see, I don’t need any man’s protection.”

  “I take it all back,” he said with a chuckle. “You are a fully independent, snake-battering virago. Come on, let’s go and have a cup of tea.”

  “We ran out of tea about six months ago,” Hester said, hurrying after him. “There’s only the mint tea the locals drink.”

  That was one thing she’d missed about England: not the rainy climate, but black tea with cow’s milk and a decadent spoonful of sugar.

  They reached the clearing with her well and his horse. Tremayne untied the panniers from the donkey, untethered both animals, and glanced around. “So, where have you made camp?”

  Hester led him around the back of a partly-ruined temple to where she and Suleiman had pitched their tents and smiled at the sight of the colorful striped material.

  Uncle Jasper hadn’t believed in traveling light. He’d been loath to give up his creature comforts, even when traveling so far from home, and his ‘essential items’ had included a full Meissen tea service, a campaign-style folding bed with feather bedroll, a portable writing slope, and numerous woolen rugs to protect the feet from the sandy, rocky ground. It wasn’t Grosvenor Square levels of luxury, but it wasn’t entirely uncomfortable.

  Tremayne made short work of starting a fire, and Hester tried not to be impressed. She doubted the Harry Tremayne she’d known three years ago would have been able to do that. He’d lived for pleasure, not practicality. Now he was indisputably a soldier, older and wiser, with a competence to match. He was a little bit more wicked too, and the additional lines around his eyes and the hint of grey at his temples only added to his unholy appeal. This Harry Tremayne was a man, not a boy.

  But still not the man for her.

  He bent and rummaged in one of the saddlebags. “I brought you a present. All the way from England.”

  Hester accepted it gingerly and untied the string that bound the brown paper. The scent hit her first, and she took a deep, appreciative sniff then almost squealed in delight. “Oh, my! Black tea? Thank you.”

  She smiled at him with genuine pleasure. His gaze dropped to her mouth, and she experienc
ed a squirming sensation low in her belly. She bit her lip, and he glanced up with a wry expression.

  “You’re welcome. It was Aunt Agatha’s idea, actually.”

  “Well, there’s no milk, I’m afraid. Unless you want camel milk?”

  “No, thank you.”

  Hester marveled at the strangeness of politely taking tea with Harry Tremayne in the middle of the desert. It was bizarre, almost like a dream, and yet it somehow seemed entirely natural. As if she’d always imagined him here with her.

  She frowned. “I am becoming increasingly concerned about Suleiman. It’s very unlike him to simply disappear without a word. What if he’s been injured? He could have fallen into a burial shaft or been bitten by a snake or a scorpion.”

  “Perhaps we should ask the locals?”

  “Most of them are tending to their sheep in the hills. But there is one village elder who might know where he is.”

  “Let’s go see him, then. And perhaps he can tell us more about that necklace, too.”

  Chapter 6

  The Fayium village elder was an ancient, wizened old man whose face was the color and wrinkled texture of a ripe date. Hester and Tremayne ducked into his ramshackle hut and accepted a seat, cross-legged on the floor.

  The old man spoke a smattering of both English and French, having served for some time as a translator for Napoleon’s invading army, but the clarity of his speech was hampered by the fact that he lacked most of his teeth. With halting gestures and a good deal of pantomiming, they finally deduced that no-one had seen Suleiman since earlier that afternoon, when he’d watered Bahaba, Hester’s bad-tempered camel.

  When Hester reached inside her pocket and withdrew the scorpion necklace, the old man sucked in an awed breath. His gnarled fingers shook as he reached out to touch it, then he seemed to change his mind and snatched his hand away. He made a gesture in the air, as if to ward off evil.

  “Where it find you?” he asked urgently. “Here?”

  Hester frowned. “Do you mean, ‘where did I find it?’”

  The old man shrugged, as if it were the same thing.