by Devon, Eva
Roxley watched her.
She felt his gaze upon her, admiring the fact that she loved those things as much as he. When at last she came back to him, she asked, “What ever shall you do with all these things? You will keep them here in England?”
“No,” he said firmly. “I shall take them back to Egypt. It was a great mistake for me to bring them to England. And we shall finish our work in Egypt. I thought we would be able to do it here in time, but I don’t wish to stay in England much longer. So we shall pack them up carefully, you shall double-check my list of every item, and then we shall find a safe home for them in Cairo.”
“I am honored you would allow me to assist.”
“Oh, Miss Post,” he replied gently. “No one could do a better job than you. Of that, I am most certain.”
With that, he tucked a lock of her hair behind her ear and whispered, “You are a remarkable find.”
“Why, thank you,” she replied, her heart beating wildly at his touch and compliment.
He gazed down at her lips for a long moment.
And for a brief instant, she thought for certain he was going to kiss her, but then he snapped his gaze away. “Forgive me,” he said. “I don’t know what I’m thinking. I am most out of sorts. I always am whenever I’m in this room. It has a certain pull, as if the people who owned these things or touched these objects are still with us.”
“What a romantic thought,” she said.
He laughed softly, but there was a rueful touch to it. “I suppose it is, though I am not generally given to romanticism.”
“No,” she agreed, hating that she was disappointed that he had not kissed her. “You are not.”
“Can you imagine,” he prompted, “the lives of all the people who touched these objects so long ago?”
She considered this. “I can only imagine that they were very similar to us, even though they lived in a very different time and place.”
“How right you are,” he said. “They lived. They loved. They suffered. They had dreams.”
“Indeed,” she said, her heart still swelling even though she felt most confused by his behavior. “And now we can see their lives through the objects that made up their days and nights.”
“Indeed, and one day perhaps,” he declared boldly, “We shall unlock the secret of their language.”
“Do you think so?” she asked, captivated by the idea of being able to read the strange symbols of the ancient Egyptians.
“Clever men are already beginning to work at it,” he informed, and his face took on a look as if he was already envisioning all the secrets they would discover when the language was unlocked. “Perhaps, one day, we shall know the story of all the ancient Egyptians, of their kings, of their queens, of their warriors, of their regular people, and of their poets.”
She smiled up at him. He was such a mystery. A man who drew her to him with both his gruffness and his romanticism. “Of course they had poets. How could people who created such beautiful things not?”
He drew in a deep breath then nodded. “Any great civilization has great artists and poets. And we can tell by the beauty of the work that their hearts were great.”
She bit her lower lip then dared to say, “Just like yours.”
His brow furrowed in disbelief. “I beg your pardon?”
She swallowed, then affirmed, “You have a great heart, Roxley.”
He peered down at her. “Whatever do you mean?”
How did she explain to him that a man who cared so much about the stories of the past most certainly had a beautiful heart? A great heart. It was his wish to preserve those stories so that generations might come to know them too, that made his so great.
“I am grateful to know you,” she added quietly.
“And I am grateful to know you too, Miss Post,” he said, his voice rough with emotion he could not entirely conceal. “Are you pleased?”
“Oh, very pleased,” she said, “but I will not truly be pleased until I begin. May I begin my work tomorrow?”
“Of course,” he said with a firm nod of ascent. “We shall labor here for as long as possible before it’s time to return to Egypt.”
“Then, let us not delay,” she said.
“Indeed,” he agreed, not adding another word, as if he was concerned he might be swept up in emotion.
As she followed him out of the cavern, she found herself wondering if he had truly been about to kiss her.
Oh, how she wished he would.
It was an astonishing thought, for he was her employer, but she realized he was becoming something so much more.
He was her friend.
Chapter 11
Several days had passed since he had shown her the cave for the first time, and she had barely spoken to Roxley since.
It was most interesting. . . and disappointing.
She had certainly not been without work.
He had assigned her multitudes of tasks.
She wrote letter after letter after letter, transcribing his handwriting, for his handwriting was positively appalling.
One wondered if he had actually learned letters at all. For he wrote and often cursed as ink splattered. She realized he had little patience for what he considered trifles. Hence the madly scribbled ideas.
Luckily, she was able to decipher them, often coffee-stained and rumpled. As he handed them to her, he would say bluntly, “This, for Lord Bly,” or, “This for Admiral Markham.”
And she would make certain his ideas were written out beautifully. It took far longer than translating Greek or Latin into English.
Still, it was far better than discussing the state of silk or muslin in a drawing room. She had no complaints.
Well. She had one. His relative absence. She missed the freedom of conversation they had shared.
She did think it was interesting that he was, for the most part, avoiding her. It was impossible not to rack her brain with whys and whys. With all her will, she tried to convince herself that he was simply not a gregarious person.
Still, she thought they had had a moment of personal accord. Now he seemed to have no desire to be in her presence at all.
Instead, he often left her notes.
Do please organize these books. Please ensure that the library has been re-cataloged. And the new books that have arrived today must be added in a sensible system.
She loved every moment of it, but still, she pondered if he would truly take her to Egypt when he scarce spoke to her. She let out a sigh as she crossed to the maps in his study. A table tucked in the corner by the windows bore a host of them stacked one atop the other.
He had left out a rather remarkable map on top, and she found herself pouring over it, looking at the Nile River’s delta, with its fingers stretching out into the sea.
As she looked at the great river stretching into the deepest parts of Africa, she wondered where the source of the river lay. Surely, someone knew, someone deep in that land.
As she eagerly lingered over the cartography, she tried to pay little attention to the maid bringing the fire to life in the study. As one was supposed to do.
The servants had come back a week ago, and suddenly, she understood why Roxley might not wish them to be present, aside from giving them a holiday.
She’d never realized before how distracting it was to constantly have people coming in and out of one’s work space.
She was very glad to not have to dust or clean.
Even so, she was concerned that he was going to suddenly assign her the task of sweeping up the myriad bits of things that fluttered to the floor in his states of fury as he tore up absurd letters from apparent admirers or people asking for his advice on how to, as he put it, rob the dead with no attention to the collection of historical information.
But no, his rather beleaguered, but angelic butler, Forbes, had returned and had things well in hand.
Pippa was most impressed.
She had wondered, since she was a woman, if Roxley
would give her the running of the household.
Thankfully, it had not been necessary.
Roxley and Mrs. Apsbury, the housekeeper, had the house running as if it were a royal palace.
In fact, she wondered if it was better run than the palace, for she had been there once and she had considered the corners of the rooms to be rather dubious if she was honest.
Dark, pokey, not particularly nice, the palace had not been terribly welcoming, in her opinion.
And this house was also dark and a bit pokey at times, but it was foremost clean and organized.
All Pippa had to do was keep his papers organized, his letters sorted, his books in good order, and catalog the items in the hidden cavern by the sea.
She had now been in his employ for almost three weeks.
She had written letters to her friends every day, and she was beginning to grow. . . Lonely.
She dined alone in her room every day.
She had hoped they would continue their simple feasts together, but it seemed not.
He still walked without her, leaving her often standing in the foyer with a list of things to be done that he had thrust at her before he headed out before the light of dawn.
She was loath to identity the feeling she was experiencing now as loneliness. She was accustomed to being isolated. Her family did not understand her and she did not understand them. So, she had been accustomed to feeling alone in her childhood home.
But she had thought that she and Roxley were on friendly terms. Learning they weren’t was quite a blow. She hated to confess her feelings, for she was surrounded by books. How could one be lonely when close to so many friends?
She adored every single one of them.
And she read in every spare moment she had.
After all, books were a great luxury that should never be taken for granted. She’d only been able to read what was at hand in her family’s library.
Now she had his vast collection of books, which was larger almost than the entirety of her home. She would not be able to read every single one of those books if she had two lifetimes.
Yes, it was wonderful to have so many books at her fingertips.
And yet, she longed to discuss the ideas within them with someone else, to the point where she’d begun to discuss them with Mrs. Apsbury, who had gaped at her, shook her head, and said, “I do not have an interest in the past, my dear. I have far too many concerns in the present.”
Pippa supposed she understood the sentiment, but really, she was not very interested in the present herself.
No, like her employer, she far preferred to lose herself in the past.
And she had rather hoped Roxley might wish to do so with her, but it seemed not.
She lifted her gaze from the map, wishing she could ask him details about it.
As if her thoughts had summoned him, she heard footsteps in the hall. They stopped at the doorway to his study.
Clearly, he’d spotted her, and she heard those steps begin to retreat.
Boldly, she called out, “Roxley.”
He hesitated.
She heard a sigh.
And then he strode fully into his study library.
“Yes?” he asked.
She licked her lips, wondering if she had been foolish to insist on conversation. But she had thrown herself in. There was no going back now.
“Could you please tell me about this map?” she asked.
He peered at it then stated, “It’s Egypt.”
She just resisted the temptation to roll her eyes at him. “I am aware, thank you. I do not think you would entrust me with your letters if you did not think I could read a map.”
“Fair point,” he said.
She frowned. “Have I done something to perturb you?”
“Everyone does something to perturb me,” he said simply with the slightest of shrugs.
Her patience, which she had considered boundless, frayed. “Would you like to tell me what it is, so that I won’t do it again?”
“Does it bother you?” he asked. “That I’m not speaking to you much at present?”
“Yes,” she gritted. “It does. I have a great many things I would like to say, and I have no one to say them to.”
“What would you like to say?” he asked in such a way that it did not encourage one to engage in conversation.
“I wish to discuss everything,” she explained, hating how desperate she felt to be engaged in intelligent discourse. “The information you have given me? I wish to explore it with you. And I have found I am adrift since you no longer seem to wish to talk with me beyond the tasks which you require me to complete.”
He frowned, looking askance. “I did not hire you to be my conversationalist.”
“No,” she agreed, nearly shouting in her frustration, but that would do her no good, she knew. “I am a human, Roxley.”
“You must understand, I cannot be distracted,” he rushed, shifting from one polished boot to the other.
“I am distracting?” she queried, disbelieving him.
A muscle in his jaw tensed. “Yes.”
“In what way?” she demanded. “I shall endeavor to not be—”
“Your very presence is distracting,” he cut in, looking suddenly trapped.
“Oh dear,” she said, horrified that she was causing him difficulty when she was there to assist him. “I suppose that is absolutely terrible, for your work is very important. I don’t wish to be a distraction to you.”
“You are a great help,” he countered.
“Am I?” she asked, pleased as punch and relieved. If he found her only distracting, she feared for the state of her position.
“Miss Post, I would not be able to do nearly as much work as I do if you were not present, and I wish you to know it.” His hands curled into fists, and his chest expanded as he drew in a long, fortifying breath. “I have perhaps been remiss in my compliment of your work. I am not given to compliments. One must simply get on with things, you know?”
“Oh, yes. I quite agree,” she said, unable to articulate how much his comments meant to her. “But I am glad to know you are approving of the work I’m doing for you.”
He gave a terse nod.
He looked most put out, which was very interesting, because he was a very powerful and handsome gentleman. But he looked completely ill at ease as if he’d been caught doing something he oughtn’t.
Pippa frowned, her feelings of elation at his praise fading to doubts. “I say, are you certain I haven’t done something to upset you?”
“Miss Post,” he began, his voice deep and ominous. “If you wish me to be honest with you, I will. But I do not think you actually wish it. It could cause a great difficulty between us. I do not wish to compromise your work here.”
“However could you compromise my work here?” she challenged.
He shook his head and took a step backward. “I think it best I say nothing.”
“I insist,” she declared, unwilling to continue on in such a state of unknowing with him. “Tell me.”
He grimaced then said bluntly, “I wish to kiss you.”
She gasped.
He threw up his hands. “You see? You are horrified, and this will compromise your work here. I knew I never should have said it. I wished to keep it to myself, after all. I shall stay on the other side of the house whilst you are here, working. You are far too effective for me to lose you. I will make sure we are a good distance apart.”
The words fell out of his mouth with a surprising intensity, as if he had feared this moment and prepared for it. “I shall not allow my desire to kiss you affect—”
“I wish to kiss you too,” she broke in firmly before she could stop herself.
His voice stuttered to a stop, and he locked gazes with her. “I beg your pardon?”
“I wish you to kiss me,” she somehow managed to announce again.
He shook his dark mane, clearly disbelieving he had heard correctly. “I do not follow.�
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“You expressed a desire to kiss me, and I am expressing a similar desire,” she said plainly, hardly daring to believe her own boldness.
“You cannot mean it,” he said quietly, a spark now beginning to burn in his gaze.
“Oh, but I do,” she assured. Her chest rose and fell as her breath came in more rapid takes. “I have made a promise to myself that I shall not lie anymore about the things that I wish. This is one of those things.”
“How very singular,” he marveled as a languid confidence seemed to overtake him.
“It is, isn’t it?” she mused, pleased he thought so. “I find that honesty saves a great deal of time, don’t you?”
“Yes,” he agreed, factually. “But most people don’t like it.”
“I do,” she returned, willing him to cross the floor and take her in his arms.
“So I see.” He pondered this. “This is not the moment for me to kiss you, you realize?”
“Why ever not?” she all but demanded.
“This is very. . .” He looked about, searching for his answer, but failing. “I don’t know.”
“Is there some sort of recipe?” she asked. “To make sure the kiss turns out correctly?”
“Yes,” he replied. “Generally speaking.”
She took a step towards him, feeling pulled by some unseen force. “Would you like to tell it to me, much like you instructed me on the cutting of bread and the making of coffee? As you know, I am an apt learner.”
His gaze smoldered at her words. “Indeed, you are, Miss Post,” he said. “Indeed, you are.”
“Perhaps,” she ventured as she continued to make her way towards him. “Since you are going to kiss me and instruct me on the doing of it, you should call me Pippa.”
“I agree,” he whispered. “Pippa.”
And the sound of her name upon his lips was the most delicious thing she had ever heard.
Chapter 12
Marcus could hardly believe the words escaping her beautiful lips.
