by Adele Clee
“Perhaps we could talk to Mr. Pearce together,” he suggested. “I cannot walk away from here until the matter has been dealt with.”
And I must walk away, he added silently, as I could never be the man you would want me to be.
“I understand,” she nodded. “You may call round before luncheon tomorrow.”
“You mistake my intention,” he said firmly, amazed she would even consider going up to her room on her own after what had just happened. “I will not leave you here alone. I can stay, or you can come with me. I’m open to suggestions and will do whatever you think appropriate.” Just to reinforce his point, he added, “If you refuse, I shall be forced to sleep outside your front door.”
Without a word, she turned away from him and began pacing back and forth, her head bowed. Using her thumb and forefinger, she pulled gently on her lips. “And you will assist me only until the intruder is caught?” she said swinging round to face him.
Gabriel offered a bow. “I will assist you until I’m satisfied you’re safe.”
Perhaps he should call upon her brothers and see if they could take her in.
Miss Linwood folded her arms across her chest. “But you cannot stay here, people will talk. And I’m not leaving.”
“No one knows I’m here,” he said. Only the members of his staff would know he had not come home. But they were used to him trailing about to odd places at short notice. “If I remain in your quarters, for this evening at least, then I shall be able to make an assessment of the storeroom in the morning. With any luck, the matter will be concluded by tomorrow evening.”
Indeed, he would begin by making a thorough investigation of the curator, Mr. Pearce.
“Where would you sleep?”
Gabriel pursed his lips to suppress a grin, imagining her shocked expression if he told her he would share her bed. “I recall seeing a chaise. I shall be fine on there. If you would be so good as to find me a blanket.”
Her gaze drifted over him, lingering on his stocking feet, before advancing up over his chest and mouth. “Very well, but we shall review the terms on a daily basis.”
Gabriel nodded. “Agreed. I shall need to go and secure the rooms downstairs.”
“I shall go and find a blanket.”
They walked in opposite directions, but when he glanced over his shoulder, he caught her looking back at him. “I shall meet you upstairs,” he said.
When he was confident that all the doors were locked, he made his way back upstairs and found Miss Linwood sitting on the chaise, clutching a pillow and blanket.
“Will you be warm enough?” she asked as she stood and offered him the items before retreating towards the door.
“I will be fine. Oh, and please lock your door, Miss Linwood.”
Her hands flew up to her chest. “Why? Do you think the intruder will return?”
Gabriel sighed. “No. It’s not the intruder I’m worried about.”
Chapter 7
The thin streams of light shooting through the gaps in the shutters pricked at Rebecca’s eyes, rousing her from a peaceful slumber. With a stretch and a yawn, she raised herself up on her elbows and surveyed the room. Everything looked the same as it always did.
Although it felt different — she felt different.
It had taken hours to drift off, her thoughts frolicking in the secret place before sleep and dreams. There, she had waltzed with Gabriel Stone, strolled through meadows and kissed him under the stars. She relived the moment his lips first met hers, the way his hot mouth robbed her of her breath, the way her mind and body melted into liquid fire when held in his arms.
In this private realm, she was free to indulge in lascivious thoughts. Her cheeks flamed at the memory of his aroused body pressed against her, desire coursing through her veins like a delicious form of agony.
She should have been ashamed of those feelings. But how could she, when they made her feel alive and free — when they made her forget she was all alone in the world?
Gabriel Stone drifted into her thoughts as she washed, as her fingers followed the outline of her lips. When she brushed her hair, she thought she could smell the woody aroma that clung to his skin. When she smoothed the creases from her brown dress, her stomach grew warm as she recalled the way his gaze had followed the outline of her breasts.
Rebecca sighed and shook her head, as though the action would wake the logical part of her brain, the part still sleepy and dormant.
When she was ready, she sauntered into the room expecting to see Mr. Stone up and dressed, too. But he was fast asleep; his large frame squashed on the narrow chaise. The blanket clung to his arms and had bunched up around his torso, leaving his bare feet poking out of the bottom.
She needed to wake him, but he looked so peaceful and content.
The soft rhythmical sound of his breathing was like food for the soul and her thoughts moved away from the initial tug of desire. Instead, she imagined crawling up between those muscular arms and sleeping, too.
Perhaps somewhere in his subconscious, he became aware of her standing there staring at him because he stretched his arms above his head and gave a satisfied hum.
In a panic, she scurried over to the table and tried to stop her heart from thumping against her ribs. She busied about clearing last nights plates, putting the decanter back on its tray in the hope the tinkering would alert him to her presence.
“Forgive me,” he suddenly said, his voice drifting across the room, the husky tones of sleep massaging her senses. “I do not usually sleep so late.”
When Rebecca turned to face him, she swallowed.
He was sitting up, his elbows resting on his knees as he brushed his hands through his hair in a bid to tame the unruly black locks. She noticed his waistcoat and cravat draped over the chair, the whole scene being one of relaxed intimacy.
An intimacy shared by lovers.
“It is only s-seven,” she stuttered, failing in her attempt to look anywhere in the room except at him.
He groaned as he drew the palm of his hand down his face.
“I will leave you to dress,” she added, desperate to get all her words out before she choked on them. “You may use my room to wash. There’s fresh water in the pitcher. I shall go downstairs and prepare something to eat. Do you drink coffee, Mr. Stone?”
“Gabriel,” he said with a mischievous grin, “and yes, Miss Linwood, I drink coffee.”
“Excellent,” she beamed as she collected a handful of plates, the sound of clattering china alerting him to her trembling fingers.
“Would you like some help?”
She swung around and a knife went skittering across the floor. “No, I will be perfectly fine.” But he ignored her comment and walked over to pick it up.
As he placed it back on top of the plates, her gaze betrayed her inner thoughts, as it refused to move from the dusting of dark hair peeking out from beneath the open collar of his shirt.
His mouth curved up into the beginnings of a smile. “I should get dressed.”
Rebecca spent twenty minutes preparing ham, eggs and toast, her mind torn between giving Mr. Stone time to wash and dress and rushing to finish before Mrs. James came back at eight.
She walked back into the room to find him admiring the painting of her mother, his clothing as impeccable as when he first arrived. Upon hearing the rattling tray, he rushed over, took it from her and carried it over to the table, and they began their meal in comfortable silence.
“I was wondering why you didn’t seek the help of your brothers when you suspected you were cursed. Your father had three sons. Surely, one of them took some interest in his work.”
Taking a sip of his coffee, he watched her over the rim of his cup, his brow arched while waiting for her reply. What was she supposed to say, that they despised her, that they despised their father? She would make a pact with Satan before asking for their help.
“They are not my brothers, Mr. Stone,” she corrected stiffly. “They are my fath
er’s sons.”
He stared at her with those hungry eyes of his, and she became conscious of the way she was eating, sitting and breathing — each one of the simple tasks feeling awkward and new.
“Is there a difference?” he asked.
She put down her cutlery and dabbed her lips with a napkin. “Do you honestly need me to answer that?” When he shrugged, she said, “They were not happy about their father’s relationship with my mother. They are not happy I have this house and are not happy I exist at all.”
The answer seemed to unsettle him, and he was lost in his own thoughts for a moment, his eyes glazed as though recalling a distant memory, one painful and unwelcome.
“Well, that explains a great deal,” he finally said. “I did wonder why you chose to seek me out.”
The reason had nothing to do with the inadequacy of her half-brothers and everything to do with his ability to accomplish the task.
“When it comes to the study of the ancient world, I could think of no man better qualified.”
He inclined his head to acknowledge the compliment.
“Talking of which,” Rebecca continued, “perhaps we should make our way downstairs. It would not be prudent to let Mrs. James discover us eating breakfast together.”
“Or discover that I slept the night.” He gave a devilish grin as he walked around the table to hold out her chair. “Do you have the list I asked for?”
“Yes. It’s on my desk.”
“Come, let us hurry downstairs to your office,” he said picking up his plate. “I shall hide this in the kitchen. It would not do to have someone stumble upon our secret rendezvous.”
Standing in her office, Mr. Stone scanned the list, his lips moving as he read her notes. Rebecca stood and watched, remembering the way they’d moved so expertly over her mouth.
“So, the only person with a key to the premises is Mr. Pearce. Is it wise to give him unrestricted access? After all, your private apartments are in this house.”
“He is the curator, Mr. Stone. Of course he needs access.”
In truth, his words of caution left her feeling a little cold. She had never even considered the possibility that one of her staff would enter the house without warrant.
“Then perhaps you should look for somewhere else to live.”
Oh, this gentleman knew how to aggravate her temper. “I cannot afford to live anywhere else,” she said thrusting her hands on her hips, “and I cannot leave the museum unattended.”
“If money is the issue, have you considered marriage?”
Had his words not presented a perfect opportunity to tease him, she would have stamped on his toe. “Mr. Stone, how wonderful of you to offer,” she said fluttering her lashes. “Rebecca Stone has a certain elegance about it, don’t you think?”
“I was not referring to myself,” he said, glancing back at the notes. “Although now that I have witnessed you performing your daily ablutions, perhaps it is only right I do make you an offer.”
With wide eyes and a trembling lip, her gaze met his. “Well … well, I do not want a husband. I could not tolerate any man telling me what to do.” When she noticed he was pursing his lips to suppress a chuckle, she batted him on the arm. “You’re teasing me, aren’t you?”
He did laugh then, his eyes sparkling with genuine amusement. “I am, Miss Linwood, but only because you saw fit to do the same.”
His laughter was infectious, and she laughed, too. “So, I take it you don’t like the sound of Rebecca Stone?”
“I think Rebecca is a fine name. Indeed, as the Bible reminds us, Rebecca was known for her kind and generous nature.” His gaze fell to her mouth before drifting up to her hair. “She was also known for being extremely beautiful.”
He was teasing her again.
“She also married a man more than twice her age,” Rebecca added.
“Yes, but he truly loved her. Is that not what is important? Is that not what you wish for yourself?”
A hard lump formed in her throat. The words were another reminder she was alone in the world. No one truly cared for her, and it didn’t matter how many times she swallowed, it would not go away.
“I am not the sort to indulge in whimsical fantasies, Mr. Stone,” she said, aware her voice sounded strained.
“Yet another thing we seem to have in common.”
Why did he persist in sayings things that made her body react in a multitude of different ways? One minute she felt as though she had a stone tablet stuck in her throat, the next her stomach was overrun with an infestation of butterflies. It wasn’t just what he said. It was the way the words fell from his lips, the rich drawl that teased and stroked her senses.
“I think we seem to have drifted from the point,” she said, mentally shaking herself. “As my curator, I must assume that Mr. Pearce is innocent of any wrongdoing until such a time he proves otherwise.”
He placed the list on her desk. When their eyes met, his arched brow suggested she was extremely naive. “In my book, it is always best to assume a person is guilty until they prove otherwise.”
Rebecca could not help but wonder what had happened in his life for him to have such a cynical view of the world. Indeed, cynicism was a principal he applied to most things, including love and marriage.
“Well, in some things we are different,” she sighed. “Shall we go and see what damage has been done to the storeroom?”
He nodded and waved his hand for her to lead the way.
The storeroom door was still open. Various boxes and crates were scattered about the floor, and the untidy spectacle caused her to draw a deep breath.
Gabriel put his arm out to prevent her from dashing in. “Mind where you walk. There is glass on the floor from the cabinet.” He pointed to the display case on the far wall. “It is my fault. I swung the candlestick at the intruder but misjudged the space. I shall, of course, pay to have it replaced.”
“It doesn’t matter. Besides, you have done more than enough to compensate.” It wasn’t until he raised a sinful brow that she was aware of what she’d said. “I was referring to your help with the intruder,” she clarified.
“Oh, there’s no need to be shy, Miss Linwood. It’s gratifying to know one’s efforts have not gone unnoticed.”
Rebecca rolled her eyes. “I shall go and get a broom.
He was busy inspecting the room when she returned: rummaging around in crates and moving boxes and so she brushed the floor to clear a walkway.
“You know, you really should have this on display,” he said, removing a bronze spoon from one of the boxes. “It’s Eighteenth Dynasty, and I have yet to see a finer specimen.”
“Put it back,” she groaned. “I know where everything is, or at least I did.”
He put it back in the box and covered it with straw. “Then you should look around to see if anything is missing. Perhaps theft was the motive. Perhaps the culprit hoped the noises would prevent you from venturing down here.”
“I think you forget, the noises started after I read from the scroll,” she said, propping the broom up against the wall before opening one of the boxes. “Are you not the least bit intrigued to see what it says?”
“No. Not yet. We have already established there is no such thing as a curse. Someone is doing their utmost to scare you. The operative word being someone and not something.” He glanced up at the ceiling and then moved to stand at the side of the cabinet. “Step back a few paces.”
Rebecca obeyed his command.
“But it cannot all be a coincidence. I mean, there is the matter of the bed shaking and the wind rattling my shutters. Why are you moving the cabinet?”
He peered behind the tall wooden structure and then plastered his body flat against the wall, stretching his hand behind until his arm was lost from view. “There is something hanging from the wall,” he said. “It’s probably nothing, but — wait a moment — it’s a rope.”
The sound of her bed creaking above stairs caught Rebecca’s attent
ion. “Did you hear that? It’s coming from my room.”
“Would you mind passing me the broom?”
Rebecca handed him the broom, his fingers brushing against hers as he grasped the handle. She watched him poke at the ceiling and heard a crackle as the plaster crumbled away.
“The rope goes up through a hole in the ceiling,” he said, pulling out his arm and brushing the sleeve of his coat. “We should go upstairs and inspect your room.”
The thought of being alone with him again in such a private space caused her stomach to do a flip. “Let us be quick about it then, before someone sees us.”
When they entered her room, he walked over to her bed. “I will need you to help me pull it away from the wall.”
His words and movements were structured and methodical, and she did not think to question his motive. Together, they gripped the bottom of the bed and pulled it back a few inches.
“That should be sufficient,” he said, moving her side table for a more optimum view. “It is as I suspected. The rope’s attached to the legs of your bed.”
He straightened and strode over to the window, scanning the square panes until he found what he was looking for. “And a pane of glass has been removed from the corner of this window.”
She moved towards him, her breathing shallow as she stared up at rows upon rows of tiny squares, aware of a the light breeze drifting through.
“Who would do such a thing?”
“If the intention is to cause harm, then the intruder has had every opportunity to succeed in his task. This is different. Someone is trying to frighten you, so you must try to think of a reason why anyone would wish to cause you distress.”
Rebecca hung her head. Her chest felt hollow, as though beneath her ribcage there was nothing but an empty cavern. Mr. Stone took hold of her chin and lifted her head up until her eyes met his.
“I promise you, I will find out who is doing this and put an end to it,” he said, pressing his lips to her forehead, before straightening.
In that moment, the small gesture, the kiss that spoke of comfort and compassion was worth more to her than any jewel or ancient relic.
