A GRAND PLAN

They stared at each other, neither moving.

“Kissing you now would be taking advantage of you when you are not yourself.”

“We could make it short,” she suggested. “Just to see if I even like your kisses. You always surprise me, and I don’t have a chance to think it through.”

“Think through kissing?” He leaned closer, skeptical.

“Yes,” she said. “One must plan for things. Know what to do. Be prepared.”

He cupped her cheek in his palm and pulled her in, whispering against her lips. “What if something unexpected happens and the plan needs to change?” A tender smile curled his mouth making him rakishly attractive.

She met his eyes, inches away. “Then it wasn’t a very good plan. That’s why it’s important to think before you act. This will be a test upon which I can draw further information to plan.”

“What kind of information?”

“How you kiss,” she said. He brushed his mouth softly across hers.

“If I like your kisses,” she said. He sucked gently, just once on her lower lip.

Her voice grew husky. Her eyelids fell. Her body reached out. “And if I want—” He covered her mouth, and Olivia forgot all about her explanation.

Contents

Dedication
Acknowledgments

Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Epilogue

Copyright

For Jim Cerrone

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

Many thanks to Leah Hultenschmidt, Renee Yewdaev, Erin Galloway, and all the dedicated team at Dorchester, who ushered this book through the publishing process. A very big thanks to Lynne Marshall and Joe Garlington for their insightful critique and for doing it within my time constraints—it was a huge help. Andrew, my love, you talked me out of the tomb when I got stuck. Barbara Groth and the Buddhas, you throw great parties! May you receive all the good things you deserve. Annie Pinsker Brown, thank you for your friendship, calming presence, and making a beautiful space for celebrating. Annette Mann, thank you for your research, especially with regard to those bloodthirsty, Barbary pirates. Lots of love and thanks to all my family and friends for their genuine support and for making each success special.

After many long nights alone with my computer, there are few things more fun than to have someone tell me they read and loved one of my books. Thanks to all my readers—female and male—who have supported me, sent notes, and shared their kind words and encouragement. Siren’s Secret takes place before the Rosetta Stone enabled the deciphering of Egyptian hieroglyphics. My heroine, Olivia, doesn’t need that kind of help, and the catacombs she explores are loosely based on real ones in Alexandria, Egypt. To learn more, visit me at www.TrishAlbright. com. Until then …

Enjoy the adventure,

Trish Albright

Chapter One

London, 1791

Lady Olivia Katharine Hastings Yates, known for her exemplary standards, excellent taste, and exceptional mind, was about to become a thief.

She stared at the artifact before her. Her fingertips tingled, her senses heightened, and her life was about to change forever.

But what choice was there?

She picked up the ancient Egyptian funerary cone, instantly disgusted.

“They really should improve the security here.” This was the British Museum. Home to countless priceless artifacts! One less artifact now.

Olivia ignored the fact that her first bit of thieving left very little remorse. It was actually a bit thrilling, if she was honest. And surprisingly easy. Completely wrong, but most exciting, all in all. She sighed, relieved she’d been able to succeed. Her jaw relaxed a moment.

One step closer to saving her father.

A chilling waft of air struck her, and Olivia realized a window was open somewhere. That could not be safe either. She would be sure to tell Grayson they needed to check their security.

She glanced around Grayson’s dark research room, lifting her lamp past the tables of books and artifacts being studied. The windows appeared closed.

Strange.

Olivia brushed away any worries, her attention returning to the artifact.

She lifted it carefully, weighing. Solid red granite. Heavier than expected. Another thrill went through her—this one entirely academic. She was holding an item more than two thousand years old. She reverently traced the ancient hieroglyphics engraved on the rounded end, recognizing instantly many words she had already translated, and studying new ones, her mind racing with excitement, a strange familiarity and understanding rushing her.

Turning it over, she observed how the stone narrowed into the shape of a five-pointed star on the other end—as if designed for a secondary purpose, perhaps to hold the marker in place.

“Unusual,” she murmured. She didn’t recognize the strange symbol chiseled inside the star either. It didn’t look Egyptian, but according to the writing, this funerary cone marked the resting place of a librarian at the Great Library of Alexandria. She touched the symbol.

Her head spun, and she put the ancient object down for safety.

The sensation stopped.

Odd. The excitement, no doubt.

Olivia took a breath. It was time to go. She needed to walk out of the room, smile pleasantly, compliment Grayson and the other hosts, then leave the fund-raising event as quickly as possible.

Her eyes darted around the room for anything else of value she should snatch while she had the chance. If she was joining the profession, she intended to be good at it.

On the desk, not far from where the artifact had been, was a paper. She recognized Lord Grayson’s exacting script.

He had noted all the symbols of the funerary cone, with special care to possible meanings underneath, but was completely wrong in his theory.

“Not even close, dear Grayson,” Olivia said softly.

There was also an inscription included from where the stone had been acquired. The hieroglyphics struck her with sudden clarity. What you seek, you already have.

Olivia’s head spun again. She braced herself against the table.

Touching the ancient stone, Olivia was more certain than ever that she had the code for translating hieroglyphics correct. Only no one believed her.

Why would they? She had not attended Eton, Oxford, or any institution of note. After all, she was a woman. Her entire education had been achieved through private tutors and her father’s library. Fortunately, her father had one of the largest personal libraries in London. But, oh, to one day speak at the very institutions she was barred from and share her knowledge. To exchange ideas with other great minds. She knew it was improbable, but she dreamed … someday.

This artifact might be the key.

Aside from the stealing part. That could become an issue.

Her father’s colleague in Egypt had sent this to the British Museum in hope that Grayson and others could decipher the notable Alexandrian’s text.

She folded the paper and shoved it deep into the pocket of her gown. A creaking sound at the far end of the room sent a shot of ice down her arms. She whirled and stared into blackness.

Nothing.

Bookcases settling, no doubt, but a reminder that she needed to make her departure.

She tucked the Egyptian relic over her forearm, snug against her elbow, and concealed it with her thick cloak. Next she covered the wick of the lamp until darkness enveloped her, save for the moonlight through the window, and made for the door.

That’s when the creak turned to a scuttle. A fast scuttle.

Little hairs on the back of her neck prickled. She turned defensively as a large shadow moved across the room.

Straight at her.

She rushed toward the light illuminating the crack under the door.

Something caught at her throat and pulled her backward, choking. The granite cone slipped from her grasp and fell with a muffled thud before hitting the wood floor. A man yelped. She realized the stone must have landed strategically, giving her a moment’s reprieve. She turned and swung wildly, furiously, flinching when her weak fist made contact with something that felt like a chin.

“Bastard!” she spat, furious at her injured hand.

He ripped her cloak from her tangled grasp and threw it over her head, causing not just utter darkness, but suffocating utter darkness. Olivia struggled in earnest, crying out for help, her voice effectively muffled in velvet and mink, her head getting hot, her thoughts becoming fuzzy, her hair ruined for sure, but worse—she was being carried toward the windows.

She should have known stealing wouldn’t be this easy. Despite all her planning, there were things in the world of thieving she hadn’t taken into account.

Other thieves.

Samuel Stafford accepted the sealed message from Lord Grayson, promising to deliver it when he arrived in Alexandria. Egypt was an occasional port of call for him on his Mediterranean route for Stafford Shipping, and often families and business associates asked him to carry correspondence.

“Thank you, Stafford. I appreciate your assistance. There aren’t many ships journeying so far at this time. And there are few non-English vessels known to be so successful in avoiding pirates these days.” Grayson voiced, curious, “I’ve heard it is a family secret?”

Samuel smiled politely. With America unwilling to pay off the Barbary States, few of its ships could count on safe passage after the war with England. Fortunately, his parents had laid the groundwork for secure routes through the Mediterranean. But he didn’t share family adventures with mere acquaintances, so he responded vaguely. “We have been lucky.”

Grayson nodded, accepting the answer. “If you see the duchess, please give her my regards,” Grayson added.

“The duchess?”

“Your sister, Mr. Stafford.” The wiry Englishman grinned.

Samuel still had a hard time remembering his wild little sister had an English title. It was so … un-American.

Grayson continued, “She visited before her departure, wanting to borrow a book on Egyptian myths. I understand she’ll be visiting some of the sights in Egypt, and she thought it would be enriching.” He indicated the correspondence. “Lord Merryvale offered her a tour around his current excavation site as well.”

Samuel nodded. “She is an avid reader. It passes the hours at sea. I’ll be certain to share your greeting.”

“Excellent. Please enjoy the rest of the evening, then.”

Samuel looked around at the emptiness of the second-floor exhibit rooms set up for the occasion. They had been given the grand tour earlier, and now the guests happily congregated where music played and champagne flowed. He liked silence. One would think he got enough of it at sea, but London was at times overwhelming, with the sheer number of people in the city.

“Mind if I stay a bit?” he asked. “I could use a moment from the crowd.”

“Of course,” Grayson replied. “All the second-floor rooms are open in this wing. The third floor is off-limits, but nothing to be missed. Office and study space mostly.”

Samuel waited as the man bowed and excused himself. Once alone, he strolled the open space, making his way through a couple more rooms, enjoying the opportunity to browse at his leisure. It was peaceful, save for the light hum of revelers wafting up from the bottom floor. He didn’t care much for Greek vases, but he wholeheartedly supported the intent of the museum to give free entry to all who wished to look at them and other antiquities they had begun to collect.

Few of the very rich downstairs seemed genuinely interested in the history marked on each table, but they appreciated the endeavor with their pocket funds.

He rolled his shoulders under his coat, wishing for fresh air, when something at the window caught his eye. He blinked, curious.

A pair of feet?

Samuel stepped closer to the window, the light from inside illuminating the vision. Suddenly the feet dropped, and a pair of stocking-covered legs hung, swinging, searching for purchase. It took him less than a second to realize this was a stunning pair of legs. Even less to realize a woman was hanging outside, in danger of losing her life.

He opened the window to save her from certain death and reached up to grasp what was both a distracting and rather luscious view—when the unthinkable happened.

A leg swung fiercely forward, its foot leading the strike on his face with enough force to knock him backward and temporarily blind him.

Olivia struggled furiously against her captor. Gads. Not just a thief, but a murdering thief. He intended to toss her out the window! She was going to die—and not nobly. Instead, she’d be remembered for a notorious and mysterious death, discussed in hush tones among the ton for years to come.

She felt a blast of cold air up her legs as she kicked hard, hoping for a wall or windowpane to use as leverage against being forced out.

“Hurry. Someone’s coming.”

Olivia renewed her muffled screams at the new voice, hoping against hope someone would arrive in time. She would worry about explanations later.

Unfortunately, it was not to be done.

An icy breeze rushed up her skirts as her body was lifted and pushed feetfirst through the third-floor window.

The word crushing went through her mind. A crushing fall, they would all say.

Then outrage took over. She would not be easily finished. Her father needed her, and she was all he had. And he, all she had. No, this would not do.

Olivia clawed frantically, managing to free a hand from the heavy cloak. She swiped at her attacker, grasping hold near his collar as he tried to toss her. Something ripped, but she clung. Then her body dropped, weightless, the cloak finally freeing itself.

She fell.

For a full second.

Then jolted to a stop.

Olivia clung to silk neckwear, listening with satisfaction to the choking sounds of her attacker. Her other hand fumbled free and scraped against the cold wall searching for hope. It came in contact with what she knew to be vines.

That’s when the weight of her attacker shifted. She wrenched her neck sideways to see where he would attack from next, and suddenly he was coming down.

On top of her.

Olivia gladly released him, and swung to the side of the wall clinging to vines on pure faith.

Her attacker suffered worse misfortune. He crashed headfirst. She shuddered at the crush. That was a crushing death.

She tilted her head toward the window hoping help was within reach. Instead the window shut emphatically, leaving her to contemplate her lack of botanical knowledge regarding vines. She prayed these were the sturdy sort.

The vines ripped.

In a desperate moment, with a desperate cry, she reached with her left hand to a small ledge dividing the floors while scooping her right hand around another fresh set of vines. She hung perilously.

Until those vines ripped too. Her body jolted lower.

Olivia breathed deep and slow, holding back a whimper of fear. Below her was light. Another window. Maybe she could swing in—except her arms ached, her fingers burned raw, and her heart pounded so hard she had trouble making her legs function. She hung, clinging to the vines, unable to commit to either plant or stone. What were the odds the window was open? It was early spring—too cold for open windows. If she moved too violently she might lose her already hazardous hold on life.

She was doomed. Her thieving days over for certain.

Olivia decided risk was the only option. She swung a leg, thinking to crack the glass.

Luck! It was open.

Bad luck. The vines ripped.

She yelped, skidding against the building until her foot landed with a jolt on a narrow ledge. Her heart thundered in her ears and dizziness threatened. She was parallel to the window. A mere foot from safety.

Carefully Olivia inched her body toward the light, uncaring that her dress was bunched, her hands raw, and her hair falling free. She just … needed … to reach … the window.

One arm reached toward the opening, her fingers scraping along cold stone toward the heat of the room.

She felt the vine weakening and released, making a grab for the windowpane. Painstakingly, she shimmied inch by inch across the ledge. She could have cried with joy when she finally hugged the window frame with her body. With one neat sidestep she prepared to jump inside.

That’s when she made the biggest mistake of her life.

She looked up.

And saw him.

A giant. A monster. A brute of a man. Inches away. Reaching for her!

In fright, she gasped. And made an even bigger mistake.

She let go.

His vision imperfect from the injury near his eye, Samuel grabbed the closest thing in reach—her bosom.

His fingers wrapped over the top of her dress and curled. For a split second he absorbed the shocked look on her face, the arms thrown back, and the dewy soft skin of her breasts beneath his touch. Without hesitation he took a step forward, wrapped his other arm around her waist, and pulled her to safety.

“It’s all right, miss. I’ve got you.”

In fact, she had him. She clutched desperately, her breath coming in gasps, her heart pounding wildly against him, an indication of her distress. Without letting go of him, her body inched around, turning them both in a half circle so that her back was no longer to the open window. Then, as if feeling safer, she took a deep breath and pushed away from him to brush down her skirts and check her dress pockets, before making a fuss about fixing her hair.

Samuel watched silently as she took apart what remained of her bun, releasing the rest of her silky, shoulder-length strands. Her chaotic mane was white-blonde, the perfect complement to the shocking silver eyes that had locked on his in heartbreaking fear.

She lifted her arms, securing her hair back from her face, the action drawing Samuel’s eyes to her uplifted cleavage. Of course, he was only looking to make sure he hadn’t damaged her dress. The woman was attractive—in a sharp-eyed, determined, intelligent sort of way.

He looked up to find her glaring at him—pointedly. Her composure was clearly recovered.

He offered a smile and bowed. “Miss.”

She ignored him and went to the window, reaching for something. He reached over her head and released the cloak. He thought she gasped, but realized the height might have renewed her fears. She fiercely closed the window, then shut the curtains before accepting her cloak.

“Thank you,” she said, as if it were an effort to express appreciation for saving her neck. “And good evening.” She nodded tersely before walking past him as if nothing had happened.

“Miss, I must insist …”

She continued walking.

“Miss, really. I—”

She spun back, impatient. “Very well. If you must know. I needed a bit of fresh air.”

Air? Uh-huh. He grinned at the absurdity of the comment, wincing slightly at the pain under his eye. Hell, she likely broke his cheekbone when she kicked him. Still, this was the most entertainment he’d had since arriving in England. Her voice, deep and husky, tickled the hairs on his neck, and he rubbed at it curiously.

“Again, miss, I must insist …”

She ignored him, and he was forced to catch her before she exited the room. She whirled in fury, knocking his arm away.

“Ma’am,” he said, “please go no further, or you will regret it.”

“Are you threatening me, sir?”

He thought that would be a bad idea, considering the icicles shooting from her eyes.

“Not at all.” His humor got the best him, his smile clearly irritating her further. “Your dress is tragically ripped in the back, revealing a view that I am genuinely grateful for, but could not in good conscience allow you to expose to innocent men in the foyer below.”

She gasped. Then reached a hand to her behind. Then gasped again. “Damnation!” She pulled at the torn material in dismay. “I loved this dress!”

He raised an eyebrow.

“You should know I’m not normally maledicent.” She sighed. “I mean, given to abusive speech, sir. Least not in public.”

He winked. “Got it.”

“It’s just—”

“Have you ever climbed through a window before?” he asked.

She cut him with her eyes, as if telling him to mind his own business.

“I see. Well, you loved that dress, so all is forgiven.”

“I didn’t ask your forgiveness, sir.”

“Your cloak appears fit,” he said, ignoring her. “Perhaps it would help if you put it on.”

Olivia didn’t want to do anything the man said. She was annoyed at having been caught in such a humiliating situation, but he made sense, and she needed to look as innocent as possible until she was home. At least she still retained the script in her pocket. That much was a relief. Perhaps all was not lost.

She fussed, uncomfortable as he continued to study her, leisurely circling her form as if to judge her appearance acceptable or not. Occasionally he swiped her cloak to either straighten or dust it off. It was disturbing. And uncommonly consoling. His large hands swept firmly down her bodice and legs, igniting her with warmth.

Gads, she was four and twenty—well past heart palpitations. It must be the adventure of the evening. Nearly dying could cause increased bodily distress. She swallowed, realizing she was desperately thirsty. Who was this man?

Not English, she knew, and not known in her circles. Which meant he was not the sort. The phrase annoyed her even as it occurred to her. Certainly there were many who were not the sort, but who were perfectly normal and acceptable.

He came in front of her. Too close. He raised a large, rough hand to her cheek and lifted a strand of hair behind her ear, without touching skin. He didn’t need to. The heat of his hand seemed to blaze a trail across her cheek and over her temple. She took a breath, studying him again.

Yes, a brute. She swallowed hard. A devilishly attractive brute. Over six feet. His hair was trimmed stylishly but overlong on top, causing a wavy lock to fall forward over a broad forehead that complemented the hard, square jaw. There was something very raw about him, relieved only by the golden brown eyes that seemed to exude as much warmth as he did.

“Are you laughing at me?” she asked.

He laughed. “Absolutely not. I wouldn’t dare laugh at a woman brave enough to make an entrance from the sky.”

If possible, his eyes grew warmer, causing Olivia to get hotter. It was the cloak, she realized. Or those lips. They curled. She had never seen lips that curled so sensually. She pushed the cloak off one shoulder for comfort.

“What happened to your face?” Best to distract him from her unorthodox entry.

He touched it gently, as if it was still tender.

“Ah. Struck by lightning.”

“The night is clear. And lightning would have burned.”

“It did.” He answered. “It does.”

She grew warmer under his gaze, uncertain what he might be referring to and desperate to escape him and the museum.

“You should see a doctor. Excuse me. This conversation is highly inappropriate.”

“Wait! Your name?”

“Unnecessary, as we won’t be seeing each other again.”

He followed her out of the exhibit area.

“Are you following me, sir?”

“Never, ma’am. Just going the same way.”

“Oh.” She was flustered. “Does it seem strange that I am wearing my cloak?”

“You should say that you were getting ready to depart, when a friend called upon you to examine the Grecian vases.”

“Yes. Excellent.” She glanced down at the arm offered politely. “Thank you,”—she accepted the arm—“for the useful deception that comes so easy to you, sir.”

“Insults for my help? That’s very English of you.”

She gasped. Then shut her mouth. There was a reason she avoided Americans. Too damned brash.

At the bottom of the staircase she freed her hand, executed a perfect English curtsy, so he would know how it was done, then spun and made for the exit. She would send her groom to find her companion, Mrs. Tisdale. The most important thing was to get safely away from the museum before all hell broke loose.

She reached the exit and smiled pleasantly at the strange man blocking her way. Two more, guarding the doors, joined him.

She nodded politely and begged pardon to pass by.

“You’ll not be leaving anytime soon, m’lady,” the smallest of the men informed her. “There’s been a death. Until all guests are questioned, you’re to remain here, under the orders of the Bow Street magistrate ’imself.”

Olivia swallowed, “A death? Who?” She prayed she appeared appropriately shocked, while the image of the mangled body flashed through her mind.

“Not for me to say—”

A scream above cut him off.

Lady Grayson clung to the rail on the floor above. Olivia and the entire room looked upward at the hysterical woman. “Lord Grayson,” she cried. “He’s dead!”

Lady Grayson promptly swooned to the floor.

Olivia gasped. Good lord. She had stolen the artifact from Lord Grayson and pulled a man out the window, perhaps causing his ultimate demise. Now Grayson was dead. Who had last seen him? Had he been murdered? The evidence of her guilt rested in her pocket—the translation of the stolen artifact. She would be questioned. Perhaps searched. If they put the two clues together …

Gads. Olivia nearly fell on her feet.

She would hang.

Chapter Two

A firm hand grasped her arm as she tried not to sway at the news of Grayson’s death.

“Come, my dear, it’s going to be a long evening. I’ll find you a seat.”

It was the American, concern reflecting in his golden brown eyes. He offered a warm, safe sanctuary.

“Gra—Grayson,” she stammered, the events of the evening finally catching up with her. “He was a colleague. A friend.” And she had stolen from him! Well, not from him specifically, but he might have borne the blame for it. Now he was dead. And someone had already tried to kill her. They might come back. Her knees folded and an arm circled her back.

“I’ve got you,” he said. Then over her head, to the men at the door, “It’s a shock to us all.”

She realized he endeavored to give her a moment to recover. He knew she knew something. Even so—she was grateful.

The American led her to an area where tables had been arranged for guests to wait. The music continued, but in more soothing tones, and the guests—some saddened, some anxious, some thrilled by the excitement—gathered in groups to exchange theories.

“Olivia!” Mrs. Tisdale called.

Olivia turned to her friend and chaperone, who immediately pulled her from the American’s hold and embraced her before stepping back to study. “You’re pale. Are you all right? Oh, my dear. It’s a terrible shock. Let’s sit you down and get this cloak off—”

“No!” She and the American spoke in unison.

“I’m a bit chilled,” Olivia insisted. “The shock …”

“It’s important to stay warm,” he offered. “Especially after such news …”

Mrs. Tisdale eyed the American, curious. She looked between the two, and Olivia flushed guiltily, embarrassed that her friend of nine years seemed to think she had been engaged in a tryst with the man at her side.

This time Olivia had the satisfaction of seeing her previously composed rescuer discomfited.

He bowed. “Now that you are in safe hands, please excuse me while I find my aunt.”

“Wait!” Mrs. Tisdale insisted.

He paused.

“In light of the circumstances, it seems we must make our own acquaintance.”

Olivia stared bemused as Mrs. Tisdale offered a hand. It was very un-English.

“I’m Mrs. Geoffrey Tisdale. Elizabeth, to my friends.”

He relaxed and took the hand, his beautiful lips curling up on the left, as if reluctantly charmed by her offer of friendship. “Samuel Stafford.”

Mrs. Tisdale gasped, yanking her hand back and pressing it over her heart. Not in shock, Olivia knew, but surprise. At the sight of Mrs. Tisdale’s gaping mouth, Olivia had the good sense to close her own.

Samuel Stafford looked at his empty palm, then lowered it. “Samuel, to my friends.” The smile disappeared. “My reputation precedes me?”

“Oh. Oh, no, Mr. Stafford.” Mrs. Tisdale strove to cover her less-than-gracious response. “No. No. Stafford Shipping has of course become well known in most circles. And your sister … uh … married not long ago, I understand. Quite well, indeed.”

“You’ve met my beloved sister?”

Olivia caught the unmistakable edge in his voice. Whether it was anger at his sister for her behavior or at Mrs. Tisdale for bringing it up, she didn’t know.

“Her Grace? Oh, no. But she is quite … known …” Mrs. Tisdale trailed off.

Olivia knew there wasn’t much more one could politely say about his sister, Alexandra Stafford, now the Duchess of Worthington. Despite a good marriage, she was not quite the sort. A heathen and adventuress, by most accounts—though Olivia hoped to someday meet the woman. However, by the look on Mr. Stafford’s face, he would not appreciate the stories that circulated.

Olivia undertook to alleviate the awkwardness, so also offered her hand. “I’m—”

He cut her off, ignoring her hand. “Unnecessary, I believe, as we won’t be seeing each other again.”

She gasped, stunned that he would turn her own words on her, and quite rudely. She stared at his retreating form—a very large retreating form. It appeared they had insulted him. Huh. From their reputations, Staffords seemed impervious to insult. Or perhaps she had thought them too wild and ignorant to recognize one. Bad form on her part. She had let gossip shape her opinion. Neither fair nor scientific of her.

Despite not having been on her own best behavior, she found that his rejection hurt. Still, she had bigger issues to worry about. Frowning, she turned to her chaperone, whose mouth had dropped open again. Olivia pushed her friend’s chin up.

“Oh dear. That was not well done of me, was it?”

“No, Mrs. Tisdale. But no one is quite as perfect as I am,” Olivia said.

Mrs. Tisdale cocked an eyebrow at her. “Your humor is most dry, my dear.”

“Better to be dry than drooling—but enough.” Olivia fingered the paper buried deep in her pocket. She needed to hide it. “What book did you bring tonight, Mrs. Tisdale? I have a mind to read for a bit.”

Across the room, Samuel found his aunt, Lady Margaret, surrounded by a bevy of elder statesmen. Aunt Maggie was his mother’s sister, and the last close English relative still living. She’d spent several years in Boston with the Stafford clan after her husband died and was dear to him and all his siblings.

He smiled patiently while Maggie instructed the gentlemen on the importance of supporting the arts. Aunt Maggie could often appear absentminded, but behind the soft exterior was a sharp mind that missed nothing. She excused herself to join him.

“What happened to your face?”

“I ran into a statue. Venus or someone.”

“Really, Samuel. I don’t believe that for a second, and neither will the authorities. Do you know anything about this?”

“Nothing.”

“I saw you with Lady Olivia and her companion.”

“Lady Olivia?”

“She’s not for you, you know.”

Samuel froze. “I have no intentions—”

“Heavens, dear. I felt the electricity from here. And your eyes gave you away. But only those who love you would know,” she said.

“Um-hmm. So tell me about Lady Olivia. She was friends with Grayson, you know.”

“Yes. Very upsetting, this business.” Maggie studied Lady Olivia. The younger woman stared at a closed book, deep in thought. “Olivia, hmm. She’s confident, quick-witted, entertaining as a dinner companion, gifted in the classical languages, extremely well educated. In short, an intellectual—though a very frustrated one. Females do meet a few closed doors, you know. It’s unfortunate.”

“You like her,” Samuel accused.

“Immensely.” Maggie tucked her arm through his. “Let’s take a turn about the room.”

Samuel escorted his aunt while she recollected her facts.

“What else?” said Maggie aloud. “Her mother passed I think when she was fifteen. She has a manor home in Ashford left to her by her mother, and one thousand pounds annually, though I don’t know if that goes directly to her or her father. They are very close and work on his research together. He is obsessed with finding ancient Egyptian tombs. I saw him at an event last year, and I know he was leaving for Egypt soon after. A charming man, if a bit of a zealot when it comes to Egyptian mythology and all things Alexandrian. He has passed his passion on to his daughter.”

“And if I may ask, dearest aunt: what is wrong with me?”

“Nothing, Samuel. You just deserve to have someone in your life much easier than the very complicated Lady Olivia Katharine Hastings Yates. If you must know, before your sister came along, she was considered not quite the sort.”

“Not quite the sort to do what?”

“Not quite the sort to go placidly along with society’s plans for her, for one.”

Samuel sighed heavily. “Unfortunately, I find that unusually admirable.”

She patted his arm. “I know, dear.”

They reached the end of their walk, very near to where Lady Olivia sat. Her companion stood not far away, talking with one of the officials. Lady Olivia looked up from her seat, spying them. Carefully adjusting her cloak, she rose and approached with a gentle bow and a genuine smile to his aunt. He felt his gut clench at the change. The smile transformed the angles of her face into something more elfish and mischievous, relieving the severity of her jaw. The eyes he had thought silver streaks of lightning were a warmer, mysterious gray. The result was engaging. Intriguing. And very interesting.

“Lady Margaret, it’s a pleasure to see you,” she greeted before tilting her head to him. She held the smile, albeit a bit more tentatively. As much as Samuel wanted to be flattered, he was mostly suspicious.

“Have you met my nephew, Lady Olivia?”

“Only informally, I’m afraid, and I don’t believe I made a very good first impression.”

His aunt made the formal introduction, while Lady Olivia continued to fuss awkwardly with her cloak, holding both her reticule and a book. Giving up, she asked him, “My apologies, could you please hold this for a moment?”

Samuel took the book and slid it under his arm before folding both arms across his chest to regard her. Truthfully, he was fascinated. She’d gone from ice queen to bumbling maiden.

She continued to readjust the mink neckline of her cloak, smiling helplessly, until her companion joined them. Samuel took another look at the older woman. Not so old. About his age. Thirty, perhaps. Attractive. Or she would be if her hair weren’t pulled back similarly to Lady Olivia’s. Up and tight. He wondered if they were trying to set a style. He prayed it wouldn’t catch on.

“Olivia, dear, they’re ready for us.” Mrs. Tisdale indicated the three tables set up for guests to meet with inspectors.

“Oh. Of course. Excuse us a moment. Lady Margaret. Mr. Stafford.” She nodded and followed Mrs. Tisdale to the table. Most of the guests had gotten past the outrage of opening the contents of their hand purses and personal belongings. Both ladies did this automatically.

“Pockets, m’lady?”

“Why yes, one. In my dress,” Olivia replied. “For my handkerchief.”

“Can you stand and turn it out for me?”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Sorry m’lady. Lots of material. Anything could be hidin’ in there. Fact is, theft is a good motive for killin’.”

Olivia huffed, but stood and turned out her pocket. “Will that suffice, sir?”

“Just a few more questions. You in a rush?”

Olivia froze at the implication she was running from something.

“Not at all. I merely find your method insulting, sir.” At his raised brow, she explained, “Your process.”

He stared at her, then finally went on, “Were you alone at any point this evening, m’lady?”

“No.”

“That right?”

“That’s right, sir. I’m nothing, if not veridical. That means truthful. But I don’t suppose you meet many people like that in your line of work.”

“Not a one, m’lady.” He dipped his quill and scribbled. “You were reported wandering off alone in the exhibits, Lady ’Livia.” He looked down at his note for a long while, saying nothing, then finally looked up. Silent. Waiting for an explanation.

Olivia stared at him. Gads! Was all society filled with captious gossips? She schooled her expression to betray nothing. There was only one answer that would save her.

“If you must know …” She glanced hesitantly at Mr. Stafford, who sat next to them with his aunt. “I had a rendezvous. That’s French for—”

“I know what—”

“Fine. With a gentleman whose name I wish not to mention.” She glanced sideways again.

Mrs. Tisdale gasped in what Olivia presumed was shock. Olivia scowled. “I’m sorry, Mrs. Tisdale, but I’m four and twenty. Surely you did not think me innocent?”

Mrs. Tisdale pressed a hand over her chest dramatically. “Innocent, indeed.”

Her inquisitor bent over his notes again, suppressing a smirk. “I think I can figure out the rest, m’lady. Yer excused.”

Mrs. Tisdale asked, “What about me?”

“You’re not the sort, ma’am.”

“Well. That’s a bit disappointing. Am I so uninteresting, Olivia?” She didn’t wait for an answer. “However, that seems to be a bit of good fortune in this instance. Thank you, sir.” She turned to Olivia. “Ready, dear? It seems we have some catching up to do.”

Olivia stood at the same time Mr. Stafford and Lady Margaret were excused. Mr. Stafford laid a book on the table. “Don’t forget this, Lady Olivia.”

Olivia nearly wheezed. Before she could take the book, the Bow Street Runner swept it from her grasp.

“Yours?”

Olivia couldn’t speak. Thankfully Mrs. Tisdale did.

“Actually, it’s mine,” she said.

The man took the book, read the title slowly—A History of the American Colonies—then examined the front and back covers.

Olivia felt her knees buckle.

The man lifted the book by its spine and shook it thoroughly before handing it back. “Cain’t be too safe.” He winked at her. “A popular form of hiding and passing messages.”

“Truly?” Mrs. Tisdale retrieved the book.

Olivia stared, befuddled, until Mr. Stafford bumped her from behind to move along. He must have taken the script. Fury welled up inside. What did he want with it? Gads, had he been involved in Grayson’s death? She went cold. He walked near her, escorting his aunt. Sensing her regard, he turned his head—and those lips curled up, most wickedly!

The bastard! The bloody, brash, American—

“You look unwell, Lady Olivia?”

Her throat was tight. “I’m perfect.”

“Out of sorts?”

“I’m fine!” Then she softened her answer. “But, Mr. Stafford, I would most appreciate it if you could escort us to our carriage. It is a bit farther off.”

“Of course. Please wait while I make my aunt comfortable.”

They waited as Mr. Stafford took his aunt to a carriage nearby. She wondered how he had managed to get such a prime location. He returned and took Mrs. Tisdale’s arm, while Olivia led the way. She would get to the bottom of this.

Mr. Stafford helped her chaperone into the carriage, then Olivia slammed the carriage door on Mrs. Tisdale’s surprised face, asking the groomsmen to wait for a moment. She and Stafford were on the dark side of the carriage, shadowed, though her eyes adjusted quickly—quickly enough that she sensed his shadow moving closer.

“This is very forward of you, Lady Olivia, but I understand you want to make true on your lie. I’m happy to oblige.”

Stunned, Olivia didn’t move when he stepped that final distance and once again pressed her to him—only not in safety. She squeaked. It was humiliating, but the ridiculous man had quite obviously mistaken her intent, and he was about to—

Olivia’s mind went blank. She felt a hot breath caress her lips as if to tease. Then suddenly those lips, those sensual, devilish, lush lips were curling over her bottom one. Then her top. Gently, gently absorbing them bit by bit before—

She inhaled just as his mouth covered hers, a hand coming behind her neck, tilting and encasing the base of her head in command … and support. She swayed forward, her palms bracing against a hard chest, her heart pounding, then most stunning of all—she felt his heart pounding under her palms.

At her touch he released her, and she grasped the side of the carriage for balance.

“That should ease your conscience over the deception that came so easily to you, my lady.”

She stared silently. Then she slapped him. He well deserved it.

“That”—he rubbed his jaw—“took longer than expected. You must have liked it, Miss Prim.”

She slapped him again, this time without hesitation. “That’s Lady Prim, to you, sir.”

“My aunt was right. You really are not the sort.”

“I beg your pardon?” She was outraged. And a little hurt.

“That is, the sort I should be considering for a wife.”

She was so surprised, she nearly slapped him again. “Sir, you are certainly not even close to what I would want in a husband, not to mention you come from a land of cultureless heathens. I cannot believe you thought it possible I would consider your suit.”

“Ouch. That is English gratitude then? I save you four times this eve from certain doom, and instead of sweet thanks, I get abuse.” He rubbed his other cheek as if genuinely wounded.

“Four times I did not ask for your help, sir, if indeed four can be counted.”

Samuel took a step foward, forcing her back up against the carriage.

“One—from falling to your death.” He put a palm over her left shoulder.

“Two—from suspicion when you tried to exit.” He put his other palm to the right of her. “Looking, I might say, far too suspicious.”

“Three”—his hand pulled at tightly wound hair and released it, his fingers threading through the silk—“when I allowed you to use me as your alibi, despite the fact that it portrayed me in a dishonorable light and may well have ruined any chance I have of finding an amiable wife in London.”

“I never said—”

“Your coy looks were quite enough.” He lowered his voice. “Olivia.”

Samuel felt her tremble. No, she was not immune to him. Not at all. Though clearly she would like to be.

“I find it best if people stick to their own kind, Mr. Stafford. None at home to suit? Surely that cannot be true.”

He lowered his head while pulling her forward, breathing his next words patiently into the shell of her delicate ear. “I’m not done.” He pulled back and revealed a folded paper. “Four—for effectively hiding this.”

She gaped and grabbed, but he stretched his arm out of her reach.

“I happened to notice, Olivia dear, that this is written in Lord Grayson’s hand.”

She stared at him, mute.

It was refreshing.

“Which, added to the dubious habit you have of hiding outside windows and lying to the authorities, puts you very high on the suspect list, Lady Olivia. Very high.”

“That is mine. Please return it. It has nothing to do with Grayson’s death. And it is vital that I have it to help my father.”

Samuel paused. “Help your father do what?”

She didn’t answer right away. A sure sign her brain was at work on something less than the truth.

“I work with my father. I help decode ancient languages and symbols. These are Egyptian hieroglyphics.”

“And?”

“And despite what you may think of me, I am one of the few who has successfully interpreted their meaning. Please. Grayson did truly copy that text, but for me to translate.”

Samuel sighed. “You’re lying again. At least, not telling the full truth.” He pretended to think it over. “Very well. Give me a kiss and I’ll let you have your Egyptian hieroglyphics.”

“That’s blackmail.”

“Persuasion,” he corrected with a smile.

Hesitating, as if not sure he was serious, she contemplated the act.

Then she stepped forward.

He stepped back, noting her action with mock surprise, “You really want this.”

She didn’t speak, but put a determined hand forward. He caught it an inch from his pounding heart. “Take it.” He offered the paper.

She stared uncertain. As if not believing she was free of the kiss.

“I don’t have time to get involved in your web of lies, I’ve no interest in kissing an unwilling woman, and”—he shrugged—“truthfully, you’re not all that good at kissing anyway.”

Her sharp gasp indicated he’d gotten her where it hurt most. A lack of proficiency.

“Well it’s not as if you gave me time even to react. I assure you, my kissing is perfectly fine. Better than fine.”

“I have no doubt you rendezvous quite regularly, Lady Olivia. That was one comment that, I admit, came to you with too much ease to be faked.”

She sputtered. “That’s not—you—I—”

He didn’t give her the opportunity to recover. “Are you going to take this?”

She snatched the paper and jerked the carriage door open, ignoring his proffered hand as she scrambled to get away from him, clumsily getting tangled in her cloak and falling unceremoniously onto the carriage floor. He gave her a playful farewell swat on the behind and walked away before the sound of outraged curses could offend his gentlemanly ears.

Dawn’s light peeked above the trees as he joined his aunt.

“I see you were up to no good.”

“I think I’m just the good that snotty, supercilious wench needs.”

“I see.”

His aunt was wise enough to say no more. He breathed in, relieved to be free of the woman. Of course he would have to call on her before he left. Just to irritate her a bit more.

“Where do they live, this Lady Olivia and her companion?”

“I believe Merryvale’s townhouse is in Hyde Park, not too far from yours.”

“Merryvale?” Samuel sat up, alert. “I thought she was Yates?”

“Yes, dear, but her father is Merryvale. After the property. Nigel, Lord Merryvale. Her mother was Lady Merryvale. The daughter is just Yates.”

Samuel cursed.

“Don’t worry dear, you’ll catch on.”

“I’m certain.” Samuel thought of the message from Grayson he had slid into his boot. It was addressed to Nigel, Lord Merryvale, Royal Garden Hotel, Alexandria, Egypt.

What the hell were Olivia and her father mixed up in? And why was his sister going to visit?

Moreau had failed, and failure was not a word his mistress took well. He schooled his expression to one of ease, forcing himself to sit very still until she arrived. No doubt she had peepholes and spied on him even now. She entered, her hair covered with a cap, her eyes piercing, her demeanor that of one accustomed to wealth and power—and to having her orders carried out. Fortunately he had several years of impeccable service behind him.

She wasted no time. “I don’t like meeting. What news is of such importance?”

Moreau shivered. This woman always surprised him. Warm on the outside, ice underneath—at least if you were on the wrong side of her will.

“Lampley’s man got it.”

“You have nothing? Grayson must have been working on it. Surely some notes, journals?”

“He said he had ‘some scribbles.’ We believe Merryvale’s daughter took it, but we don’t know why. She might be working with someone else.”

“And Grayson?”

“We had to eliminate him, but not before he shared some vital and curious news.” Moreau paused. He had her attention. He hoped this information made up for the evening’s blunder. “The daughter is the one who understands the glyphs. Grayson said no one knows it. Merryvale and his daughter have worked closely for years, but it was always assumed she was more of an assistant researcher or secretary. Her last correspondence contained the translation that led to Merryvale’s discovery of the librarian’s tomb, but there was no actual text or explanation of the theory behind it. Just a suggestion to try it.”

“And?”

“According to Grayson, it led them straight to the site.”

“I knew it,” his mistress hissed, tossing a scowl to the silent man behind her.

Moreau continued. “If that’s true, her work is groundbreaking and entirely different from everyone else’s previous theories. From what I understand, no one else knows she is the source. They think Merryvale is the key.”

“She hasn’t even any formal education.” The other man finally spoke.

His mistress laughed. “Men are always surprised. Why is that? It is women who have figured out this prophecy and women who have defied us every time!”

“That’s why you’re the mastermind, my dear.”

She grunted. “How serious is the Merryvale team?”

Moreau weighed his answer. “The investors are committed, but conservative. According to Grayson, Merryvale has written for more funding. They are in a precarious position, yet on the brink of delivering a historic find. Of course,” Moreau added, “no one knows yet that Queensbury and Peel have died as a result of exploring the tomb. That information has been delayed, it seems.”

“Merryvale fears they wouldn’t fund him if things went awry,” the woman said. “And the local men are only following him for the money. There is opportunity for us to be of assistance.”

Moreau nodded. “As for Merryvale, he believes they have an archeological find that will lead them to lost treasures from the Great Library. He doesn’t know the big picture. We are quite safe, from that standpoint.”

“We are never safe. That is your mistake. Too many people are already aware.” She folded her hands in front of her as if in prayer, then after a moment laid them deliberately on the desk before her. “Get the artifact, open the tomb, and recover the missing piece.” She fingered the large medallion around her neck. “Send us updates weekly via the secure route as previously arranged. Finish the task, Moreau, and you’ll be richly rewarded.”

Moreau nodded, thankful he was still in favor. “What should we do about Lady Olivia?”

“Get her,” she said, as if it were obvious.

“And then?”

“Convince her to work with us.”

“What if she won’t?”

“What if she won’t?” the woman repeated, grasping the medallion in her palm. “Then make sure”—she looked him steadily in the eye—“she doesn’t work with anyone else … ever again.”

Chapter Three

By the time she returned home, the sun had risen. Olivia didn’t get much sleep. How could she? She was a terrible thief and a rotten kisser!

Gads. What had she been doing with her life the last four and twenty years? Staring at books? Well yes, but that was not the point.

The afternoon sun disappeared behind clouds as Olivia paced the sitting room, her heel digging viciously into the carpet at each turn. Not that she had wanted to marry yet—but someday. When her father was more self-sufficient. He needed her, after all. And she liked being able to help. It allowed her to be on the periphery of great discoveries, even if she would never be part of the inner circle.

She pivoted and continued pacing to the other side of the room. When her father had sent his first finds back from Egypt it had been as if she had been born to go there herself. The symbols seemed familiar somehow. She had always found languages easy, even those of the classics, but her first sight of the Egyptian written language had resonated with something inside her that even her father noted was a bit eerie. And he was nothing if not clinical in his observations. Once she had started documenting his notes on Egypt, everything else became secondary.

That was why she hadn’t married.

Plus, she needed a challenge. All the men in her circles, at least those near enough to her in age, were idiots. Well, not all, just the single ones. They wanted only to drink, play cards, race horses, and pursue loose women. Marriage to an idiot would not be a good solution. So why bother kissing any of them? Granted, she should have been better at kissing. She hadn’t thought to develop that skill prior to marriage.

“You are in tizzy, Olivia. What is the matter?” Mrs. Tisdale finished her letter and sealed it.

Olivia stopped and contemplated sharing her personal assessment. Then she thought better of it. There was a matter more important to discuss than her failure to marry.

“Is that your note to Lady Grayson?”

“Yes.”

Mrs. Tisdale rang for Sturges, the butler, to collect Olivia’s and her own condolences for delivery. When he entered, Olivia requested tea as well. “Strong tea,” she added, getting the attention of both. Sturges left to complete the task. Olivia clasped her hands together for control.

In addition to being utterly infuriated with the arrogant Mr. Stafford, she had a constant awareness of something else closing in.

“I fear we are in grave danger, Mrs. Tisdale.”

Mrs. Tisdale paused, then calmly folded her hands on her lap and waited.

Olivia finally confessed the previous evening’s ordeal—without mentioning the stealing part, only that she was examining a funerary cone when someone had tried to kill her. By the time she finished the tale, Mrs. Tisdale was white.

“Olivia, if they know who you are and that you might have this script translated by Grayson, they could come back!”

“But Grayson hadn’t interpreted the symbols yet. In fact, his conclusions were quite off.”

“They won’t know that.” Her voice was low. “We cannot stay in this house.”

Olivia pressed her lips, nodding. “I was thinking that too.”

“And you need to inform the authorities.”

Olivia didn’t respond to that. Sturges entered with tea and stared at them curiously as they sat in silence.

“Anything else, m’lady?”

“No. Thank you, Sturges.”

Mrs. Tisdale waited until he was gone. “Olivia? You need to go to the magistrate. If you wait, you endanger not just your reputation, but your life. Olivia—”

“I can’t! It’s impossible!” Before Mrs. Tisdale could cajole her further, she spouted the truth, unable to contain her villainy any longer. “I stole a relic from the museum! The men who attacked me took it. At least I assume they did, before they decided to try to kill each other. In any case, I cannot explain that to the authorities. They might think I had something to do with Grayson’s death. And now, due to my failure, my father’s life might be in danger!”

Olivia was not prone to hysterics, but she felt on the border of an episode now. Mrs. Tisdale, on the other hand, poured some tea.

“Sit, Olivia. Drink.” Mrs. Tisdale poured some for herself. “Now. What is this about your father?”

Olivia pulled a worn letter from her pocket. She had received it less than a week earlier. “He wrote that I must deliver the funerary cone of Alexandria immediately to this address in Egypt, that Grayson would help me, and only he could be trusted. Only, when I approached Grayson, he said he couldn’t allow me to even borrow the artifact, as it would put him in a precarious position with the museum. So you see, I had to steal it.”

“Weren’t there several of these cones recovered?” Mrs. Tisdale asked.

“Yes, but the letter specifically indicated the star cone. It’s unmistakable.”

“Why does your father need it?”

“All he said was that it was urgent. ‘A matter of life and death.’ I interpreted that to be his death, Mrs. Tisdale. He is being held against his will, surely, or he would not ask me to do such a thing! I no longer have the relic, but at least I have the inscriptions. It might be enough. Only now I need to find a way to Egypt!”

“Egypt!” Mrs. Tisdale stared at her, aghast. “You’ve never been out of England. How would we even get there?”

Olivia smiled and knelt before Mrs. Tisdale, grasping her hand in relief. “I knew you would go with me. Thank you.”

Mrs. Tisdale laughed. “That still doesn’t mean we have a safe way to get there, dear.”

“Am I not the most brilliant woman you know?”

“Of course you are.”

Mrs. Tisdale didn’t tease. Rather, she smiled fondly. Olivia’s friend was one of the few in her life whom she could rely on to be a constant—maybe the only one, with her father away.

“Don’t worry,” Olivia said. “I have a plan.”

Samuel walked to Merryvale’s townhome. He’d wanted to visit yesterday evening but guessed they would still be recovering from the long night at the museum and would either be resting or visiting Lady Grayson. He wanted to make sure Lady Olivia wasn’t in any real trouble. From his recent inquiries, he’d found she led a very sedate, if privileged, life—surprising, considering how he’d met her. Possibly she had a secret life?

He smiled, definitely intrigued enough to find out. Unfortunately he had things to do down at the shipping office and couldn’t sit around town all day waiting for a fashionable hour to call on Lady Olivia. It was early, but with any luck, she’d be up and irritated enough at his faux pas to correct him on the proper rules of visitation. The thought brought a smile to his face. He knew he’d been away from women for too long, if that passed as entertainment. Still, he would put up with it. Then he could put her through an inquisition and learn what she’d really been up to at the museum.

Samuel checked the address, surprised at the activity outside the Merryvale home. A few bystanders crowded outside, whispering. Samuel assessed the scene with increasing trepidation, his pace increasing. He stopped at a small group, listening in.

“They said it was last night,” whispered a woman to her escort. “While she was sleeping.”

Samuel didn’t stop to find out whom they meant. Terror gripped him. He took the stairs three at time and literally tossed aside a Bow Street Runner standing guard at the entrance.

A butler stood just inside with some other servants who were lined up, being questioned.

“Where’s Lady Olivia?” he shouted.

The foyer went silent, all eyes turned to him. No one spoke for a long moment. Finally an investigator stepped forward.

“And you are … ?”

“Samuel Stafford. I’m a friend of Lady Olivia and Mrs. Tisdale.”

“I see.”

Samuel braced himself. He prayed for a quick relief, an answer that would prove him wrong, but it was not to be done.

“Lady Olivia Katharine Hastings …”

Samuel’s brain started to buzz unnaturally, a part of him leaving his body as if to go somewhere safe.

“… Yates was found dead this morning. Murdered in her bed.”

Samuel heard the words but did not register them. They simply would not register. The shock struck him so hard, his head spun and he sucked sharply for air, trying to maintain control.

“Sir?” the man said. “I’ll have to ask you to stay for a few questions …”

“How?” he demanded, his breathing harsh.

“I can’t tell you—”

“Who’s in charge?”

“Sir, if you’ll sit—”

“Where’s Mrs. Tisdale? Her companion?”

“We don’t know at this time. We understand she left just yesterday to visit relatives.”

Dizzy, Samuel turned and walked out.

“Sir, I must insist—”

He kept going. He would find Mrs. Tisdale later. Learn the facts. Talk to the magistrate. Right now he needed to get away. Far away. Oh, God. He should have come yesterday. He should have protected her. What the hell had she been involved in, the stupid woman! He was furious. This was not right. He pushed his way past the crowd, jostling a slender man with a beard and glasses.

Samuel apologized vaguely.

The man lifted a thin arm. “Sir, what’s happened?”

He started to walk away, but the man insisted. “Please, they are friends. Is all well?”

Samuel paused and spared a look for the pale-faced, bookish man. “The mistress of the house has passed away. Foul play it seems.” He cleared his throat. “Excuse me.”

The man gasped and swayed.

Samuel hesitated a moment in sympathy, but the man recovered, nodded, and went away, suddenly in his own world. Samuel rubbed a hand over the tingling on his neck, disturbed, then left.

* * *

Professor Oliver Hill stared at the retreating form of Samuel Stafford. The American was clearly upset and a touch pale.

Curious.

Professor Hill mixed with the crowd long enough to learn the situation. Someone whispered that Lady Olivia had been murdered while she slept. He shuddered, thinking sleep would not come easy tonight.

Oliver walked a couple of blocks, found a seat, breathed slowly in and out, then after a good while got up and continued. The hotel was still a half mile’s journey. That was fine. Time to think. Time to plan what to do next.

He entered the hotel lobby, inconspicuous to the other guests, and slowly climbed the three floors to the suite. He entered the main chamber, still deep in thought.

“I beg your pardon, sir! You must leave here instantly!”

Oliver jumped.

Mrs. Tisdale shouted. Again. “These rooms are taken—”

“Mrs. Tisdale …” Having forgotten the suit, beard, and hat that fit so perfectly, Oliver hurried to explain.

At the sound of her name, Mrs. Tisdale stopped and stared, confused. Slowly, Oliver took off the hat and glasses, then stepped closer for Mrs. Tisdale’s inspection, curious whether the brown hair without the hat gave enough of an illusion.

“Good lord,” Mrs. Tisdale said softly. “You are frighteningly masculine, Olivia. Were it not for your voice and your eyes, I would be quite deceived.”

Olivia plopped in a chair and closed her eyes, exhausted. “Alas, no time to relish the brilliance of my disguise. There is bad news to be shared.” She peeked open an eye. “It seems I am dead.”

“What?”

“Yes.” Olivia braced herself, swallowing the nausea that threatened to recur. “It appears a woman was murdered in my bed last night. They must know it is not me. The servants will have identified the body …”

Olivia fell into thought, wondering if Sturges had told the staff to remain silent, or if perhaps the authorities wished to trick her out of hiding. She must send him a message immediately.

“Meggie?” Mrs. Tisdale asked.

Olivia swallowed hard, tears pricking her eyes. The shock hitting her again.

“Yes, I think it must have been,” she said. Meggie was Olivia’s maid. She had blondish hair, and it was no secret that Meggie had often fallen asleep in Olivia’s bed, either waiting for her to return from a party or sneaking a quick nap. She would have been the only one with access to Olivia’s room. And now she was likely dead.

Mrs. Tisdale pressed a handkerchief to her mouth, growing pale.

Olivia knew she could not lose her composure just yet. She ordered tea, then sat to write a note to Sturges. She could trust him to make a discreet visit this afternoon. Then she had one recourse left.

She needed to get help from the one man least likely to give it to her.

Chapter Four

Disguised as Professor Hill, Olivia traveled alone in a hired hackney to London’s East End, to the waterfront where the Stafford Shipping offices were located. She entered the reception area, distinctly unimpressed. The room was sparse and unwelcoming, with only two waiting chairs and no furnishings whatsoever on the walls or the floor.

A voice from the inner office yelled out. “That you, Captain?”

She pressed the door open a bit wider, entering. “No. Excuse me. Stafford Shipping, correct?”

The man behind the desk was in his early thirties, with sandy hair and an attractive smile. Another American, only with an accent stranger than Mr. Stafford’s. More of a drawl.

“Yes, you’re in the right place. Nathan Riedell,” he said. “Can I help you?”

Olivia bowed, politely, uncertain how to proceed. The man seemed friendly enough. She hadn’t expected that. She had expected Mr. Stafford. Or a crusty, uncouth, tobacco-chewing seafarer wearing a worn-out cap and spitting as he talked. This man was clean and well-spoken. Well, no point in dawdling. She must continue.

“I’m Professor Hill. I wanted to see Mr. Stafford about passage to Egypt. I’m told he stops at several Mediterranean ports—in particular, Alexandria.

“Sorry, Professor. We don’t carry passengers.”

“You don’t?” That had never occurred to Olivia. “I can pay, if that’s an issue.”

The man nodded and put up a hand. “It’s not that, we just never do, and we don’t have cabin space that would be comfortable for passengers if we did.”

“But it’s truly imperative that I get there with all possible speed. I’m working at a site, you see … the excavation of a tomb. I’m the only one who can read the hieroglyphics—that’s the language of the ancient Egyptians—and without me the party could be in danger.”

“Grave danger?” he asked.

“Well, possibly …”

“Sorry, Professor. That was a joke.”

“Oh.” Olivia heated up, embarrassed at missing the pun. “Oh, I see.”

“Why didn’t they bring you along to begin with?”

“I beg your pardon?”

“If you are so important to this expedition, Professor Hill, why did you not go with your colleagues?”

Her colleagues. How nice that sounded. Would that it were true. “They thought, like most Englishmen, Mr. Riedell, that they knew everything. I’m sure you can understand.”

The American grunted. “Sure enough. And you’re the exception?”

“Before today, I promise you I have never been taken for the average Englishman.” Olivia let her lips curve slightly under the mustache, enjoying her own joke.

“Regardless, we don’t take passengers. There’s a ship taking passengers in two weeks. You should purchase tickets now. They could be booked up already. People generally plan these things well in advance, Professor.”

“I understand, but—” Olivia bit her lip, frustrated. “I’d like to speak with Mr. Stafford, please.”

Mr. Riedell shook his head. “I doubt he’ll agree. He’s down the street at the Crow’s Nest. You can’t miss it. But today’s not a good day to bother him with frivolous requests.”

Olivia paused. “Why’s that?”

“He got some bad news and he’s been at the Nest for a while.”

“I see.” She was not accustomed to drinking men. Then again, that might make it easier to manipulate him. Perhaps a blessing in disguise. “Well, thank you for your time, Mr. Riedell.”

Olivia left the offices upset. If Mr. Stafford would not take her and Mrs. Tisdale to Egypt, she would have to wait two weeks. She did not feel safe staying in London after Sturges’s visit earlier. Meggie had been murdered. Choked to death. Her room had been torn apart as well. The killer was looking for something. Something Olivia still had. Would he come back when he realized he had killed the wrong person? Olivia tried to swallow, tension in her throat tightening against the effort as she picked up her pace again.

What if the man who’d killed Meggie was still looking for her?

Samuel stared at the freshly poured pint. He hadn’t worked his way through two pitchers yet in the hours he had been sitting there. The world was still in very sharp focus and his mind all too clear. The vision of her all too clear.

He should have insisted on the truth when she fell through the damn window. She had obviously been escaping from someone or something. But she had been so damned … English. Dammit. The one time he didn’t get involved … and it was fatal.

He raked a hand through the top of his hair and rested his head in his palm, his elbow holding him up. Closing his eyes did not block the vision of that unusual silver sparkle of her flashing eyes. Remembering would do no good, and there were plenty of women in London who could help him forget. It was just that … she had been different.

The door to the Crow’s Nest opened, and he heard footsteps walk toward the bar. A man sat near him at the counter. With irritation, he rubbed his neck to stop the tingling sensation.

The barkeep came over to take the request, and after a pause a husky voice said, “The same as Mr. Stafford.”

Samuel glanced down and saw slender legs in a brown suit. “I don’t know you, and business hours are over for the day.” He rubbed the strange sensation tickling the back of his neck again, annoyed.

“Actually, we bumped into each other this morning. Outside Lady Olivia’s home.”

Samuel looked again. He barely remembered anyone from this morning. He studied the profile more clearly. The small man in the brown suit was vaguely familiar. He’d looked upset when Samuel told him the news.

“I’m sorry for your loss,” Samuel said.

“Thank you.”

Samuel winced, then rubbed his temples, wanting to scrub his ears. That voice was making him insane. Familiar. Yet not.

“Are you a relative?” Samuel asked.

“Actually …” The stranger paused. “Yes. I’m Professor Hill. Lady Olivia’s cousin. I find myself in the regrettable position of informing her father of the news.”

That did it. A cousin? There was certainly a family resemblance. He wouldn’t have expected the dark beard and mustache, though. The man’s eyelashes were fair under the glasses. The hairs on the back of his neck pricked again.

Finally the man looked at him.

Silver gray eyes. They became more silver with Samuel’s inspection. As if reacting in worry. Or something else. The man looked away. Samuel didn’t. Something very unnatural about that mustache … and the skin was incredibly fair and smooth for a man.

He took a long drink of ale and laid it down with pleasure for the first time that day, closing his eyes. His sister always said his eyes gave him away—especially when he was willing to give in.

“Mr. Stafford, as a friend of Lady Olivia, I need your assistance. I need passage—”

“No.”

The gentleman sputtered. “But I haven’t finished.”

“I’ll take a message. I don’t take passengers. And I leave tomorrow, so write quick.”

“But … I need your help!”

“Yes, I can see that.” Samuel sat up and leaned over to the creature posing as Olivia’s cousin. She turned to him, eyes wide, as he loomed unnaturally close, her pupils following his index finger as it pressed gently over her lips to silence, then moved left and pressed down the edge of her false mustache where it had lifted.

He got off the stool and grabbed her off hers. His lips came down hard, his arm pulling her close as one free hand slid across her chest to her waist, discovering the secrets that lay beneath.

Her response was frozen, wide-eyed shock. Her arms sprung outward in surprise, unsure of what they should be doing—grabbing hold or pushing away.

Just as quickly, he released her and sat back down, leaving her to slide slowly back onto her seat, speechless.

“Yep. Same bad kissing.” He took a long drink of ale.

“Sir,” she gulped. “You’ve been drinking …”

“I’ll say!” the barkeep stated, staring at both of them. “I think that’s enough, Captain.” He took the pitcher away, leaving just his ale mug. “You’ll thank me later, ye will.”

Olivia flushed in embarrassment.

“Don’t worry, Al.” Samuel nodded in her direction. “This he is most definitely a she.”

Mr. Stafford turned to her with a surprisingly happy grin. It made him look younger. Almost boyish. But she doubted he had ever been a boy.

“And by the way, your, um … outfit is tailored to your form most becomingly.”

“You needn’t announce it to the world, Stafford! That’s why it’s a disguise.”

Al stood in front of Olivia and scowled. “I don’t serve women pitchers, sir—ma’am—whatever you are! I don’t know what yer game is, but take it elsewhere.” The barkeep took away the pitcher of ale that he’d brought for her.

“What about my money?”

“There’s the price of deception, missy,” he stated without apology.

“That’s prejudice against women.”

“Only if you are one,” Mr. Stafford said. “Which actually, you are claiming outwardly not to be, so I don’t think the argument would hold in court, were there a court willing to hear it—without laughing.”

“Well, I couldn’t dress as a woman and come down here alone. That’s also the price of being truthful and being a woman. Not to mention that I’m supposed to be dead, so it might be ruled impersonating a dead person. Who knows what the punishment is for—”

“Wait—” He grabbed her arm, furious. “You came down here alone? Where’s your groom? And Elizabeth?”

“Mrs. Tisdale? Why, at the hotel. And my groom thinks I am—”

“Hell, Olivia,” Mr. Stafford worried. “Tell me what is going on before I beat it out of you.”

“Don’t swear at me. And Oliver is more appropriate, considering my disguise.”

“You’re in a bar. Swearing happens, Ollie. Now what’s going on?”

“Nothing really. After Grayson’s death, which I think we both know was murder, I worried about my own safety—”

“Why is that?”

“Well, someone had already tried to kill me once. You don’t think I just jumped out a third-floor window at the museum, do you? If my dress hadn’t caught in the window, I would not have been able to grab the vines or the necktie of that murderous villain who tossed me, and I surely would have landed in a crushing heap. Then someone killed him, hoping no doubt to make it look like we’d had a tussle and both died unfortunately, but the vines slowed my descent enough to grasp the second-story window, and actually I later learned the vines were not vines, but climbing ivy, so truly I’m lucky to be alive, considering how flimsy ivy can be. And after Grayson was found dead, I thought it would be safest to not be where I should be for a while, so I went to a hotel with Mrs. Tisdale until we could find passage to Egypt.”

Stafford stared at her a long moment. “Uh-huh.”

Al finished a pint of her ale while listening and slammed his mug in front of her. “This one’s trouble, Captain. That’s all I’m saying. You know I won’t be sharin’ nuthin’. I like yer business and all yer men. But this one”—Al pointed at her—“he’s trouble.” He leaned forward, nose to nose with her. “And I mean he in the loosest sense.”

Olivia refused to be intimidated. “Sir, you are very vociferous for one who knows nothing about my business.”

Al nodded, as if her words were proof, and waved a hand at her. “Like I said. Trouble.” He took himself and his mug away to help new arrivals, leaving Olivia with Mr. Stafford.

Olivia turned back to the bar and, frustrated that her ale was gone, reached over to finish Mr. Stafford’s. “I should be able to have a drink in a bar, no matter how I’m dressed.”

“You’d think.”

“Don’t you think so?” she insisted.

Mr. Stafford nodded. “Actually, I do. But that’s not the world we live in.”

Olivia turned in surprise, unable to keep the hopefulness from her voice. “Really?”

Those sensual lips responded like a dream. “Yeah. Really. You should see half of what my sister puts up with. I don’t wish it on my daughters.”

“You have daughters?”

“No, but I hope to. Someday. And I’d like things to be a bit easier for them.”

Olivia felt her insides soften. He not only understood, but he wanted a girl. More than one, even. “I would have thought you only wanted sons to take over the business. Girls can’t inherit or anything, and then you have dowries to provide, so economically they are less desirable …”

His smile faded. “Is that how you see yourself? Economically less desirable?”

“No, of course not.” She denied it, but couldn’t argue otherwise. At least not logically. Suddenly Olivia felt very world-weary. Her father valued her, she reminded herself.

“In America, anyone can inherit, but you’re changing the subject. Why would someone want to kill you?”

“Oh. That. Well.” She sighed. “Sometimes I talk to myself.”

He patted her back. “Not a lot of friends?”

“You can’t help yourself, can you Stafford?”

“With you? I’m afraid not.”

She ignored his lips twitching in humor and continued. “I was observing some hieroglyphics. That’s the ancient Egyptian—”

“I think we covered that.”

“Oh. Yes. Well, um. I happened to be in Grayson’s office and saw that Grayson had tried to translate them. He was, quite frankly, entirely wrong, and so I was saying that out loud, and moments later, I’m being choked. Very uncomfortably, I might add.”

Mr. Stafford’s face looked thunderous. Olivia leaned back defensively. “I’m now responsible for my maid’s death, and—and you know the rest …” Her voice petered off, uncertain how to interpret his response. “It’s all too unbearable. The only thing I can do is find a way to get to Egypt. My father will know what to do next. I know your ship is quite big, so—”

“The answer is still no.”

“Why? That’s very unreasonable.”

“Because you’re female.” At her gasp of confused outrage, he added, “I have a crew of forty-two. All men. I don’t need the headache. Who is with you at the hotel, besides Mrs. Tisdale? How many guards do you have keeping watch? Are they trustworthy?”

Olivia swallowed. She hadn’t thought to bring protection. And it was not as if there were anyone who could do it anyway. The household staff was relatively small.

“I thought it best to not tell anyone where we were off to. But today, after the murder of my maid, I sent my butler with a message for the authorities. Sturges is very trustworthy.” Feeling better, she argued, “We can stay in our cabins.”

“Where did you meet Sturges?”

“At our hotel, of course. I didn’t want to go home and risk being recognized—”

“No.” He shook his head thoughtfully, as if she’d said something wrong. It made her nervous. “How do you know he wasn’t followed? If someone is willing to break into your home to keep you silent, do you think they will give up that easily? They might have been watching your home waiting to see what would happen. Someone could have followed Sturges right to you. Be waiting for you right now.”

Olivia’s stomach felt hollow and nauseous. “Mrs. Tisdale. She’s all alone.” She tumbled from her seat, rushing blindly for the door.

“Hold on,” Samuel said. “We need to get help.”

“We?” She smiled. Relieved. Grateful.

In truth, anyone would have been grateful at a moment like this to have a man like Mr. Stafford at their side. He wasn’t just fierce looking, but he gave the impression he had dealt with trouble very effectively in the past. It gave Olivia confidence.

“Thank you, Stafford. I have no doubt that between your brawn and my brain, we can effectively subdue any villain that comes our way.”

“Right,” he mumbled. “Now I’m scared.”

* * *

He hadn’t meant to frighten her. Actually he’d meant to frighten some sense into her, but he didn’t like the whitening of her face or the pale silver her eyes turned when she was afraid. They rode quickly to check on Mrs. Tisdale, but the hour ride from the wharf wore on Lady Olivia, and he had no doubt her day had been rough already.

He’d brought Nathan Riedell, his first mate, and Kelley, his boatswain, known for his burly arms and fighting skills. Kelley scouted the outside of the building while he, Nathan, and Olivia entered the hotel.

“You are clear on the plan.” Samuel pulled her aside on the stairs to assure himself.

“Yes.” Her eyes shone brightly, reflecting his image. She appeared focused, but not fearful. Mostly worried and angry. If there was someone waiting for her, Samuel would put his money on Olivia.

They paused outside the room, Nathan opposite him in the doorway. Olivia reached for the door in front of him. He wrapped an arm around her waist and pulled her back a bit from the door. He didn’t want to risk gunshot. Samuel rapped on the door, and when there was no response, Olivia called out.

“Mrs. Tisdale? Are you there?”

He rapped again. Nothing. Olivia tensed against him. “It’s me. I’ve lost my key, I’m afraid. Can you open up?” Silence.

Samuel carefully pulled Olivia behind him and tried the door. Locked. He took Olivia’s key and opened it, pushing the door open.

The room had been torn apart.

He pushed Olivia farther back and held up a hand to indicate she should wait outside. She scowled and he kept a steady glare, waiting for her nod. She gave it reluctantly.

Samuel slid into the small sitting room, with Nathan behind him. The balcony door was open, and a breeze ruffled the curtains. The bedroom doors were closed. It felt like a trap. Nothing to do but wait.

He motioned Nathan to one side and he took the other, their guns focused on opposite doors. Then he saw Olivia peek in. He shook his head to indicate she should stay out. She looked about to obey until something caught her attention.

Mrs. Tisdale. On the balcony. A hand over her mouth. A gun to her head.

“Why you—” Olivia spoke in surprised fury.

Stunned, Samuel watched Olivia run full force directly at the man with the gun.

“No!” he shouted. Unfortunately, it signaled the others who awaited them.

Two men burst out of the bedrooms. Nathan shot one and Samuel finished the other with his bare hands, intending to save his bullet for the man with the hostage.

Only, Olivia was in the way.

The man on the balcony aimed his gun at her.

Samuel’s heart stopped, but Mrs. Tisdale used her entire body to knock the man off his mark. The bullet struck the window, shattering glass. Mrs. Tisdale fell to the floor of the balcony, while Olivia flew at the attacker like a streak of lightning, oblivious to the danger of falling from the balcony.

The edge of the short, ornate railing was not enough to stop the weight of two adults teetering off balance. Samuel saw the moment they both realized their peril. The man grasped at Olivia trying to pull himself to safety. Olivia howled in panic, making a wild swing for the grate, realizing, no doubt, the extent of her idiocy.

They both went over.

There was a jolt on the rail. Then a loud creak as the metal bent.

Samuel watched the impending disaster helplessly, tripping over Mrs. Tisdale and nearly toppling over himself in an effort to save Olivia. On the other side, she hung off the balcony, one hand clinging to the rail, the other holding a rope that came down from the roof above. Obviously how the men had entered.

Samuel heard Olivia’s cry of pain as she clung desperately against the weight of a man crawling over her to safety. The moment the man’s face was near, Samuel drove his fist through it. The villain dropped to a heap on the paving below.

Meanwhile, the fragile rail broke.

“Ahh!”

Samuel reacted as Olivia slipped farther from his reach, her hands sliding down the rope and very near the end of it.

Kelley shouted from above, “Captain? Are you ’right? Got a dead one here! Want me to finish that one?”

Olivia squeaked, understanding but needing every breath to hold on.

“It’s Professor Hill!” Samuel barked. “Don’t shoot!”

Olivia looked up, her hat gone, wig torn off, hair in disarray, and her eyes twin lights of terror.

He stretched his arm. “Give me your hand!”

She didn’t move, afraid to let go—despite sliding farther away.

His voice softened. “It’s safe. I’m right here. You can reach me, Olivia.”

She quickly put one hand over another, trying to gain an inch on the rope, but slipped more. Samuel kept up his stream of soothing words as her panic obviously increased. He couldn’t be sure, but he thought she might have about a foot of rope left. His own palm started sweating from fear. He bent farther over the rail on his knees, reaching down, oblivious to the metal pressing into his ribs.

“Just try, Olivia. I’ll get you. I’m not going to let anything happen to you. I promise. See my hand? I’m very close.” He extended his body as far as possible. Nathan rushed up behind him and grabbed his belt so he could lean out farther.

“Olivia, you need to trust me. Please, lift one hand.”

Samuel could see the strain on her face as she struggled, whimpering as she slipped more, knowing she was going to fall.

“Now!” Samuel commanded.

She obeyed. She released her left hand and reached. He clasped her wrist, and her body swung through the air. He was certain he’d pulled her arm out of her shoulder from the cry she gave, but he had her. Carefully he uncurled his body, pulling her back to the edge.

Nathan reached out under a shoulder, and they lifted her over the balcony. Then all three slid to the floor where Mrs. Tisdale lay, and breathed with relief.

Nathan turned to the other woman and carefully began to undo the gag at her mouth. Samuel didn’t move at all. Olivia clung frantically to his chest, clutching his shirt as if she might still be tossed over. It made his already pounding heart do a double beat.

He put an arm around her shoulders and pulled her to him tightly. For comfort, he thought. Not hers—his.

“I thought you were supposed to be the brains, Professor Hill?”

“Didn’t you think me brilliant?” she gasped softly, still searching for air.

“No. And I hope you don’t intend to make this a habit.”

“Stopping villains?”

“Dashing out windows, Olivia!”

“I didn’t—” Olivia stopped. Mr. Stafford looked genuinely upset. “You do know that the first time was not my fault at all.”

He held up a hand for silence, then took her hands, the palms blistered by rope burn. “Let me see to this. We’ll need to talk to the authorities as well, if they are not already on their way.” He crawled from his position and went on a knee in front of Mrs. Tisdale. “Elizabeth? Are you all right? Thanks to you there’s not a bullet in your friend right now. That was incredibly courageous.”

“Indeed,” Nathan agreed, admiring the woman before him, cutting the ropes at her wrist with his knife.

“They want—” Mrs. Tisdale rasped, then licked her lips, her mouth dry. An instant later Mr. Riedell had a glass of water for her. “They want the key, Olivia. To decipher the hieroglyphics.”

“The what? Why? They already stole the relic! That’s just greedy!”

“We’ll add that to their list of crimes, Lady Olivia,” Mr. Stafford said, rising to his feet and offering her a hand. “I take it that little piece of paper is the cause of this?”

Olivia watched as the other man helped Mrs. Tisdale and guided her to the bedchamber, careful to avoid broken glass. She stared after them a moment, lost in thought.

“I don’t know. As I said, it makes no sense.” She followed Stafford blindly until something caused her to trip. Her mind cleared and she looked around. Two bodies lay on the floor. One man’s neck was terribly mangled, his head twisted. She covered her mouth to hold back the gagging sensation, then looked at Mr. Stafford, his harsh face gazing back at her—a complete mask—as if daring her to condemn him. She couldn’t even if she’d wanted to. She swayed, her vision blurring rapidly, as the danger of the evening caught up.

“For crying out loud.” Mr. Stafford swooped her into his arms and brought her into the chamber where Nathan had Mrs. Tisdale. He dropped her on the bed. “Stay there. Let me take care of this mess. Nathan, you got them?”

Nathan nodded and watched his captain close the door behind him. Right now, his attention was on the pale brunette in front of him. She was struggling to control her shock, but the more she fought the trembling, the worse it became. He took her hands. They were icy.

“The captain called you Elizabeth?”

She nodded.

“I’m Nathan Riedell. Very nice to meet you. Even under these strange circumstances.”

She nodded again, forming a slight smile.

“I’m just going to warm your hands for a bit, Elizabeth. Then I need to get some of this glass off you. All right?”

She nodded again, her brown eyes staring at him intently. Nathan looked to the other one.

Not a man.

That was damn disconcerting. Especially with the mustache and beard. The professor sat up and breathed in and out.

“Definitely not the average Englishman, are you Professor Hill?”

She smiled, seeming to recover.

“You’re fine for now?” he asked.

“Yes. Please help Mrs. Tisdale.”

Nathan agreed, then tried to get his emotions under control. A married woman. Of course she would be.

“Do you want me to fetch your husband or family, Mrs. Tisdale?”

She shook her head. Then, looking at her hands in his, said softly, “I’m a widow.”

“Oh. I’m so sorry.” He rubbed her hands another minute, feeling like a cad for not really being sorry.

“No apology needed, sir. It’s been nine years now.”

His head jerked up. “You must have been a babe!”

She blushed. He was relieved to see color.

“Forgive me. None of my business. I just cannot believe you were not snatched up again since then.” He studied her carefully. Indeed, it seemed impossible. She was comely, with a perfect oval face, warm brown eyes, lovely pink lips that most certainly should be kissed—

No. He stopped himself. No time for that. Nathan released her hands and looked around for something to lay the glass in. There was a small bowl on a table used for fruit. He took the fruit out and brought it over.

“Hold this.”

Elizabeth held the bowl. This was all quite unexpected. She turned to see Olivia on the bed. Her charge had regained her composure and went to the dressing table to remove her disguise. Elizabeth was grateful for Olivia’s preoccupation. It gave her time to observe the man before her. He was kind. And young. And somewhat dashing. Not the type to be interested in a widow who’d been on the shelf for nine years and had no dowry or hopes of marriage. But still. He was kind. For some reason, that hurt more than being bound and gagged.

She could feel his heat as he methodically inspected every inch of her body, carefully picking stray glass from her form with the most tender of care. His hands touched her hair, freeing small pieces and dropping them into the bowl. Her hair fell past her shoulders in disarray, but he stroked through it, then lay it reverently back down. As if it were precious. The entire experience was so disturbing she could not speak. Only stare. Until he sensed her scrutiny. And stared back. Their eyes locked, and something she had never felt before gripped her stomach and squeezed at her heart. A connection. A yearning.

For him.

The desire was so strong, the emotion so intense, that her eyes burned, and she was ashamed when a puddle of tears slowly spilled over.

“Don’t,” he whispered gently. His thumb brushed one cheek to wipe the moisture. Then he winked. “I’ve yet to inspect your lashes. Close your eyes.”

She obeyed and felt the brushing of his finger through her lashes—the upper, the lower. Then his warning, “Keep them closed. I think I’ve got a bit here. Yep. Better. All right to open.”

Elizabeth did. Then smiled for real. “Thank you, Mr. Riedell. You are most kind.”

“Nathan. And it’s always a pleasure to be near a beautiful woman. I’m only sorry for the circumstances that brought us here.” He took one of her hands. “Though not sorry to be here.”

Olivia cleared her throat nearby, frowning, and Elizabeth turned.

“You’re well, Olivia?”

“Yes. Thanks to you, Mrs. Tisdale. Mr. Riedell, thank you for your assistance. I would like to change my clothing, as I’m sure would Mrs. Tisdale.”

“Of course. Excuse me. Professor … er … Mrs. Tisdale. Professor.”

“Elizabeth,” she corrected. “And this is Lady Olivia. A most charming and correct young lady, though I agree it is difficult to tell at the moment.”

Nathan bowed politely to Olivia, then to her. “Excuse me, please.”

The door closed behind him, and Elizabeth closed her eyes with a sigh, wanting only to imprint the memory of Nathan Riedell in her mind.

“He was very forward, Mrs. Tisdale.”

“He was being kind to an old widow.”

Olivia stopped and looked at her. Really looked at her.

“What is it?”

“Strange. I thought you were old. But you are not.”

“I’m thirty.”

Olivia grunted. “You were one and twenty when you came to be my chaperone. I thought you were so old and mature at the time.”

Elizabeth tilted her head, curious. “And that’s suddenly changed?”

“I don’t know, Mrs. Tisdale. I don’t know. This was a very strange night.”

“Yes,” Elizabeth agreed. “If you please, no more jumping off balconies. You gave me quite a fright. I should never find another job if people learned my charge so disliked me that she leapt to her death.”

Her young friend paused, then marched over and hugged her fiercely. It was a most uncommon experience. Olivia did not initiate embraces. Elizabeth didn’t know quite how to respond. “I would never let that happen. Thank you, Mrs. Tisdale.”

“For saving your life?”

“No. For caring.”

Elizabeth smiled. “You may not be so happy with me when the authorities come. Those men were looking for you, Olivia. They seemed to think you stole something from the British Museum and were very intent on getting it back … or for themselves, since I highly doubt they actually worked for the museum …”

“I see.”

“I see that you do. And what worries me most, Olivia, is that you are not in the least surprised.”

There was a knock at the door. Olivia opened it. Mr. Stafford stood, looking large and formidable.

He studied them both, then nodded as if satisfied. “You are better.” It was more command than question. Elizabeth smiled, while Olivia bristled.

“The magistrate has arrived. You need to answer some questions. You will no doubt lie, so please make sure your stories are straight. The hotel is sending up dinner, tea, and hopefully something a bit stronger. Then you’ll need to pack.”

“Pack?” Olivia’s eyes widened. “Are they evicting us? It was not our fault. They should not even charge us, for the lack of security at this establishment. Why, Mrs. Tisdale was nearly killed. It’s an outrage. Did you tell them that? It’s an—”

Mr. Stafford raised a hand. She immediately shut up. “As it appears you have no male protection and very little sense, I’m taking you to your father. In Egypt. We leave early.” He glared at Olivia, threatening. “Don’t make me regret this.”

With that, he slammed the door shut again.

“Well!” Olivia huffed. Then she did a little pirouette on her way to the wardrobe. “I told you we were going to Egypt, Mrs. Tisdale.”

“Indeed.” Elizabeth smiled thoughtfully, thinking of the men on the other side of the door. She hoped Nathan Riedell would also be going to Egypt, if that were not too much to ask.

Olivia, she knew, had other ideas. For her this would be fulfillment of a dream. The opportunity to travel and join her father on his many expeditions.

“I think, Mrs. Tisdale,” Olivia pronounced, pulling a mysterious envelope from her coat, “this is going to be a most wonderful adventure.”

Chapter Five

Adventuring was awful!

The ship rolled, and Olivia felt another wave of heat and nausea rip at her stomach. Gads.

Please make it end.

She would not survive the journey. Anything to be on land. Mr. Stafford did this deliberately. She had no doubt of it. He was punishing her being English. And female. And always being right.

Exhausted from lack of sleep, she lay down again, only to feel her stomach heave.

There was a knock at the door.

“Go away.” Her voice was weak, but clear. It was likely Mrs. Tisdale again, trying to comfort her. She didn’t want anyone to witness her weakness. So far she had been able to control herself from actually vomiting. Mrs. Tisdale insisted it would be better after that part was done, but Olivia didn’t believe her.

Mr. Stafford opened the door.

“Go away! I’m not decent.” Besides the fact that her dignity was stripped by the illness, she really wasn’t all that decent. She wore her man’s breeches, and a loose linen man’s shirt for comfort. Her hair was tied back from her face. Mr. Stafford on the other hand looked disgusting—a picture of health and humor.

He brought a tray of tea and biscuits.

“I hate you.”

He grinned. “I know. Getting what you want isn’t always good, is it?”

“I shouldn’t be sick.”

“Why not? Most people get sick their first day at sea.”

“It’s been three days!”

“That’s because you’re fighting it. You’ll feel better once you let it out and go with the rhythm of the sea. Elizabeth is on deck now, enjoying the sail.”

Olivia closed her eyes, fighting the next wave, feeling very, very alone in the world. Everyone else was on deck having a grand adventure without her. Again. She moaned, “It wasn’t supposed to be like this.” He held a cup of tea to her mouth. She took a sip. Peppermint. It seemed to help a little.

“This is my first time leaving England. Ever! I always wanted to see the continent and travel with my father, but he—” She stopped. It sounded disloyal to say he never took her, or maybe never wanted her to go. It was always too dangerous, or too expensive, or too something. There was always an excuse. “It just didn’t work out yet.”

“There are plenty of things to see in England.”

“I know.” She swallowed a threatening choke. “Just—in books—everywhere else seems so much more … exotic.” She finished on a gasp, compelling her stomach to relax, forcing her breath through her nose.

“Truthfully, those exotic ports are usually much less comfortable than home. And oftentimes in less modern societies, there can be any number of uncomfortable diseases to be found.”

She held up a hand. “Do not tell me now.”

“Once you’ve recovered your strength and gotten some sea legs, I think you’ll enjoy meeting the people and discovering other cultures in the world. Provided you keep an open mind, of course. There are many treasures to be found, Lady Olivia. Be sure you look for the right ones, eh?”

“Are you a philosopher now, Mr. Stafford?”

“No. Just a lot more experienced than you, Ollie. And since you are on my ship, you should call me Captain.”

“I hate that name.”

“Captain?”

“No. Ollie.”

“Me too. It doesn’t suit you at all. You’re much too elegant for it. Though right now is not your best moment. I’ll only call you that when you annoy me.”

She groaned. “That will be forever.”

He laughed.

Despite her misery, it pleased her that she made him laugh. And he’d said she was elegant? A compliment? She grabbed the bowl, retching with dry heaves again.

“Please leave.”

“Not until you vomit. If I can’t make you ill, I’m not certain who can.”

This time she laughed. Then coughed. He patted her back. “Let it out.”

She choked thrice, then pressed her tongue to the roof of her mouth and tried to control her breathing again.

“I have friends, you know.”

“Of course you do.”

He sounded placating. She looked up and caught him suppressing a smile.

“I do have friends. They’re just academics or other ladies, so not useful in a real fight—which I never get into, so why would I need those types of friends?”

“I’m sure the ladies of the ton are discreet, loyal, and fierce in their defense of their friends.”

Olivia paused and thought. She supposed that was possible. She didn’t really have any of those friends either. Mrs. Tisdale maybe, though Mrs. Tisdale was paid. But Mrs. Tisdale liked her. Yes, certainly Mrs. Tisdale liked her and considered her a friend. Right? And why was she the only one still calling her Mrs. Tisdale?

The nausea passed for a moment. It felt like the ship might be settling, the waves not so large. She lay back down on the bed she shared with her chaperone and watched as Mr. Stafford dampened a cloth in a bowl on the dresser. Mr. Riedell had given up his cabin for them. It was a simple room. Nothing like home, but that was part of the adventure. She thought about what Captain Stafford had said about friends. “Are your friends like that, Captain Stafford? Discreet, loyal, fierce? And what, may I ask, are you doing that you need friends to be discreet about? That implies—”

He laid the wet cloth over her face. Her entire face.

As if that would stop her. She finished her sentence.

“—woo are reguwerely doing indescweet things.”

She sucked in moisture from the cloth, then pulled it off of her mouth, folding it over her forehead. If only the pressure on her temples would stop.

“Everyone has their moments, Lady Olivia. That’s when friends come in handy.”

“I think we should be friends, Captain. I have no sea-captain friends—” She choked and sat up in the bed. He brought the bowl back to her lap. “It’s useful. Plus—” Her stomach convulsed and she closed burning eyes, desperately fighting the weakness. He brushed back some strands of hair from her face. His touch felt remarkably cool. Despite the humiliation, it was a relief to know she would not die alone in her bed. She really didn’t want to die alone.

“Plus,” she gasped after another convulsion receded, “you are healthy and strong, with adequate defense skills, should they be required on my adventure.”

“Your adventure? Just what do you intend to do once you crawl out of here, my lady?”

“Get to Egypt, save my father from certain death, decipher the rest of the writings in the tomb, and become a world-renowned expert on ancient Egypt, after which I will be invited to speak at top institutions around the world.” She got it all out in one breath, before the next convulsion racked her body.

“Ah. A woman with purpose. That is to be admired.”

She smiled.

“Even if she is quite insane.”

She scowled. A gurgling in her guts ruined it.

“And I do have friends. Just no American ones. I don’t want people to think I’m—”

“Narrow? Rude? Snobbish?”

“No—”

“Bad-tempered, close-minded, intolerant?”

“No! Oh, forget it. You’re impossible,” she hissed. “A mome, a jackanapes, a complete varlet!” She gasped for air, trying to get oxygen as another wave rocked the ship, and she fell to the floor on her knees, holding the mattress with one hand, the bowl with the other.

“You shouldn’t care what others think.”

“I never have … before.” Strange that she would care what he thought.

Her body made a terrible hacking sound. She saw his soft leather boots inches away. He should be grateful she didn’t aim for them.

Then he was kneeling, holding her body as finally she convulsed out of control over and over into the bowl. It was horrible. Disgusting. Still he held her, pulling her hair back when it fell forward, murmuring words of encouragement. While she suffered, he could have been the devil himself, and she wouldn’t have cared.

Then finally it was over.

Her body trembled from the effort, her face covered in sweat and tears. He lifted her onto the bed, wiped her face, then gave her the cloth to wipe her mouth. Then he handed her some tea and told her to rinse and spit. That process nearly made her throw up again.

Somehow he made the evidence disappear with a call to a young cabin boy. She drank the rest of the tea and lay down. Relieved. Feeling better. Just tired. Maybe now, she could sleep.

He sat on the edge of the mattress.

She looked up and he smiled kindly. It made her wish she hadn’t called him a mome. But he must be one to have stuck around for her illness. No doubt he would gloat later. She closed her eyes in misery. A real adventuress would not have been sick the first three days of her adventure. It was a dismal start.

“I predict you will live to see another day, Lady Olivia. Feeling better?”

“Surprisingly.”

He massaged her scalp with his hands. It felt good.

“Try the biscuits before you fall asleep. You’ve barely eaten in three days. Now that you’re over the worst, food will help.”

“Does this automatically make us friends? Losing our guts together?”

“Only you lost yours, my dear. And usually ‘losing your guts’ is the result of a long night of drinking and bonding.”

“Oh.” She closed her eyes, too tired to care.

“You still want to be friends even now that you know you will survive?” he asked.

“No.”

He laughed and got up. “Ah. Feeling much better, I see. Good. We will see you for dinner this evening.”

She grunted, her eyes already closed, listening as he walked to the door.

“And Lady Olivia?”

There was a pause. She peeked open one eye.

“I’m neither a fool nor conceited. But I am a varlet. You’d do well to remember that.” With that, he winked and closed the door.

Olivia curled up on her side, eyes closed, a smirk on her lips. A rascal indeed. And perhaps the strangest man she’d ever had the good fortune to meet.

Samuel didn’t know what to make of Olivia Yates. She was the strangest woman he’d ever met. Sweet, smart, and sassy one minute; snooty, snobby, self-important the next. Though he was getting a sense that the latter part came simply from an ignorant upbringing. She had read about the world in books written primarily by Englishmen. He supposed that could ruin anyone. To make matters worse, many of her assumptions were based on her own experience—which was next to none.

They were having their first civilized meal on board since she and Elizabeth had joined them. Olivia was obviously feeling better, as she did everything possible to irritate him—which mostly meant she never stopped asking questions. His crew might find her curiosity flattering, but he preferred that some things remain private. Unfortunately, she was obsessed with his family—what it was like to have siblings, the rampant gossip surrounding his little sister’s exploits, and which stories about his family were true and which were not.

His plan for a pleasant dinner turned into an inquisition. He tried to put an end to her queries. “I think you should just assume anything you hear secondhand is not true, Lady Olivia.”

“Exactly! But now I can get a firsthand account!” She cut into her fish and chewed thoughtfully while observing him. “I don’t know if you’ve noticed, Mr. Stafford, but you get very tense whenever I mention your family.” She pinched between her eyebrows to indicate. “You frown. Do you know if you do that too much you will have permanent wrinkles from frowning? The muscles get used to going that direction. Isn’t that so, Mr. Andersen?” She turned to his second mate and onboard medical expert for confirmation.

Andersen grinned with amusement. “Indeed, my lady. I’ve told him so myself.”

She took a different tack. “This fish is excellent. So fresh.”

Samuel took a drink of his wine, studying her. She had the look of an inspector bound and determined to get to the bottom of something. He kept his mouth shut.

“The captain is a top fisherman. Always knows where the fish are,” Andersen said.

Olivia’s hand froze in midair at the comment. “Really?”

“Yes, my lady,” Andersen said. “Never seen anyone with a luckier knack for catching fish. It’s like he can hear them talking.”

Curious, Olivia studied the forkful of fish before her. “If you are using such a talent to capture them to eat”—she held a piece offish up to Stafford, emphasizing her point—“then it hardly seems sporting.”

“She has a point, Captain,” Mr. Riedell said. He held up a piece of fish, imitating Olivia’s recent gesture. “Though I’m very grateful to sail with one who has such a talent, sporting or not.”

“Quite,” Mrs. Tisdale said. “Food is a necessity.”

“I’ve heard your sister is quite mad,” Olivia blurted out.

“Olivia!” Elizabeth nearly shouted.

“In an endearing way, I’m certain,” Olivia said. “I would be rude to imply otherwise.”

Samuel laughed.

“I mean only that, according to reliable sources, she is umm … very lively! Yes, that’s it. Falling off stairs, swinging from curtains at parties, and such. That certainly suggests a degree of madness.”

“Well, she does come from a country of cultureless heathens,” Samuel offered.

“Oh stop. Only some are cultureless heathens,” she teased.

“What kind of heathens are the rest of us?” Mr. Riedell asked.

“There. You see? Even Mr. Riedell is droll about the heathens.” Olivia continued with her observations. “I was merely trying to get to the truth, so next time there is gossip I might correct people with some authority. However, since you don’t deny any of it, I find myself in a shocking position.”

“Not a first, I’m sure,” he shot back.

Olivia pretended not hear. “She married well, so all is forgiven.”

“I don’t recall her requesting forgiveness.”

Olivia ignored him again. “The ton is fickle that way. Money and title. It’s a perfect match.” Olivia sipped her wine. “I’m fortunate to have both. At least enough money to get along without having to marry.”

“That is indeed fortunate,” Samuel quipped.

She was getting to him. It was interesting. And he was clever. That made it all the more amusing.

Mr. Riedell reached for Olivia’s wineglass and moved it away, “There now, enough for you, my lady.”

“I won’t take offense at your tone, Mr. Stafford,” Olivia forgave.

“You should,” he retorted.

She laughed. There was so rarely anyone to spar with in town. “You must understand that, as a lady, I cannot take your measure through cards, or boxing, or swords. I am left only with words.”

He looked at her over the rim of his wineglass, inspecting. Olivia felt a blush heat up over her chest. Not inspecting—giving her the benefit of unabashed male regard. The heat continued up to her cheeks. He smiled, knowingly.

“I think you have a couple other options for taking the measure of a man, Lady Olivia.”

Riedell cleared his throat, and Andersen chuckled. Even Mrs. Tisdale turned a bit pink.

“Don’t look at me, dear,” she said. “You started this.”

Olivia narrowed her eyes at Stafford. Gads, her skin burned. “I think perhaps Mr. Stafford meant dancing and riding.”

Stafford grinned. “Yes, I believe it has been referred to that way. Very clever.”

“I didn’t mean—” Olivia gasped, if possible getting even hotter. The other guests were unable to repress their laughter, and Olivia gave in, fanning herself good-humoredly. Stafford still watched her. It did nothing for her temperature. She lifted her nose and scolded. “Heathen.”

He laughed as well.

“I’m very grateful Americans appreciate honest conversation,” Olivia said. “It makes life so much more efficient.”

“We do,” Stafford said. “So I must correct you on a matter or two.”

“You may try, Mr. Stafford,” she challenged.

“First, my sister Alex doesn’t give a twit about titles—unless it’s Captain, and that’s because she earned it. Second, it was a love match. So yes, it is a perfect match. Last, just so everyone is absolutely clear, he is the one who married well.”

“Oh. I just thought—”

“Don’t. It’s annoying.”

Mrs. Tisdale snorted, and covered her mouth quickly. “Sorry, dearest,” she said to Olivia.

“It’s just that it’s unusual,” Olivia insisted. “Marrying for love. Of course one hopes for mutual respect and growing admiration for one’s partner, but—”

“You’re being annoying again.”

Olivia stopped, for the first time thoroughly confused. To marry for love? Was that even done? By servants perhaps. Or the working class. But rarely did love matter among the ton, where it was important to preserve bloodlines and social connections. What would happen to history, culture, and heritage if everyone just married for love? And who could determine what love was? Perhaps he meant lust combined with a sense of comfort and friendship with another?

“You speak of your sister as if you admire her.”

Stafford’s eyes narrowed on her, curious. “I do.”

“I thought you said she was a brat?”

“I’m allowed to call her that. No one else,” he said, his tone indicating that should be obvious.

She shook her head, bewildered, looking down, head bent. “That makes no sense.”

“You clearly never had a little sister.”

“No. No sisters.” He cared for his family? Could you care for people so clearly imperfect? “Nor a brother,” she added. She looked to see Stafford contemplating her. It was even more uncomfortable than his sexual regard. “Your sister is lucky, Mr. Stafford. Forgive me, please. I am unfamiliar with the workings of a large family. Strangely, I find that I am quite jealous.”

She looked down at her food. Goodness, she sounded pitiful. She used to be a welcome dining companion. What had become of her skills?

Stafford sighed loudly, commanding her attention. “That is a remarkable admission from so remarkable a woman.”

Olivia studied, to see if he teased, but he appeared sincere, smiling warmly at her. “Now you are being kind, Mr. Stafford.”

“I’m a kind man.”

He said it with false arrogance. It didn’t fool her.

“Yes,” she said, considering it deeply. “You are.” Then without thinking, she added, “It’s very strange.”

The others laughed, and Olivia recognized the silliness of the comment.

Mrs. Tisdale changed the topic. “Why don’t you tell us about your findings thus far on the tomb we are going to visit, Olivia.”

“The tomb?” Olivia asked, still distracted by thoughts of Mr. Stafford.

“Yes,” Mrs. Tisdale encouraged. “You remember. The purpose for this voyage.”

“Oh. Yes! Well …” Olivia proceeded to give them the background on how a servant of Lord Queensbury had accidentally fallen in a hole that turned out to be an entrance to an ancient tomb.

“One of the decade’s greatest discoveries was because someone tripped?” Andersen asked, astounded.

“Yes!” Olivia laughed. She loved that part of the story. “Sometimes things are right in front of you, it seems. Or under you, as the case may be.” She leaned in to continue. “Queensbury knew my father was in Cairo studying the ancient pyramids and had had some success documenting and understanding the intentions of the Egyptians.”

“With a great deal of help from you, Olivia,” Mrs. Tisdale explained.

Olivia shrugged it off.

“He invited my father to lead the academic portion of the venture, while he and others funded it.” Olivia noted, “They needed someone with my father’s expertise to organize the findings.”

“What do they know of the tomb site?” Mr. Riedell asked.

“It’s a large burial space, three floors deep, where many middle-class and local aristocracy are believed to be buried. And due to the ethnic mix of ancient Alexandria, many writings are in both Greek and Egyptian hieroglyphics. This has given us an edge in understanding much of what is written. According to local oral history, this is the place that the last librarian was buried.” Olivia paused to emphasize. “The last librarian of the Great Library of Alexandria.”

There were no sounds of awe, but at least they were still rapt.

Olivia continued, “We have since been studying the many funerary cones outside the individual tombs and believe we have located the specific one.” Her voice lowered. “It was in Lord Grayson’s care until he was murdered, and the cone stolen.”

Now they were leaning in, alert. All except Stafford. He looked as though he wanted to expose her for trying to steal the cone herself.

“Good lord,” Mr. Riedell said, his eyes intent on Mrs. Tisdale. “It’s a wonder neither of you have been injured yet. Someone must know that your father and his colleagues are onto something.”

“Yes,” Olivia agreed. “The hopes are that this last librarian saved or kept copies of some of the scrolls and documents that were in the library. From what we can tell, the burial was around the time of Ptolemy the Sixth, possibly right after the library was destroyed. If even one item could be recovered, the information we’d gain would be nothing short of miraculous. People live for such a discovery. The contribution to our current knowledge would be exponential.”

“That’s assuming one thing, Lady Olivia,” Mr. Andersen said. “That we can read the language that history is written in.”

“Well …” Olivia faded off. No one believed that she had deciphered the language. It was a common reaction. She was allowed her theories, but it seemed no one wanted her to be right. Except maybe her father. And Mrs. Tisdale.

“Of course.” Olivia didn’t say any more. Mrs. Tisdale looked about to defend her, but Olivia caught her eye and shook her head, causing Mrs. Tisdale to press her lips shut.

Who would believe that a woman had unlocked the secrets of ancient Egyptians, especially when men more learned than she had tried and failed? Only when she reached the tomb would she be able to prove her value. But she had to find her father first.

“Lady Olivia, you were saying?” Mr. Riedell encouraged.

“Oh, yes. Just that we could be on the cusp of a great discovery. It’s very exciting.”

Someone continued the discussion, but Olivia had already drawn within herself. She hadn’t figured out all the symbols. That was the crux of it. The star, she believed, represented the librarian’s expertise in astronomy. The symbol in the center of the star she did not recognize. But it had not seemed like any of the others. Maybe not Egyptian … Greek? Or was it a personal mark, perhaps a symbol for a club … or better, a secret society? That would be deliciously exciting. Unlikely, but thrilling to imagine.

She vaguely heard Mrs. Tisdale say, “We’ve lost her now.”

She smiled appropriately. Mrs. Tisdale knew her well enough. Olivia went back to her conjectures. If the librarian had been an astronomer and the sign was inside the star, it made sense that it represented something to do with the stars, measuring the stars, studying the stars. Hadn’t there been some books on board about astronomy and celestial navigation? She searched the cabin.

“What do you need?” Mr. Stafford asked.

She continued to stare vaguely, trying to reach for an answer. “The symbol. The one that doesn’t fit. I think it was partly a mathematical equation. If that’s possible. No. That’s not right. But …” She stood, struggling for clarity, and faced the bookshelves.

Mr. Stafford pulled a volume out and handed it over. “Mathematics.”

“Astronomy too.”

He stacked two more. “These are the better ones.”

“Is it too much to hope for anything on alchemical sciences?”

He smiled. Then left the room and came back with a fourth heavy volume.

When added to her load, they piled up to her nose. She could barely hold them. “Well, then. If you’ll excuse me for the evening.” She tried to make an appropriate bow but nearly dropped the stack as the books slid to the right.

Mr. Stafford caught them, his lips curling up in a smile, distracting her momentarily. She stared. A delicious mouth, indeed. Then she shook off the disrupting sensation tingling her lips and let him guide her to the door and down to her cabin.

“Got it?”

“Uh-huh. Thank you, Stafford. See you tomorrow.” Perhaps the symbol was a mathematics and chemistry combination. A recipe? An element? The possibilities were swirling in her mind. She barely registered the door closing, or the softly muttered words.

“Yep. I knew you were trouble,” he said.

Chapter Six

Samuel didn’t know how much trouble Olivia was going to be until she finally left her cabin and starting “thinking” on deck. It turned out she couldn’t think and walk at the same time.

Several days of deep contemplation and six mishaps later, his men adeptly moved with lightning speed, clearing buckets, lines, and other equipment from her path. She was making her fifth turn about the deck that morning, not aware the hatch she had walked over several times already was now open. His boatswain and some men were bringing up gear in preparation for their stop at Gibraltar. He waited for her to lift her head. Instead she lifted her journal to write down a word.

Samuel leapt to the deck just below him, rushed forward, and gently wrapped an arm around her waist, deftly lifting her over the danger and setting her on her way again.

She looked up, surprised, then offered a quick hello before continuing on a new course. He watched, bemused, as she walked into a wall. It startled her. She blinked and looked around, as if confused about where she was and how she got there. One of the younger men directed her to a ladder. She smiled and nodded vaguely, reaching to climb the ladder in her skirts.

The sailor watched.

Samuel strode over and grabbed the youth by the scruff of his neck, redirecting his body and—more important—his roving eyes in the other direction.

He turned to help Olivia and instead got his face whipped with a swish of material. Suddenly the world went away and his head was surrounded with provocatively soft, white underskirts.

“Bloody …” he muttered to himself. He’d become a mutterer since she’d come aboard. He pushed the skirts away defensively and made a quick turn to the crew, already aware of their smirks. Their grins disappeared.

“Back to work,” he barked.

Samuel followed Olivia, lest she fall. It seemed to be something she did with uncommon regularity. He was amazed he hadn’t had to set a broken bone yet.

They made it to the top deck safely, and, as if waking up from her state, Olivia finally recognized his presence. And she smiled.

His gut clenched. He swore again, rubbing at the tingling sensation on the back of his neck.

He wasn’t used to this from her. That smile. This one in particular. It tore at him. It was guileless. And she was not a guileless woman. He smiled back, despite himself. He had witnessed a few of her smiles over the last several days since she had gained her sea legs. The smile she used for polite dinner conversation. The half smile with the lifted brow when she’d made some dry remark or observation. The triumphant smile when she was filled with excitement over a new conclusion to write in her secret journal on hieroglyphics. Hell. That smile had nearly blown him off the ship the first time. She’d been bubbly with excitement and chatted nonstop about the completely illogical process that enabled her to “logically” come to her recent deduction.

He’d been caught up in her excitement, energized. Until she realized the implications of her new discovery, and her brain went back into itself. He recognized now the familiar transformation. Her smile would fade, the excited gray eyes turned back to the sharp silver, staring distantly. Then she’d disappear for the rest of the afternoon. He’d concluded that kind of brilliance must be lonely. Especially for a woman living a restricted existence in London.

He scratched his stubbly jaw. And then there was this smile.

The smile of discovery.

The smile she gave when most aware of her surroundings and suddenly filled with awe. And this time he was in her line of sight when she’d set it free. It made him think he had done something good—even when he hadn’t. It also made him protective. She might be a walking library of information, but she was completely inexperienced in the real world.

He was walking to her when suddenly the smile disappeared. He froze. She had a thoughtful frown. His stomach dropped—until he realized she looked past him. He turned to the location of her displeasure.

Elizabeth and Nathan were on the forward top deck enjoying the warm breeze and view of the coast as the ship sailed into the Bay of Gibraltar. Elizabeth turned and called them over. He watched Olivia go, inserting herself between the couple. While Olivia had had her nose in her books, they had become a couple. It seemed Olivia was only just figuring out that mystery. He worried over her sudden mood change and stiffened back.

“It’s magnificent! Is it not, Olivia?”

She nodded, gazing out. “Gibraltar. From the Arabic Jebal Tarik, or Mountain of Tarik. It dates from the capture of the peninsula by the Moorish leader Tarik in 711.”

Nathan grinned with humor. “But magnificent, nonetheless.” He stepped back a bit to give the women room and joined Samuel.

“Sorry,” Samuel said.

“Nothing to be sorry about, Captain.” Nathan enjoyed the moment, appearing relaxed. “You’ll be taking a boat into shore later?”

He nodded. “With twelve men. You’ll stay here.”

“Expecting trouble?”

“Not sure. The fish are quiet.”

Olivia popped her head into their conversation, curious. “What does that mean? ‘The fish are quiet.’ You really can hear the fish?” She cut off suddenly, having the sense to realize his scowl meant silence. At least he had trained her that much.

“You must admit, it’s a strange expression,” she mumbled.

“Not for this crew, Lady Olivia,” Nathan said. “Excuse me, while I prepare your team, Captain.” He nodded to them both, then offered to escort Elizabeth to her cabin.

Olivia watched them leave together. They shared a warm glance, before Nathan, attentive to Mrs. Tisdale’s comfort, helped her onto the ladder. Olivia’s throat tightened. This would not do at all. She turned her attention to Stafford. He seemed fully aware of the situation and undisturbed. Best she inform him. “She would never leave England, you know.”

“Why not?” Samuel asked, understanding her reference to Elizabeth.

“More to the point, why?” Olivia stated with certainty.

His voice turned harsh. “For freedom, independence, and the opportunity to have a life of her own. And for the most obvious reason of all.”

Olivia bristled. “What’s that?”

He shook his head at her. “Good God, Olivia. You have to be the most obtuse woman I have ever met.”

Olivia’s mouth dropped open in surprise.

“For love, you idiot! You have heard of that?”

Olivia closed her mouth and shook her head at the possibility. “This is flirtation. Mrs. Tisdale is bored. Her life is good in England.”

“Wasting away, ignored, unimportant, the invisible companion to some lonely rich girl.”

Olivia gasped, stepping backward, utterly stunned. By him and by Mrs. Tisdale. “She never told me—she never said she was unhappy. She is free to go about.” Olivia knew she was not the easiest person to get along with, but Mrs. Tisdale had managed it since Olivia was fifteen. She’d stepped in and been the parent when Olivia needed guidance. She had always supported and encouraged Olivia, when her father’s friends had doubted. And most of all, she was the only one in Olivia’s life who had stayed. Her mother had died young. There’d been a series of governesses and tutors, but none had stuck. None had given Mrs. Tisdale’s unconditional support. Her father might have done so, but his visits were erratic, and over the last six years he’d been gone more than he’d been home.

“You needn’t worry she has betrayed you in any form,” Stafford said. “She has nothing but kindness for you. Would you hold her back because you don’t want to be alone?”

“That’s not fair. Other than my father, she is my—she is all I have.” With no close relatives to call on, Mrs. Tisdale had become—Olivia struggled with the explanation—family. She paled at the thought of losing even a pathetic version of it. “He has nothing to offer her! A life at sea? A workingman’s wife? Do you think she can cook? Or be a nice colonial wife who makes candles and quilts? It’s foolish and fanciful. Neither is thinking of the reality.”

The captain took one long stride and bent his head until they were nose to nose. Olivia didn’t breathe. He was angry. It wasn’t as if she’d said anything wrong. Just the truth. Though right now, his warm, golden brown eyes were quite dark. She swallowed the knot in her throat.

“I will forgive your insults to me, my country, and my friend, because of your complete lack of knowledge and experience of all things American. I will not, however, overlook your narrow, closed-minded point of view, which I find surprises me, Olivia, for someone who values truth, knowledge, and objectivity.

“To be a good thinker—nay, a great thinker—requires one to let go of the common thought and seek something new. Correct?”

She nodded, for she couldn’t speak.

“A new idea, a new vision, a new solution, a new way to do things, a new answer.”

She nodded again and again and again. For it was true. She prided herself on that, even when she was ridiculed for it.

“And yet you cannot see past my friend—and I am letting you know that he is my friend, not just my employee—being American to see what a fine person he is. That he has more to offer than anyone in your narrow, cold circles. He certainly has an income larger than that of you or your father. Besides that, he has every quality a man should have. He deserves every bit of good fortune that comes his way, none of which he ever takes for granted. I hope, Lady Olivia”—he straightened and stepped away—“that in the future, you will endeavor to keep an open mind about people until you actually take the time to get to know them.”

Olivia felt tension in every part of her body. He stared her down in his usual authoritarian way, expecting an agreeable response to his lecture. She would not let him know how she felt. How he’d hurt not just her pride, but something that went to the core of her own self-value. She straightened her spine and adjusted her shoulders, burying the useless emotion. She lifted her chin to look down on him, which of course was entirely impossible, as the man was so bloody tall. Still, lifting her chin, she could do the one thing she was particularly good at in threatening social situations.

“Well.” She pulled at the cuff of each sleeve near her wrists. “That was a commendable number of words for an American to string together all at once.” She had the satisfaction of seeing her insult take him aback.

Arrogant, preachy, bossy mome.

What? Was that a sparkle in his eye? He was not affronted. Did he think she was funny? What a damned annoying man.

“But your point is taken, Stafford. Excuse me.” She turned and made for the ladder, promptly tripping on the first step, tangling her skirts, and tumbling hip over ankle. The opposite of graceful, she landed on her back, looking up into the sky at the towering figure of Captain Stafford, high on the deck. He stopped short. Surprisingly, he looked relieved. Then he shook his head again.

“We got her, Captain.”

The two men who’d caught her tossed her with a bounce, and she landed on her feet. If she hadn’t known better, she would have suspected they were waiting for this. She nodded gratefully and offered her thanks.

“Like I said, Ollie, open your eyes to the world around you. Don’t want to miss anything good.”

She grunted and turned away. How dare he accuse her of being blind to life. She saw plenty. Her head bumped wood. “Ouch!” She looked at the low doorway. Where did that come from? She ducked her head and continued to her cabin. Love. Love? Really? He believed that? Olivia shook her head. Love was the greatest myth of all. Didn’t everybody know that?

Chapter Seven

A few hours later, Samuel climbed into the longboat headed for shore. The second his feet touched the wood, he started swearing. “What the hell are you doing here?” His crew gazed at their feet. A few looked toward the woman in disguise huddling behind Kelley, his large boatswain.

“I need to get supplies,” Olivia said, a tinge of hopefulness in her voice.

“I can take a list.”

“But I have particular needs.”

“So do I!”

There were a few guffaws that he quelled with a death glance.

“Please don’t be difficult, Captain,” she tried again. “It’s Gibraltar. British. My people. It’s as safe as could be. And I’ve never been. I want to see as much as possible. Can’t you understand? No, of course you can’t. You’ve had the privilege of traveling everywhere. I’ve seen nothing. This is my first adventure. My first port. Please, can’t you consider it … please?”

Samuel folded his arms over his chest. She had clearly won over his men in the boat with her plaintive, pathetic begging. Hell, even he felt sympathetic to youthful yearning. They had all been there. He studied her outfit. She’d improved the disguise. The beard and mustache now matched her natural coloring, and somehow she had given herself a man’s chest. Disappointing, but very effective. Her coat was long enough to cover the rest. Her eyes were gray and pleading … A woman that smart had to know what they did to men. He should know better than to give in to a pretty face. Hell, it was currently a scruffy face. He should be stronger.

He sighed. “All right.”

There were cheers of success. Kelley even gave a good-on-ya slap on the shoulder that knocked her off her seat. She adjusted her cap and smiled sheepishly, slugging him back in the arm before wincing at the effect on her weak fist. She’d have to work on that.

“But stay with us. No wandering off. And try not to speak.”

She nodded.

“We’ll keep an eye on the professor, Cap’n,” one of the men promised. The others agreed. Samuel took his seat, curious, eyeing the lady professor. Somehow she had managed not to alienate everyone. Interesting.

She smiled wide. The men smiled back, approving. She turned to him and he found himself responding the same. There was the smile. His stomach twisted. Even with facial hair, it was a damned heartbreaking smile.

He looked to shore, focusing on his next task.

They were entering dangerous waters tomorrow, and the two Portuguese ships that had accompanied them weren’t continuing past Gibraltar. He was picking up a Stafford brig, but one or two more ships would be safer. It looked like there were several in port. Perhaps they would get lucky.

Olivia lengthened her stride to keep pace. She tried not to smile, but she couldn’t help it. Certainly the waterfront area was a little rough, but she was with rough men, protected by the toughest captain sailing the Mediterranean. That’s what Kelley had said. He was a wealth of information. Half of which she could not understand due to his Irish accent, but he was free enough with the information.

They worked their way to the town center. Olivia knew from her reading that Gibraltar continued to undergo rebuilding since the nearly four-year siege had ended in ’83. There were new buildings already in use and others going up, making it a small but bustling port.

A collection of pottery in a window display had her attention when she heard one of the men clear his throat. “Uh, Captain. Over there.” The very discreetness of the warning had Olivia on alert. She turned, as all the men had.

In the middle of the street was the object of their attention. A woman.

Not just any woman. A striking, voluptuous, dark-haired woman in a long red cotton skirt, and a white blouse hanging loosely off one shoulder. She stood still, accepting their regard as if accustomed to it and expecting it, but she only had eyes for Samuel. Captain Stafford, Olivia reminded herself, disturbingly ill at ease. Her stomach flipped with a new kind of sickness—something akin to worry.

The woman called out to him. In Portuguese, she guessed. Olivia knew Spanish, but not Portuguese. Just a few words. Enough to know it wasn’t Spanish. The captain grinned, and to Olivia’s surprise, responded in Portuguese.

Olivia watched in dismay as he strode to the woman, who in turn wrapped long arms around his neck and pulled his face down to hers. Olivia’s throat became strangely tight as she forced herself to watch. The two spoke in way that could only be described as intimate. Samuel pulled a small box from his coat pocket and gave it to her. The woman peeked inside, then closed it, giving him another full-mouthed kiss. It looked nothing like the kisses she had shared with him. Theirs had been quick. Probably because she was so awful at it.

She rubbed a hand over the ache in her chest, becoming even more conscious of her current lack of femininity. It hurt, but she took a deep, controlled breath, hoping the kiss would end. Now. Any moment. Any moment now …

He pulled away. Finally! Her body relaxed again. They did have other things to do, after all. She took another breath and stepped forward just as the other woman took Stafford’s hand to pull him away. To her lair, no doubt. Olivia felt ill. Someone had to save the poor man.

“Captain!” Olivia cleared her throat, working to make it a little deeper. It was naturally husky, so that helped. “Uh, we were going that way.” She pointed in the other direction.

He looked at her, then at the woman, then at her and the men.

“Kelley, watch the professor. I need five minutes.” Then he turned away and walked into a small but quaint stone building.

Olivia felt ill. Then she thought it through. There was no reason for her to care, and anyway nothing could happen in five minutes.

“That’s Margueritte. She’s sort of the local, uh, message center,” Kelley said.

“Like the post?”

“Sort of, yeah. People leave messages with her. She gives them others.”

“Oh.” Olivia wasn’t so sure they really knew what was up. Clearly this woman did more than deliver messages.

“Come on, Professor,” one of the men urged. “It’s going to be a lot longer than five minutes. We’ll get a bite to eat at the market.”

The men chuckled, and Olivia knew exactly who Margueritte was. Samuel’s mistress. The clarity and shock of it stunned her. Not that it should have. Men in England had mistresses. He was male. He had money. He could afford mistresses. Maggot—that is, Margueritte, she corrected in her head—was beautiful. In a dark, mysterious way that Olivia supposed lured innocent men into relishing the very weakness that caused them to keep mistresses. But it was none of her business. If he was a weak-willed, imperceptive, lust-inflicted man, why should she care? As long as he got her to Egypt … That was all that mattered.

Fretting, she stumbled in a small hole in the road and caught herself.

She certainly did not care. She was just annoyed. Her suit didn’t fit properly today. It pulled here and tugged there. She fought with the collar, refusing to look back to see if he was trying to catch up with them.

She looked.

No sign.

Olivia followed the other men, her day suddenly not as exciting as it had been, her shoulders drooping under the heavy jacket. She’d been looking forward to her first port. Admittedly, she thought he would show it to her, at least a little bit. Not that she wasn’t perfectly able to explore on her own. Likely she knew more about Gibraltar than anyone on the ship.

They stopped at an outdoor market, and Kelley directed some of the men to get specific supplies. The men then made a picnic of it, laying out bread, meats, and supplies on one of the tables set up for locals who gathered. Olivia did not think she could eat. How long had it been? Thirty minutes? She sat on an old barrel and looked at the wrapped chicken leg. The sky was blue, the air was fresh, and primitive though the dining was, it smelled good. This was an adventure.

Instead she felt too weak to lift the roasted meat.

“Not the chicken sort, Professor?”

She jumped. The voice had sneaked up on her from behind. Him! She turned and looked up. He smiled down.

Then she turned away, jealous of the cause of the smile. Thirty minutes. It had taken five to walk to the market. That meant twenty-five minutes. She sighed.

“I had to stop for something,” he said, laying a package on her lap.

He’d stopped to make a purchase! That most definitely would have limited his time with Maggot—er, Margueritte.

“It’s for you.”

Stunned, she ripped it open, unable to control her excitement.

“Go ahead and open it,” he said, wryly.

It was a brown leather bag with a long strap. She stared. Surprised. Not at all feminine. Not jewelry, but she didn’t need jewelry.

“I thought since you’re going to be in the sand and dust—”

“It’s wonderful, Stafford! It can hold my journal and writing instruments and even some artifacts that I might discover. Perfect for adventuring! Thank you so much.”

He pulled up another barrel and the men moved so he could squeeze in next to her. She put the strap over her shoulder, lifted her chicken leg, and bit down. It was the best chicken she’d ever had. She chewed and glanced up to see some of them staring at her. Then at the captain.

“It’s good,” Olivia grunted in her man voice. His leg was pressed up against hers. He gave her a manly shove with his elbow. She thought it might mean approval. Or friendship. She elbowed him back. He laughed. She smiled and bit down again. The air was fresh, the sky was blue, and she was starving.

“Any news?” she finally asked, as it looked like no one else would.

“Yes.” He picked out some meat and wrapped it in bread. After a while he answered. “A friend is in town. I need to see him. Someone else arrived today. Asking which Stafford ships are in.”

“That’s not unusual, Cap’n,” Kelley thought aloud. “They all wanna sail with your protection.”

“Umm. Maybe.” He finished his meal. “Everyone keep your guard up. I don’t want any word of our passengers getting out.”

Olivia stopped eating. “Why’s that?”

“Because, Professor.” Samuel didn’t look at her, scanning the food for something else. “They were asking about an Englishwoman. A particular Englishwoman.”

Olivia squeaked. “Me?”

“Likely.” He continued, “So when we meet my people, don’t say anything. Just stick close by.” He gave a short glance down his shoulder. “And try to act manly.”

The others chuckled, but she worried. “Are we in danger?”

“Not yet.”

“But why—?”

“I said not to speak, Professor. You’ll give yourself away. Do that supercilious thing you do. That might pass.”

Olivia sighed. She would have to wait until he was ready to inform her. She changed the subject. “You speak Portuguese.”

“Yes. And seven other languages.”

“Eight!” She was astonished. “Where did you learn eight? And when?”

He shrugged. “At school, at sea. It helps to be able to communicate with the people we trade with, don’t you agree?” He didn’t wait for an answer. Samuel reached for a cloth to wipe his hands, then handed it to her. “Alex and Matthew are learning Cantonese. We’re expanding to send ships to China in the next few years. Alex thinks there’s a huge trade opportunity.”

“Her Grace?” Olivia asked. She was confused. His sister had married. Surely she still didn’t need a hobby. “Is she still in the business? I thought that was just for … a diversion.”

Everyone stopped and stared at her.

“What?” She looked about wondering what she’d said wrong.

A smaller sailor grunted with humor.

“Nothing, Professor,” Samuel clarified. “My sister doesn’t have diversions. Though her husband is working on that. Stafford Shipping is in her blood. She would always be doing something. Even if only a side venture. And she always has a few side ventures.”

“She really works?” Olivia had trouble imagining a woman working at such a strenuous job. Not that she didn’t want to teach and write and study, but there wasn’t any money to be gained, so it wasn’t really as unseemly as working for money.

“Works harder than most and has a great head for business,” Samuel admitted with a grin. “She’s an asset to the company, but don’t ever tell her I said it. It’ll go to her head. And I promised Worthington, the poor sap, that I’d give him a year to start a family and distract her, before considering a promotion.”

“Oh.” This was even more confusing. “I guess I just thought it strange that her husband lets her work.”

Samuel tilted his head down at her. “Would you ask your loved ones to give up something important to them?”

“No, but—”

“You’ve got bread crumbs in you beard, Professor.” He rose. “Let’s go, men. We have a lot to settle before heading back.”

She brushed carefully at her furry face. “Wait.” No one waited.

Honestly. The price of being a man.

She wiped at her hairy chin again, then ran to catch up.

* * *

Samuel broke the men into three groups and sent them on their various tasks. They would meet at the dock in three hours. Meanwhile, two of the men joined him and Olivia at a tavern tucked at the end of a small street.

“We’re going to drink?” Olivia asked, her voice reproachful.

Samuel raked a hand through his hair with frustration. She questioned everything. “Yes,” he said, just to irritate her.

“Well, I have things I need to purchase. Paper and ink, and—”

“Ollie.” He hissed, stepping away from the door while his crew waited behind. “I don’t like having to explain every single decision to you.”

“I’m just trying to understand—”

“Stop! When we enter this establishment, I don’t want to hear anything come out of your mouth unless it’s ‘Yes, Captain,’ or a satisfied grunt.”

“But—”

“We are not here to drink. This is where many of the merchant captains meet, trade, and share information—over a drink. I’m here to meet an old friend and find a couple more ships to sail with us through this next bit of sea. It’s very dangerous water. Do you understand?”

She gave a deep grunt. “Like that?”

He relaxed and laughed. “Yes. Come on.”

The tavern was dark, despite the bright daylight outside. Samuel made a quick scan without turning his head. He recognized the mate of a Dutch ship. “Wait here,” he told the others. Samuel spoke with the Dutchman. They had been waiting for him to arrive. That was good news. His other captain had already secured their ship and another to join them as far as Malta. He asked after Khalid. The man nodded to the back room. It was guarded by Moors. He motioned for the others to join him. Better to keep Ollie close. He checked her disguise one last time.

“Yes, Captain?”

“Remember what I said?”

“Yes, Captain.”

To the men, “Stay close.”

Olivia was suddenly nervous. They were going to talk to a friend? What kind of friends did the man have? She couldn’t have inquired if she’d wanted to. They passed two guards in the hall, and the room she thought would be a small back room was actually larger than the previous one. And filled. With Moorish sailors.

She trembled. Not sailors.

Pirates.

Olivia walked behind Stafford, with Kelley and another sailor keeping her safe from behind. The men in the room gave them a long study, and she attempted a manly swagger, exceptionally glad for Stafford’s broad back. The captain could easily take ten of these men. Yes, that would make the odds about seven to one. She forced the lump down in her throat and prayed the glue of her beard would not melt in the heat of the room. A striking Moor at a corner table smiled, as if he’d been waiting for them.

Stafford and the man greeted each other in Arabic, each making a strange hand motion over heart, mouth, and head.

They were invited to sit down, and Stafford took a seat. His two men stood behind him. Olivia wasn’t certain where she fell in the arrangement, so remained standing until motioned to a chair. She assumed a posture similar to Khalid’s. Arms folded. Relaxed.

That lasted all of twenty seconds.

Her palms began sweating and her scalp started itching under her wig. She pulled her cap lower over her eyes and waited silently as they were served and the two men made conversation. At one point Khalid leaned forward and switched to English.

“You are in danger, my friend,” Khalid said to Stafford. “And I cannot help you.”

Olivia looked at Stafford next to her. His face hadn’t changed expression. He took a sip from his ale mug.

“What’s the news?” Stafford asked.

“It seems you carry precious cargo?”

“I’m light. Always am this direction.” Stafford put down his mug.

Olivia took a sip from hers. Holding it steady, not looking at anyone, trying to drink like a man.

“This man. British. Looks for a key to translate a code. He has offered my cousin ten thousand British pounds to capture your ship and deliver this key.”

Olivia choked. Ale came from her mouth. The men looked at her. She put the heavy mug down. “Sorry chaps. I’m a whiskey man.” She shook her head with disgust. “You were saying? Ten thousand pounds. Sounds desperate.”

“Indeed,” Stafford agreed, eyeing her and sending a silent message to be quiet. “I’d not trust anyone willing to pay that unless I saw it up front.”

“My cousin took two thousand up front. He will ambush you on the east side of the bay.”

Olivia didn’t move. Neither did Stafford. She didn’t know much about bribery and kidnapping, but that seemed like a goodly amount for a night of work. Finally Stafford spoke.

“What is this key? Why is it so special?”

“Not it, my friend. She. A woman. Brilliant, it seems.”

“Brilliant?” Olivia repeated. Stafford flashed her that hush-up glare again. She forgot she was supposed to be quiet until his foot pressed hers under the table. Still, she had never had anyone openly refer to her as brilliant. If she were to be hunted and killed, at least it was for a good reason.

Brilliant. She felt herself smiling ever so slightly, suddenly wanting to burst out and tell somebody she was brilliant! But only a fool would expose herself over a compliment when being hunted by mercenaries and surrounded by several hundred murderous pirates.

And she would likely die before getting very far. She slumped in her chair, silent.

“You do not believe women can be brilliant, sir?” Khalid asked, misinterpreting her expression.

“Of course—”

“Not.” Stafford finished for her. “Mr. Hill is quite the snob that way.”

Khalid shrugged. “British, eh?” he continued. “This man says she can unlock ancient secrets. That kind of knowledge is valuable to some. Especially if those ancient secrets bring power.” Khalid leaned back and turned his attention to his friend. “But he did not say that. I only guess.”

“Did he say anything else? Give a description of this woman?”

“Of course.” Khalid smiled and took a long drink of ale before revealing, “Hair like moonlight.” He looked at Olivia. “And eyes like two stars.”

Olivia did not avoid the man’s scrutiny, but pushed her glasses higher on her nose and held his gaze with one that she hoped appeared curious. Stafford revealed nothing.

“The man says she must be delivered alive. The rest of you don’t matter.”

Stafford gave a mocking half smile. “A man with grand illusions. But I commend his broad vision. Does this fool have a name?”

“Moreau is what he called himself.”

“Son of a Moor,” Olivia hissed. The men looked at her. “That’s what it means. French for son of a Moor.”

Khalid said something in Arabic.

Stafford answered back harshly in English. “I’m not that easily killed.”

The crew straightened, wits sharp, moving into a more defensive posture behind her and Stafford. Others in the room went silent in attention. Olivia’s ears buzzed in panic. Had she given them away?

Then Khalid waved a hand for the others to stand down. “You will be outnumbered. You cannot hope to survive. Turn back.”

Over the pounding of her heartbeat, Olivia realized the Muslim pirate was concerned.

“I’m not carrying anyone who fits your description.”

“Give me the woman, and at least I can stop the attack.”

“Never going to happen, my friend,” Stafford said.

“She matters to you?”

“Not at all.”

Olivia sucked her breath hard as Stafford continued. She had thought they were warming up to each other. At least friendly. He’d given her the man nudge. That meant friendship to men like him, right?

“I don’t hand paying passengers over to murderous, greedy pirates.”

“If you say so.” Khalid rubbed the lobe of the ear that had no ring.

“No offense to you, of course.” Stafford took a draft of ale, relaxing again. “For the record, the woman’s companion was very ill. I left them both in Lisbon. They are to board the next passenger carrier in a week. If the woman is better.”

Khalid nodded. “I will inform my cousin. But perhaps the wind will be on your side, Samuel Stafford.”

“I thank you for the warning and ask your forgiveness in advance for killing your cousin.”

“He is not without honor. Just young. Headstrong. I don’t wish to see my cousin killed. Nor you. I am in a difficult position. This Moreau, he has the British garrison on his side. I cannot kill him while he is here. But it wouldn’t matter.” Khalid leaned forward. “There is something bigger, Samuel Stafford. Whatever your lady is involved in”—he paused and looked at Olivia one last time—“beware.”

Stafford pushed his drink away, and Olivia gathered they were done. She rose with Stafford, the fine hairs all over her body standing on edge. If they knew she was the one they sought, any man here could claim her for the money. She forced herself to wait patiently rather than run out, but prayed they departed before the pounding in her chest produced an untimely swoon.

“We will be here a couple of days yet. I’ll need to make preparations and wait for reinforcements. Your cousin would be a fool to attack a small fleet. Perhaps we will laugh over this again in a few nights. Ten thousand pounds.” Stafford clucked twice and winked at his friend. “That’s a lot for any woman.”

Olivia bit her tongue until she thought blood would spurt from her mouth. She followed Stafford out of the tavern and kept her silence until they were far enough away. Until she couldn’t keep quiet any longer.

“They called me brilliant. Can you imagine? Ten thousand pounds of brilliant?” The part of her that felt safe again wanted to shout that it was she. She was the brilliant one! So what if Stafford was a rude, uncaring mome.

Stafford stopped short and she bumped into him. He didn’t catch her. She was in man gear after all. It would have looked odd. He did give her a disappointed glare.

“Ten thousand pounds? For your life?” he asked.

Olivia braced herself for the insult.

“You sell yourself short, Ollie.” He spun to the men. “Spread the word that we are in port for the week. Then get yourselves back on the ship by dusk. We leave tonight.”

He just delivered the biggest compliment she had ever received, and there was no time to relish it. They were leaving tonight. Sneaking out of Gibraltar under the guise of darkness. That could not be good.

In fact, that was ten thousand pounds of very alarming.

Chapter Eight

It was a moonless night. Samuel decided to sail immediately in hopes that darkness would defer attack. The second Stafford ship was behind him, with a Dutch vessel completing the triad. The fourth ship stayed in Gibraltar, not anxious for trouble.

The cannon teams were at the ready, and Samuel worked the crew to catch every breath of wind in the sails he could manage. The seas were nearly calm. Instinct told him they wouldn’t be for long. If they made it to morning’s light, they had a fighting chance of escaping battle altogether. But it wasn’t yet midnight. That meant a long night ahead.

He went to the stern and looked back, closed his eyes, and listened. Silence. He stood listening a long while. Waiting. The wind adjusted slightly, and he signaled the helmsman. The crew trimmed in silence. Their eyes adjusted to the dark. He had forbidden even a candle to be lit on the ship. After the adjustment was made he listened again. Wind in the sail. Water against wood. Creaking of the vessel.

The natural sounds of the sea.

Then something else.

A distant, steady rhythm hitting the water. Not his imagination. And not far off.

Time to alert the other ships.

* * *

Olivia worked in the galley, her eyes protected by large spectacles she’d used when working with her former chemistry tutor. She’d dispensed with the hat, but her wig was still in place, despite the perspiration pouring down her face. She’d also dressed Mrs. Tisdale in a sailor disguise. If they were attacked, it would be best not to be recognized as women. She hoped that would not be the case, but something in Stafford’s manner told her their danger was paramount.

The cook came back with several individual leather water pouches. He demonstrated the squirting ability. She nodded approval and had him close his eyes while she filled them, careful that the vapors from her formula did not burn his eyes, and wanting to hide the trembling of her hands. She prayed she did not fail them if battle ensued.

They worked in virtual darkness aside from the heat from the cauldron. Carefully they filled each pouch.

Then they sat back and waited.

Nathan handed out the final gun and closed the weapons closet. He checked the Turkish flintlock pistol that remained, made sure it was loaded properly, then took a last moment to run down and see to Elizabeth. His only concern was her safety. Now that he’d found her, he vowed he would do anything to keep her. Even if he had to fight off two hundred Barbary pirates.

He opened the door without preamble. She jumped. Then she ran into his arms. He squeezed her quickly, no time for anything more.

“This gun is primed, Elizabeth. I pray you won’t need it, but if you do …”

“I know what to do,” she whispered. “My father taught me when I was young.”

“Good.” That was somewhat encouraging. He handed her a bag of shot and powder.

“I just never thought I would have cause …” She gazed at him, anxious.

“You very likely won’t,” he reassured. “But just in case. It makes me feel better.” He fingered the water pouch over her shoulder. “What’s this?”

“Eye poison. Olivia made it. She said one squirt on their face will blind them instantly—at least put them in pain for several minutes.”

“Really?”

She nodded.

“Brilliant.”

“I sincerely hope so.”

He hugged her briefly and brushed his lips across her cheek. “I must go.”

She nodded again.

“Lock the door behind me, secure the latch, and hide in the wardrobe, would you please?”

She smiled. Then most surprisingly, she grabbed him behind the back of the head and pulled his mouth to hers. It was not how he had envisioned their first kiss. But damn, how he had wanted it. Needing no further encouragement, he wrapped her in his arms. “Elizabeth …” He caressed her lips. “Elizabeth.” Then he devoured her. Briefly. Quickly. Taking a moment of heaven before releasing her to face hell. Then he left, his mind switching to battle ready and his hand reaching for the hilt of his sword. He would protect her, no matter the cost.

Samuel found Olivia in the galley with Cook. The two leaned against the wall, side by side. Waiting. Cook had a butcher knife tucked in his belt. Olivia had two knives in her belt and five leather water pouches wrapped over opposite shoulders, same as Cook. They had another in their hands at the ready.

“We’re going to be attacked.” She already knew it. She needed him to confirm it. To tell her it would be fine.

“Yes, but they are not expecting our readiness. Khalid would not allow them more of an advantage than they already have.”

She looked up at him, gray eyes determined, but full of fear. “I could go with them, Stafford.” She said it softly. Terrified, but willing.

He shook his head. “No. You’re not going anywhere, Olivia Yates. Not until I say so. I’m captain of this ship. Do you understand?”

She nodded. Relieved.

“I need you to stay in your cabin.”

She shook her head vehemently.

He hadn’t expected her to obey.

“I won’t. I’m not your myrmidon.” She turned to Cook. “That’s a servant who will blindly follow his commands. He’s very arrogant you know.” To Samuel, “You can put me there now, but I’ll leave. I’m staying with Cook. Do your job and keep them from getting below deck, Captain.” She smiled bravely. “Besides, the cabins will be the first place they look for me.”

He didn’t have time to argue. He would have to do as she said. He hoped the corsairs would not have the opportunity to board. Cook gave him the nod.

Samuel shouted for two sailors. “Stick with the Professor. Don’t let anything happen to her, or I’ll kill you all myself.”

He spun and returned to the top deck, ignoring her shocked expression.

They were as prepared as possible. Now he could only wait until the enemy ships were in range. They would use the cannons first.

He tuned his ears to the sea. The sound of oars on water drifted closer. He could make out the distance now. It was very close.

Samuel looked about. The men were strung tight. He relaxed and smiled confidently to those who could see him. Then he held out his hand to wait.

Finally, he raised a hand in the darkness. The signal passed from him to the men below.

The silence of the night broke with loud explosions followed by the satisfying sound of cannon shot through wood. He gave the signal again for another round. Their aim was true. The Dutch ship pulled closer. It would wait to see if the corsairs tried to board, then do the same, should he need fighting men.

Samuel gave a third signal as the pirates pulled closer. His archers lit their fires, and burning arrows aimed at the approaching vessel. Simultaneously, he signaled to turn the ship. The pirates had the speed of at least a hundred rowers, their long galley targeting the Avenger. Their ship was larger than he’d expected. At least three hundred men might be aboard, and there was very little wind in the Avenger’s sails to enable an escape. He shouted again to come about.

“Pull the sails! Pull the sails!” The galley charged, threatening to ram their ship in half. A light at the front of the ship warned him of another danger. Damn. Cannon.

The back of the ship took the shot. The corsairs reloaded.

“Come on.” Samuel prayed, running to the helm and dragging the wheel further with his helmsman. Slowly his ship turned. “Just a little wind.”

The men watched with increasing tension as his ship changed direction and the enemy continued on course, unable to redirect as easily at their speed. In the starlight the ships looked destined to collide at his stern.

Samuel waited. It would be close. “Portside cannons! Fire!”

They hammered the other ship with cannon. The pirate ship was long, lean, and oar powered, with only one big gun at the front. Unfortunately, its mounted rail cannon pummeled them.

The Avenger caught just enough wind to turn, but the attacking ship showed no signs of slowing.

Moments later they hit. The oar-powered galley, aiming to slice them in the middle, missed the target, but still scraped long and hard against the Avenger. The collision of ship on ship cut loudly in the night. A cracking sound of something breaking off worried him. He hoped it was the other vessel, not his.

Samuel’s men went aft with guns and swords as the pirates threw lines to climb aboard. The first wave came over. Shots were fired. Swords came out. His second row of gunmen fired and reloaded.

“Stay the course!”

They were his last words to the helmsman as he pulled free his short sword, tossed it to the man for defense, and leapt into the fray, looking for the Dutchmen and his other ship for support. The Barbary ship was nearly past. His men cut lines, but couldn’t keep up with the sheer quantities of men as a second wave of pirates threw more lines, climbed, and swung onto the deck.

Samuel estimated fifty on board already. He continued to defend on the front line of their attack, unconscious of how long he battled, at one point finding himself back to back with Nathan in the center of what seemed to be a dozen men. That didn’t frighten him. The most frightening thing he would remember from that night was a voice shouting in Arabic. A husky, familiar voice coming from a slender, unarmed form that couldn’t be far away. When she had learned Arabic was beyond him.

Olivia shouted, “Behind,” and was terrified and relieved when it worked. The miserable bastard spun around at the Arabic command and she squirted his face. He screamed in shock before the sailor who was meant to guard her pierced him. She turned to another and shouted in Arabic again. “Right!”

The man turned on command and this time was blinded instantly before dying. The small group continued to work their way to the center of the fray, Cook and Olivia leading with her commands until others took notice. She finished with another pouch and pulled it off her head, leaping sideways, but not fast enough. A cutlass sliced at her side. She thought she heard Stafford shout her name, but didn’t have time to analyze as she frantically patted her body to assure that she was still in one piece. Her hands encountered wetness. Her heart pounded in her ears until she realized the pirate had succeeded in destroying one of her precious bags, not her. He raised his cutlass again with a wicked sneer. Then he froze. And fell before her. Cook stood behind him. They both looked down at Cook’s butcher knife in the pirate’s back.

Olivia swayed with nausea. Blood drained from her head and she nearly fell on her feet. Cook pulled her back.

“Breathe, Professor!” He shook her out of it. Olivia reached for her last pouch. That’s when a scream pierced her consciousness.

A female scream.

Horrified, she searched for Mrs. Tisdale and found her held by the edge of a rail, three other corsairs protecting the comrade who held her. Her friend struggled, and then there was a shout. Another man nearby, clearly the leader, raised a hand to tell them not to kill Elizabeth yet.

He cried in English, “Drop your arms, or I kill her.”

With remarkable speed, the fighting ceased. The men did not step back from each other, but they held their arms at the ready, waiting to see what would happen.

Olivia froze. Samuel shouted to the man.

“You’ll not injure her. You need her alive.”

The man responded in English. “She is not the one I want.” He motioned for the man to kill Mrs. Tisdale.

“No!” Olivia screamed as loud as she could over the confusion. “Wait! I’m here. I’m here!” She pulled off her bandana and wig. Fear and anger ripped through every nerve—anger that they were attacking and fear that they would kill everyone to get to her. “You could have just asked for my help instead of being complete malevolent, murdering morons. Have you no humanity? Is your life so pathetic and dull that you must resort to the devil’s work?”

It was silent. They all stared at her, obviously confused.

“Who’s translating? Someone translate that!” she demanded, furious.

Samuel didn’t know what the hell was happening. He was fairly certain Olivia was losing her mind. Rapidly. Hell, she was mad or truly was a genius. He shouted out her translation in Arabic. “She said …”

He thought the last line most useful for provoking guilt, should any have that ability left. He filled in what general slang he knew for idiots and bastards. In the meantime her diversion allowed Nathan to get a couple steps closer to Elizabeth, and the Dutch and Stafford ships floated into better position for defense and attack.

“I understand! Cease!” The leader did not want Samuel translating.

Olivia shouted, “Let her go and you can have me without all this mess!” Then, as if she couldn’t help it, she threw in a number of insulting adjectives that not even Samuel understood. She was nervous and mad. A dangerous combination.

Samuel saw Olivia step back from a threatening move by some pirates nearby.

“Well?” Olivia shouted to the leader. As if saying, What’s it to be, you cultureless heathen?

He responded with assurance and cried two terrifying words in Arabic. “Get her!”

Samuel swore with panic.

Olivia didn’t know more than a few words in the language, but she understood the swarm of pirates suddenly charging like madmen toward her. Terror as she’d never experienced nearly froze her. Until somewhere in the distance she heard Stafford shout, “Olivia! Run!”

Run? She turned. Run where? There was nowhere to run! She was on a damned ship! With limited options, she started to climb some rigging—tumbling and tangling in the ropes. It was dark, after all. Someone grabbed her coat, she twisted, swung into him, and squirted her sight-sucking solution with power. A long spray of the secret formula sent the man back, and Kelley was suddenly there killing him.

“Climb, Professor!” he bellowed.

She didn’t need further urging. She climbed. As she did, a third swarm of pirates invaded from the back of the ship. She couldn’t breathe. Her vision became spotty. Her brain started to get fuzzy. Vague thoughts registered.

Not possible to survive. Certain doom. Slavery. Death.

She took another step and slipped, causing her leg to slide through the footropes. Someone grabbed her ankle. She screeched. He released. She glanced down to see a man falling under the crowd of fighting men. Likely Kelley’s help again. She faced upward and with all her strength clambered to safety.

“Up here, Professor! You can do it!”

Olivia searched. A small sailor loaded a long rifle from a vantage point above. He fired. Then called to her again, standing to push some shot down the long musket barrel while giving her encouragement.

She could make it. He looked safe up there. She scrambled higher.

The sprite sailor reached and pulled her to temporary safety on a small, circular minideck. She breathed with relief.

Then she looked down at the chaos. And whimpered.

“No time for that, Olivia,” she encouraged herself. She had half a pouch of potion and dozens of men below. She couldn’t tell who was who. Then she spotted a corsair crawling along the main topsail yard. He had a knife in his mouth, a cutlass hanging from his side, and the look of evil in his eyes.

Olivia tapped her partner on the shoulder and pointed.

“Criminy!” he yelped with surprise—before aiming and blowing the man to kingdom come.

“Well done,” she breathed, her arms tightly encircling the tall mast between them.

“Out of shot, Professor,” he warned.

She nodded, understanding.

It was only matter of time before they got closer.

Chapter Nine

Samuel scanned the humanity of blood-covered fighting men to find a path to Olivia. He caught movement in the corner of his eye and swung his elbow sharply, ramming a pirate off his feet. One of his men finished the job. He looked again for Olivia, then cursed. She was climbing one of the fore shrouds … and not very competently. The length of his ship had never seemed so far.

Nathan had not wasted time saving Elizabeth, his sword slicing men fast and efficiently until she was safe.

Samuel kept his eyes on Olivia. Khalid’s cousin spotted her as well. They fought their way toward her. Samuel didn’t waste time with fancy moves. He killed and tossed bodies as quickly as possible, his size almost always an advantage.

His men also made progress. One thing about his crew—they defended what was theirs.

He checked on Olivia. The situation was not good. He had two loaded guns in his belt. Two shots, should he need them.

Olivia looked down from her perch. It was hopeless. There were just too many. As soon as she had that frantic thought, a wave of men seemed to move toward her.

A wave of toppling men. She stared in awe, discovering the source of it.

Samuel Stafford.

He seemed to be clearing ten men at time, with his crew gaining strength behind him, as if his own strength lent them more, making their combined spirit stronger. She couldn’t tear her eyes away. He was ruthless. And getting nearer. Until suddenly she could see his face. Someone dared swing at him and he roared, escaping the sword lithely and turning it on the man. He didn’t use weapons.

He used his hands.

She gasped. In horror.

He came closer. For her. She didn’t know if she was reassured or afraid.

Olivia scanned the scene below. Three corsairs fought together against two Stafford crewmen. Carefully she leaned over, opening her poison pouch. She warned the Americans to cover their eyes, then shouted in Arabic, “Above!” Several corsairs made the fatal mistake of obeying. She sprayed confusion upon them. Her men killed them, tossing their bodies over the side.

Below her, three more pirates climbed a shroud to where she and the wiry little sailor crouched waiting. Then her partner leapt. No, he dove headfirst, taking one of the men with him to the hard deck below. That left two for Olivia.

She hated their knowing grins and the way they relished her fear.

She grabbed the long-barreled gun with the foot-long knife on the end. She would defend as long as she could. One of them laughed at her pokes, his hand trying to reach under and grab the barrel. She moved quicker this time, and rammed it with fury, surprised as it went through the palm of his hand. She let out a cry of shock the same time he did, then pulled the gun back and shoved again, this time getting his ear.

Unfortunately, his partner had maneuvered closer and grabbed her arm from the other side. She dropped the gun, trying to hold her footing, certain she was about to fall to her death or be captured.

A second later there was a gunshot, and the man released her. She stared as they both realized he had been shot. Not wasting her advantage, she pushed him and he fell. Below, she saw Stafford, slamming his gun into someone’s skull before crushing another head against wood. He fought so valiantly—albeit ruthlessly—that she could not give in.

Olivia opened her pouch again and gave a quick squeeze as hard as she could. A little liquid came out. Enough to reach her other attacker’s bloody hand and make him wince with pain and fury. At her! She resented that. It wasn’t her fault he was attacking her.

Olivia spun, searching for options. No place to go. The man grabbed at her foot. She kicked free, panicking, and did the only thing she could do.

Jump.

“No!” Samuel cried in panic as he saw a figure fall.

Wait. She jumped. What the hell was she thinking?

He plowed his way forward. She landed on the main yard, the reefed sail cushioning her landing.

It was a less-than-safe place for a clumsy woman, prone to falling.

Samuel could see Kelley and the others defending Olivia. He made his way to them, grateful for a fresh swarm of companions, who swung onto the deck nearby from the Stafford sister ship. The Dutch ship continued to drill cannon holes through the corsairs’ floating fort.

That still left confusion forward. More and more pirates crawled up the shrouds after Olivia. Fortunately they made good targets for those with guns.

He looked around for a weapon. “Longstrom! Find me two muskets!”

The smaller sailor dove to the deck and found two not far away.

Samuel raised an arm and thundered, “To the forward shrouds men!”

He loaded one musket, while Longstrom loaded the other. He fired. Longstrom tossed the second musket and reloaded the first. Samuel fired both consecutively. Three shots. None wasted.

The others joined him. Kelley and his men guarded the musketeers as they picked off pirates climbing after Olivia.

The enemy loosened the rigging, and a fresh breeze snapped the foreyard around. The ship rolled, and Olivia’s body went flying off the yard, feet dangling over the water.

Samuel knew instantly she couldn’t swim. Hell, had she ever been out of London? What were the odds she could swim to another ship for safety?

She screamed and struggled to gain a better hold.

Right. Very long odds.

He plunged forward and picked two pirates by the back of the neck and tossed them overboard.

“Olivia! Hold on!”

She swung her legs up, and he was pleased when one caught. At least she wasn’t without some strength. She regained her leverage, then shouted, “Behind you!”

Samuel turned in time to see a cutlass on its diagonal swing. He lifted his musket for protection as the sword sliced partially through the gunstock before getting stuck in the wood. He pulled forward and kicked the pirate onto his back, yanking the sword free and tossing the musket to one of his men.

“Your right!” she shouted.

Halfway through his turn to the right, Samuel ran his sword into the man. Then he set his sights on the leader. If he could stop him, he had a chance of ending this. Except Khalid’s cousin was bigger than the others, had his own defenders, and was an excellent swordsman in his own right.

Samuel didn’t give a damn.

He heard Olivia’s shout again. This time in Arabic. “Above!”

He looked up.

She shouted back in terror. “No! Close your eyes!”

Too late. A splash of something hit his face and burned like fire in his left eye.

“Not you! Watch out! Behind you!”

Samuel was half blind. He was going to kill the woman himself if she lived.

“Sorry! In front of you!”

He faced the pirate captain and his men. One of the men had also been blinded, and Samuel ran his sword through him, pulling it out in time to block a strike from Khalid’s cousin. With blind brute force he stepped inward and surprised the man with a left uppercut that stunned. Keeping his advantage, he struck his most powerful left hook, and the man fell sideways to one knee. Samuel’s knee met the leader’s chin and the man fell backward.

He stomped his opponent’s sword arm, then ground his foot on the man’s wrist as he spun to defend against two more men.

“At your feet!”

Samuel heard Olivia’s scream again and hoped it was meant for him this time. Sure enough, his captive had pulled a smaller knife. Samuel kicked the man’s hand and the knife flew loose. Kelley came from behind and finished the other two irritants.

Pulling the corsair leader to his feet, Samuel loosened one of the stays and made a noose around his neck.

“Call off your men, or they will see you hang like a common thief.”

His mouth clamped.

“Have it your way.” Samuel pulled the rope.

Feet dangled. He rasped something.

“What’s that?” Samuel released, just enough for him to speak with his toes touching the deck.

The man shouted in Arabic. “Cease. Surrender.”

“Louder!”

“Surrender!”

Samuel waited as the corsairs froze. “Tell them to put down their weapons.”

He did. Then he added furiously, “I’m Nuh al-Jamil bin Muhammad bin Yahyu al-Nasir!” He threw his left hand out, palm up in the air to emphasize. “Kill me, and you will have a war on your hands.”

“Have a war? What do you call this?” Samuel shoved the man’s face toward the pile of bodies. “I may not kill you, but don’t tempt me to cut off your tongue and your fighting arm to go with it.”

Samuel thought the younger man actually paled. Good. Fear was good.

“Kelley, have the men collect the weapons. Get the prisoners on their knees facing the rail. Hands on their heads. If anyone speaks or tries to struggle—kill them.”

“Aye, Captain.”

“Nathan!”

“Behind you, Cap,” Samuel heard the weary reply.

“Keep your knife at Mr. Nuh’s throat. I’m taking a party overboard to free the slaves.”

A voice came from above. “What slaves?”

He looked up at Olivia. She was inching her way back to the mast, her balance wobbly.

“Don’t move!” Samuel looked to see who was available to go help her.

“I’m all right,” she called.

“No. You’re not! You’re about to—”

She slipped. Flailed for something to hold, and missed. An instant later she was falling twenty feet toward the deck.

Samuel did the only thing he could. He opened his arms to catch her. Then he too fell to the deck from the force of her weight.

He couldn’t move for a full minute, the blow stunning him temporarily. He tried to breathe, then grunted when she started to move. A knee came too close between his legs and he winced as she scrambled to her feet, completely unaware of his discomfort, and herself surprisingly undamaged.

Kelley cleared his throat and Samuel looked up at the suppressed grin on his boatswain’s face. “You ’right, Cap’n?”

Samuel squinted out of one eye, his tailbone stinging, his arms aching. “Yeah.” It was a gasped response. He reached out a hand and the other man pulled him to his feet. He exhaled carefully, then breathed and exhaled again.

Kelley gave him a pat on the back. “Good catch, Cap.”

“Yeah,” he said again, still recovering. Then sought out Olivia. She’d disappeared.

“Behind you,” the boatswain informed.

He turned and bumped into her. Her hair was disheveled, her eyes silvery bright, and her body trembled despite her obvious efforts to appear calm. But she seemed unharmed.

“You’re all right,” he told her.

She opened her mouth to deny it.

“You’re all right,” he insisted.

Samuel watched as she looked around at the swarm of men, corsairs on their knees, their leader captured, smoke still wafting around them, dead bodies being piled, and wounded men bleeding on the decks.

“How,” she asked him, shaking, “could I possibly be all right?”

He grabbed her by the back of her hair, pulled her against him, and crushed his lips to hers, battle hunger raging through him mixed with relief, desire, and demand that she submit. When he released her, she had some color back and strength in her arms as she pushed him away.

“You’re all right,” he reminded her. He turned to Nathan and his prisoner. “If I don’t come back, kill him.”

“Gladly, Captain.”

Samuel smiled a bit as he caught Olivia’s huff. She wasn’t done.

“I’m not all right! If you think one kiss from you makes everything all right, Stafford, then you’ve clearly no awareness of the benefits of modern medicine.”

He ignored her, and she shouted at him. “You don’t have magic lips, you know!”

Samuel grabbed one of the stays and pulled himself to the rail. He searched out her eyes and responded with assurance guaranteed to irritate her. “Yes, I do.”

Her hands went to her hips as she marched forward. “No, you don’t. And—” Olivia looked at the rope, then at him. “What are you doing?” Then understanding, she warned, “I don’t think you should do that, Stafford.”

“I know what I’m doing, Ollie. I’ve done this before.”

“Yes, but the trajectory of your landing—”

Samuel wasn’t in the mood. She should trust him by now. Had he not just defended her against more than a hundred pirates? He pulled the rope, jumped, and swung off the Avenger.

Too late, Samuel realized the rope had been caught, and once freed was notably longer. He flew, the line jerked, and he slammed to a dead stop into the side of the enemy ship. His body hit the rail below his ribs, earning an extremely uncomfortable thump in his gut, which caused his upper body to fall over the side until he somersaulted onto the deck and somehow managed to land on his feet. It was a miracle, considering his entire body ached from the beating he’d taken catching Olivia only minutes earlier.

“I’m all right!” He saluted his laughing crew and accepted their ribbing.

Olivia shouted, “Indeed, Stafford, I’m sorry if you’ve done that before.”

Samuel’s men followed. The remaining corsairs were not happy, but threw down their swords. Samuel had the highest-ranking pirate take him to the oarsmen. They used slaves to power their oars, capturing other vessels for the actual slaves. He had never been down on an oar deck. What he found was more heartbreaking than anything he’d ever imagined.

Over a hundred men, most shirtless, with signs of beating and whip marks, sat hunched over the oars, their feet chained to the ship. Faces, young and old, had the same expression. Hopelessness. Samuel swallowed the emotion in his throat, along with the anger that threatened his control.

“Get me the keys,” he said in Arabic.

The man scowled at him. Samuel shouted in his face, impatient.

“Get me the keys!”

This time the man understood what he meant. Some of the men looked up. He walked down to the front of the torture chamber, stopping suddenly at the sight of a back covered in blood. He bent on a knee in front of the man. Oh, God. Not a man. A boy. Twelve, at most. Samuel lifted the lad’s face carefully. Their eyes met.

“What’s your name?”

“Noah.”

“American.” He noted the accent.

The young man nodded. “Baltimore.”

“Nice town. Hold on.” He looked up and one of his men tossed the keys. “Noah, I’m getting you out of here. Do you understand?”

Noah stared at him in disbelief.

Samuel unlocked the chains on each side. “Pull the chains! Carefully.”

His men pulled the chains, the clanging of metal through shackles signaling hope in dozens of eyes. He’d have to deal with the individual shackles later. Samuel motioned for help, and one of his men ran over. “His name is Noah. Help him first. He’s in bad shape.” Samuel added, “But he’ll be in top shape before he gets home.”

Noah looked up at him, his freedom finally registering.

Someone else shouted that they were American.

“We’re going to get you out of here,” he promised.

A man cried out he was English.

Samuel found the desperate face and joked, “I won’t hold that against you, sir.”

There were pained laughs. “I’m Samuel Stafford, of the American ship Avenger. I have another ship with me and a Dutch companion. Any Dutch here?”

There were shouts.

“In case I didn’t make it clear, everyone is getting out.”

Heads lifted. A rumble of chatter started from end to end as one by one the heavy chains fell away from their bodies.

When done, his crew pillaged every inch of the ship and brought everything on board the Avenger to be sorted later. Samuel found a substantial amount of gold in the hold, which went a long way to cheering the men. But he knew the night wasn’t over, and it would be a long one, with injuries to attend and damage to the ship to assess. He would need to get ashore soon to purchase provisions for this many men.

Samuel wasn’t sure how many of his own he had lost, but he knew it numbered in the double digits. He wasn’t used to losing men. He returned to the oar deck before he left. For a long moment he simply stood, looked around, and took stock. He wanted to make sure he never forgot this.

He had been lucky today.

Chapter Ten

Olivia and Elizabeth immediately set to work sorting through the injuries. There were too many to know where to begin, and not enough supplies to go around.

The hours stretched into the most interminably long night of their lives. Cook made food, but he also kept hot water on hand for cleansing needles, knives, and instruments. The second mate, Andersen, was the closest thing to a surgeon, but the other ships sent help, and the newly freed slaves did their best to assist where they were able. Olivia thought most of the men just needed food and sleep. Mrs. Tisdale told her they had lost twelve of their own. Considering the terrifying odds, it was surprisingly low. Considering the lost men, it was awful. Two of the men died late in the night, each in their captain’s arms as he comforted them.

Olivia could not bear it. When the sewing was finally done, she went to Stafford’s chart room, hoping to find any kind of written advice on pain relief. Finding none, she peeked into his cabin. The furnishings were large and comfortable. The bed, lush and inviting. She was tempted to linger. If only she could lie down and sleep … She shook off the weakness and went to a small stack of books instead.

Quickly she ran a finger over the titles. Not just navigation and maritime books. Classics. Literature. Popular novels. Many in their original language. Hebrew? That was one of his languages? Interesting. She went to his desk, tempted to look through it. Just a quick look. She opened a drawer. Simple instruments. Paper, ink, quills. Nothing interesting. She tried to open the two side drawers. Locked. Hmm. Where would a man like Stafford keep a key?

Forgetting her original purpose, she did a quick search, feeling underneath the desk, in the drawer. Surely it would be somewhere close. He was tall. Maybe a high ledge. That would make sense. She moved aside a model of a small sailboat to feel the ledge above. The little boat made a funny sound. She shook it. Gads. A trick box. She shouldn’t do it, but the challenge was too tempting. She figured it out in no time. And found the key. Before she could stop herself, she opened the desk, intending only to satisfy her curiosity. The first drawer had guns and a Bible. The second had a logbook. Not the official ship’s log, but a personal one. Underneath was a box.

She looked at the door, debating. “I am horrible. Oh, gads.” She pulled the log out, then the box. She opened it, disappointed. It was filled with correspondence. Of course. He carried messages for people. She flipped through the names, thinking it was harmless. They all seemed to be merchant-type people. No one she knew. Until—

Olivia froze. Her father. He was carrying a message to her father. And he hadn’t told her? She turned the envelope over and recognized Lord Grayson’s seal. The late Lord Grayson! What message was Grayson sending her father?

She stared a very long moment. Had Samuel been at the museum to meet with Grayson? He might have been one of the last to see Grayson? Could he have …? An image of Samuel’s face, ruthless as he crushed men left and right, flashed before her eyes. He was capable of killing without thought, but—No. That was different. And he had done everything possible to protect her.

Still. Why had he not said anything all this time?

Olivia pulled out the letter. She would confront him. Yes, that was easy enough. She read all her father’s correspondence. And since he was never home, she frequently had to answer his letters and deal with other issues. There was no reason she should not read this letter. Especially if her father was already in trouble. This might be an important clue.

The sound of someone coming alerted her. Alarmed at being caught in questionable circumstances, she put everything away, hurriedly but in order, and locked the drawer. She was holding the model of the sailboat when Samuel walked in. One eye was still reddened from her potion, but it was at least fully open again … at least as much as it could be, with the slight swelling.

“Olivia? What are you doing?” Samuel paused. “Are you well?”

Ugh. He was concerned about her. She felt instantly guilty. About the key and the eye. “Did you flush the eye with some water? That will help. I was looking for a medical book. I thought I could make a potion with which to clean the wounds.”

“Use rum.”

“Surely you don’t have that much—”

“I do. Use it.” He worried about something else. “There may not be enough thread.”

“Mrs. Tisdale and I have enough.”

He nodded, relieved.

It warmed her that she had been able to help him with something, simple though it was.

“And we can certainly take our dresses apart if needed,” she said. “To make bandages.”

He smiled softly. “Hopefully it won’t come to that.”

Olivia saw her opportunity to explain herself. She lifted the small boat. “I saw this when I was searching for medical books. It was so innocent looking after the chaos of tonight, it distracted me for a moment. But I think there might be a piece inside broken.” She gave it a little jiggle so he could hear the object inside, before she handed it to him.

He shook his head, surprising her. “It’s not broken.” He maneuvered the pieces expertly, revealing the key much more elegantly than she had. “It’s a puzzle box.”

“Oooh.” She smiled dutifully. “What’s the key to?”

He gazed down at her, face serious, and whispered, “My secret whiskey stash.”

Olivia gave him a mock-prim look. “You’re very bad, Mr. Stafford.” She expected him to agree. To tease back. To tease her. But he didn’t. He nodded and put the small boat back in its place.

She looked at him again, this time closer. Something wasn’t right. “What is it?”

He shook his head, raking his hair methodically, as if calming himself. “Nothing. Just needed a break.”

She waited. Staring. It was something. She forgot the letter. Her stomach clenched. “Have you been injured?” She suddenly worried, and inspected him. Some injuries didn’t show.

“No, I’m fine. Don’t fuss.”

“I will if you don’t tell what it is. I can see that it’s something—”

“Olivia, stop! It’s nothing. Just … some of the men. The slaves that Nuh had. They’ve been there years. It’s …” He shrugged, but Olivia realized it was because he couldn’t speak. Emotion burned in his eyes, and it wasn’t just because of her concoction. He raked his hair again and turned away, and she realized he had come to his room to breathe. To gather himself. Only she’d been there. She didn’t know what to do. She wasn’t accustomed to this type of situation. Compassion and emotion were … messy.

“You freed them,” she offered. He didn’t move, so she got closer and put a hand on his arm. “And you saved me, Samuel. Against insurmountable odds. You saved me.” She squeezed his arm. “And the men you freed? They will have their lives back. That’s something.”

She wanted to put her arms around him and hold him. A strange desire. Especially since he was too big to hold. But her upbringing made it difficult to take that liberty, even in these strange circumstances. So she waited quietly, hoping her words would make a difference.

Finally, he nodded. “You’re no worse?” He turned, examining her.

Olivia tilted her head and gave him the most pompous, arrogant expression she could muster. “No worse! Surely you jest. You did see me hanging from the—the what-do-you-call-it that—”

“The main yard.”

“Exactly, hanging for dear life, from those miserable, marauding, murderous pirates, whose manners are less than those of the most primitive life forms. My disappointment in the intellect of humanity knows no bounds! And that is something I can never recover from!” She sputtered in disgust. “No worse, you ask?”

He’d stared for a moment, but she had him halfway through. A smile started, then widened as he shook his head with humor.

His courage astounded her, and his compassion for her and the others tonight humbled her. To give a man like him a moment of respite in such trying times was an honor, and Olivia thought it might well be one of her best moments.

She smiled back and added, “Every muscle in my body aches. I think I could sleep for a year. A few scrapes. But yes, no worse. And you, Stafford?”

“I’m invincible.” He imitated the pirate Nuh, lifting his hand, palm up, in the air. Then he winced. “Except for the damage you continually inflict on me.”

“I spoke in Arabic,” she defended. “You weren’t supposed to look up.”

“You know I speak Arabic.”

“Well … well … Well, that’s not very invincible, if a mere woman can take you down,” she said before redirecting. “Let’s go. My perfect stitching skills are needed.”

He agreed, made a half turn to leave, then turned back abruptly, causing her to bump her nose into his chest.

“Olivia.”

She stepped back dazedly, rubbing her nose, wondering what the problem was now.

“Thank you for that.”

He seemed to want to say more but didn’t. He did look into her eyes and nod to himself before saying thank you one last time, his large, battle-scarred hand reaching out to touch her cheek. Then he stopped, seeing his own hand, and pulled away. She realized he did not want to touch her, covered as he was in the remains of combat. Something in her tore apart at the aching expression in his eyes, and she grasped his hand in hers before he could remove it, holding it against her cheek for a long moment.

His beautiful lips curved tenderly, and he leaned down to press them lightly, very lightly, on her forehead, before brushing them across the skin of her nose.

The gentle sensation was entirely at odds with what she knew of him—with what she had witnessed earlier in battle. Her eyes fluttered shut. She was momentarily stunned.

“And you are no ‘mere woman.’ ”

She followed him out, the warmth of his words washing through her, igniting something hopeful inside. She touched her heart, confused by the rapid beat. Her hand slid down and froze when it came into contact with something else. She stopped suddenly, watching his retreating form.

Secreted in the breast pocket of her gentleman’s jacket was the letter that he had not told her about. Her hopefulness disappeared.

She was not at all the woman he thought.

Light peeked over the horizon when Olivia and Cook, finished with patients, began to scrub clean the sewing station in the mess area. Then Mr. Riedell showed up. Andersen was with him. Both were swearing.

“He didn’t say a word, and now look.” Andersen tried to pull the ripped shirt open to show her, but it stuck to Mr. Riedell’s skin with sweat and grime. A sharp blade had sliced across his collar and the front of his shoulder. He winced at Andersen’s demonstration.

“Stupid boy.” Andersen shook his head. “I need to cut it open and clean it. Then you’ll sew it, won’t you, Professor? You’ve the steadiest hands I’ve seen, and the nicest little stitches.” He nodded to Mrs. Tisdale, standing dazedly behind. “She’s too upset to manage it.”

Olivia didn’t think her fingers could bend, pull, or dig through another piece of flesh. Then she saw Mrs. Tisdale, white with tears. To be fair, Mr. Riedell looked a bit pale as well. They carefully took off his shirt, using water to help clear it from the wounded area.

Mrs. Tisdale stared. “You’ve many scars, Nathan.”

“Sorry, Elizabeth,” he gasped. “Look away. I’m unsightly.”

“You fool.” Another wave of tears spilled from Mrs. Tisdale’s eyes. “It’s not that.”

Olivia sighed and waited for Andersen to do his part. It was brutal. The cutting and the cleaning seemed endless. All the while, Mrs. Tisdale held Mr. Riedell’s hand in silent misery. Olivia finally realized he was doing the comforting.

The captain joined them, having heard the news.

“Dammit, Nathan. You should have been first. Why the hell didn’t you say something?”

“Didn’t think it was that bad, Captain.”

“Well, if I have to cut off that arm I’m going to be very angry.”

Mrs. Tisdale swooned. Olivia caught her and scowled at Stafford.

“I jest, Elizabeth. This man has survived worse wounds than this when he was half the size. There’s no danger we’re going to lose him yet.”

She wiped her eyes and nodded, not taking her gaze from Nathan.

Mr. Riedell smiled until Andersen poked him again. Stafford handed him a bottle of rum. “Drink.”

Andersen finished with the cleaning. “There you go, Professor. Your turn.” To Riedell, “We got some nice bright blood, Nate. It looks good.” He took his supplies. “Captain, I’m going to keep watch over some of the bad ones. You all right? Nothing else needs cleanin’ or stitchin’ that you’re hidin’ from us?”

“I’m good. Try to get some sleep. The day’s not over.”

“Aye, we’re only halfway through this one, is my guess.”

Olivia threaded her needle with purpose. Her fingers were cramped, her back ached, and her eyes were so dry when she blinked she could feel the grit. But she would do this as well as she did the first man.

“Drink this,” Samuel handed her something. “Coffee.”

She sniffed it and wrinkled her nose. Still, anything might help. She took a long drink, the bitter sludge making her tongue curl. “Disgusting. Thank you.” She handed it back.

Her needle had just been cleaned and was still hot. She blew on it, careful not to burn fragile skin. Finally, she made the first draw through healthy flesh.

Mrs. Tisdale gasped.

Olivia did not look up. Her companion had sewed half the men herself that night, but it was as if Olivia had stabbed at her, not at Mr. Riedell.

Olivia didn’t stop her work, but gave her friend the briefest glance before pressing and pulling the needle through again. “Mrs. Tisdale. I need you to leave.” She made another stitch, and Mrs. Tisdale’s sniffle was like a gunshot in her ears. Olivia stiffened and looked to the captain for help.

“You’re exhausted, Elizabeth. Let me escort you,” the captain said.

“No. I’ll wait,” Elizabeth said.

Mr. Riedell succeeded where they didn’t. “She’s right, my love. Get some sleep. I promise I’ll still be here when you awake. You’re overtired. We all are. I need you to be strong for me later.”

The words were said gently. Lovingly. Olivia stabbed her needle again, ignoring his intake of breath.

Mrs. Tisdale agreed. “Come see me when you are done?”

“Of course,” he promised.

Cook guided her out with encouraging words and escorted her to their cabin. Olivia exhaled a breath of relief. A second later it was ruined.

“I love her.”

Olivia froze. She looked at Mr. Riedell in shock.

He repeated the words. “I love her.” He had a stupid grin, and gazed at the captain in amazement. “I love her, Sam. It’s like a miracle. I love her.”

“You’ve been drinking,” Olivia pointed out.

“One sip.”

“Stop giving him rum, Stafford. It’s affecting his brain.” To Mr. Riedell, “You’re exhausted. You’re bound to say things you wouldn’t normally.” Olivia pulled the thread through skin, careful not to stretch it.

“When I thought she might die, it was as if my entire life meant nothing without her. I love her.”

“Stop saying that!” Olivia’s shoulders tightened, cramping her neck muscles unbearably.

“Elizabeth Riedell,” Nathan uttered the words softly on his lips, cherishing the thought.

Her body froze, rigid and angry. “You can’t have her! Do you hear me? You are demented from your injury. You must control yourself before you say something that will only injure her feelings.” Olivia held the thread, her voice sharp. “Make him stop, Stafford, or so help me, I’ll kill him myself.”

Samuel intervened. Exhaustion hardened the angles of Olivia’s face. This last week she’d lost any remnant of safety and peace in her life. The thought of losing the one person she depended on was more than she could bear at this moment.

Samuel held a finger over his mouth to shush his deliriously happy friend. Nathan mouthed back, “But I love her.”

Samuel nodded and mouthed a silent, “I know.”

Olivia fumed, easily comprehending their conversation. “I still understand.” Her voice was tight, but she continued her task.

With each stitch Nathan smiled more, but remained silent until she was nearly finished.

“How many left, Professor?”

“Maybe five.”

“Five.” Nathan grinned broadly.

Samuel found himself smiling with his friend as the man counted down the stitches. He was counting down to the moment when he could go find Elizabeth. Samuel couldn’t begrudge him that. She was a fine woman, and Nathan deserved happiness. It was a good match. Maybe they’d ask him to perform the ceremony.

“There.” Olivia slowly unbent herself. “Don’t get them wet until Andersen says.”

It was silent. Nathan stared at Olivia.

She looked up and shook her head. “Don’t say it.”

Nathan’s expression openly begged for her blessing. “I love her.”

Unreserved bleakness wiped the light from her eyes, and Samuel’s heart sank at her reaction. She turned away from them and began to clean up the mess.

Finally, Nathan thanked her softly and left. To go to Elizabeth.

Samuel waited for her to recover.

“This is your fault. I told you they were not right for each other,” she said.

“Olivia.” He touched her shoulder gently. “Honey, those two were right for each other the moment their eyes first met.”

She frowned. “How can that be?”

“It just is.”

“No.” She tried to work out the puzzle. “It is false emotion. Mrs. Tisdale has been under extreme stress from the moment they met. Perhaps it hinders brain functionality. I must check Andersen’s books. Figure out the problem before they do something terrible.” She cleaned quickly, filled with renewed urgency.

“Olivia—”

“No. That’s it. Don’t you see? Why, it’s only been a week. Eight days since they met. They shouldn’t be talking this rubbish. It’s not logical.”

“Sometimes, stress has a way of making what’s most important very clear.”

“But then what?” Olivia ranted. “You can’t make real decisions like that.” She shoved the supplies at him. “Give these to Cook. I must save them before they do something extraordinarily foolish.”

She rushed off, leaving Samuel to stare after her.

Samuel spoke, but it was only to himself. “What happened, Olivia, to leave you so wanting of love?”

He agreed with one thing. Falling in love within a week was extraordinarily foolish.

And there was no bigger fool than he.

Olivia rushed to warn Elizabeth that she was not in possession of her right mental capacities. She knew Elizabeth would want to know right away.

At the sound of hushed whispers inside the cabin they shared, Olivia stopped dead, ice clutching her heart.

She was too late.

Elizabeth professed her love.

Olivia stepped from the cabin door and leaned on the wall. She listened to the calamitous conversation as they repeated their love like a litany, in between what she could only guess were ardent, stress-induced embraces.

“My darling, I must marry you with all possible speed. Please say yes. I have waited a lifetime for you. Another day is torture.”

“Oh, yes, Nathan. Yes! I love you so much. I cannot believe you love me too. It seems impossible after so many years to finally find happiness. I only want to be with you, any way you will have me.”

Olivia stepped back and tried to swallow. She tilted her head up as she tried not to let the hot tears escape. She was happy for Mrs. Tisdale. Indeed, she was. She inhaled a quiet, shallow breath of air. She had not realized Mrs. Tisdale’s happiness was so incomplete. It hurt that she had never said a thing to Olivia about it. Though Olivia knew firsthand it was not a thing one wished to admit.

Alone again.

A familiar pang of emptiness struck her in the stomach. She forced away memories of losing her mother. The hundred good-byes she’d bidden her father.

Alone again.

Alone did not mean she would be lonely or bored or bereft.

Alone again … on an ocean.

Well, technically, a sea. But what did that matter? She had her books. And her father. She would find him. She could read the hieroglyphics with near fluency now. That made her valuable to someone. She could still explore the tombs and even publish her findings. This time she would join her father, and they would make many discoveries together. She wiped her eyes roughly. That was still her plan. It was what she wanted. What she had always dreamed.

Dreams came with sacrifices. Losing friends along the way was one of them.

Moreau unfolded his spyglass. Since they’d learned of the sign of Lilith showing up in Egypt, it had been a race to gather information.

Across the sea, light from the rising sun illuminated four ships in the distance. Smoke drifted from the long, lean galley. Not the image he’d hoped for. Nuh, his confident, bloodthirsty corsair had failed.

Which meant that he would not be able to play the hero and save Lady Olivia. A shame. She would have been much more accommodating with him as her friend and savior. Now he would have to resort to trickery of an entirely different kind. The kind that became messy rather quickly.

He tapped his fingers on the rail, impatient. If Merryvale’s daughter was headed to Alexandria, then he would get there first and prepare for her. Merryvale and Lampley were his only obstacles—no, he corrected himself, assets.

Both needed money. Lampley had the benefit of being the military power in the operation. In the end that was most useful. He wouldn’t need Merryvale, once he had the man’s daughter.

Moreau studied the scene a moment longer. Stafford had proven resourceful. How disappointing. And distressful. Moreau was due to send the first report to his mistress. He’d prefer it recount his successes. He had a lead on the artifact that he was following to Algiers. Lampley’s men were easily bought, and without doubt he could collect the funerary cone and gain the leverage needed at the tomb site. Yes, with any luck that would all work out and then he could send an update with positive results. He would send a report after Algiers.

Satisfied with the plan, he collapsed his scope and turned away. He intended to get control of the situation, get the key to the tomb, find what his mistress wanted, and make sure there was no evidence or witnesses when he left.

If he failed, certain death awaited him in London.

He would not fail.

Chapter Eleven

They burned the dead on Nuh’s ship the next day. There were cheers from the slaves and tears from the crew. No one liked saying good-bye. Especially not Nuh, as he watched from his noosed position, still on his toes.

Khalid’s ship showed up not long after.

“Look alive, men. Let’s not let them think we are not ready to finish them off as well.”

The crew rallied, and Khalid kept a safe distance. One meant for communication. They agreed to meet in the middle, and two boats were lowered to bring the captains to discuss terms. Samuel took Kelley with him to row.

“You look in good health, Captain,” Khalid said. “You seem to have eluded my cousin after all.”

“No, actually.”

Khalid’s attention turned sharp. “What happened?”

“He attacked,” Samuel said. “And failed.”

Surprise, but not disappointment, showed at the outcome of Nuh’s attack.

“Their ship?”

“Burned it with the dead.”

“Prisoners?”

“Kelley.” Samuel said the man’s name, and the boatswain signaled the ship. His crew lifted the prisoners by their hair up to the rail of the ship. He didn’t need to turn to know it.

Khalid nodded, solemnly. “Any chance my fool of a cousin lives?”

Khalid had taken his time in asking, but Samuel knew he was concerned about this one point of negotiation.

Samuel lifted a hand, and his men moved aside so Khalid could see his cousin hanging. “He’s in good health,” Samuel said.

Khalid nodded again and folded his hands in front of him. “So. What terms, my friend?”

“Out of respect for our friendship and the honor you showed me when we last met, I ask not for gold, though I know Nuh’s father would pay a fortune in ransom for him.”

Khalid nodded.

“Two things. One: I want every slave on your ship—American, African, or otherwise.”

Khalid balked. “You know I treat them well—” He stopped, a steady, knowing gaze in his coal black eyes. “I see. Don’t let emotion rule your negotiation, my friend.”

“This is not emotion, my friend. It’s rage. You can use Nuh and his crew as your new oarsmen. Whip them bloody and let them feel what it’s like for a couple years. Then talk to me.”

Khalid pulled his body up straight, his expression unreadable. “And the second of your terms?”

“If you find Moreau before me, find out who he works for before you kill him. Then we’ll be square.”

Khalid nodded. The two men shook on the agreement.

The trade was made with little difficulty—until Nuh made the mistake of insulting Samuel’s taste in companions. Samuel drilled his fist through the bastard’s nose.

“I judge a man by who he is, not who his parents are, Nuh. And I judge you unworthy.” Then Samuel tossed him overboard for the corsairs to fish out.

The crews cheered their approval.

After dividing the freed men from Khalid’s ship among them, Samuel gave a signal, and the three vessels opened their sails once again for a course to Algiers. He would leave some of the men there, make repairs, and take care of some personal business. There was also the issue of a wedding to plan. He wondered how Olivia was going to handle that.

Elizabeth hesitated before entering the chart room. For the last three days Olivia had taken up residence at a small desk there, where she spent every free hour going through her books on ancient Egypt. Her other time she spent with Andersen tending the wounded, or with Cook preparing meals. In short, Olivia did everything possible to avoid her. Only now they had to have this conversation. There was no time left to avoid it. Elizabeth hoped that in the end Olivia would see how happy she was and stand with her that afternoon when she said vows with Nathan.

She closed the door behind her. Olivia continued to work. Normally that wouldn’t have surprised her. Olivia often got completely caught up in theories and ideas to the point where she could forget where she was. But today, Olivia was alert. Her body stiffened, and her head turned slightly away. Elizabeth swallowed, pained by the rejection.

“Olivia?”

Silence.

“Could we take a moment and talk? We’ve barely spoken since the attack. Are you recovered?”

“Quite.”

Elizabeth sat in the chair nearest Olivia. “You’ve been awfully withdrawn since.”

“I’m trying to figure out what is so important that would make people kidnap me, possibly ransom my father, and kill others.” She waved a hand to a stack of books with precisely cut paper bookmarks in them. “And this stack is on stress-induced symptoms and behaviors. I think it will be of value to you.”

Elizabeth squared her shoulders and tried a different tack. This was not going to be the warm, womanly, sharing moment that she prayed for. “You do not approve?”

“I don’t know what you mean … unless you are referring to your disproportionate attention toward Mr. Riedell.”

“I see.”

“I doubt it very much, but I think the books will make it clear,” Olivia said.

Elizabeth put her hand on the offensive stack of books. “Don’t take that insolent, superior tone with me, Olivia Yates. You have no cause to insult me, nor will I allow you to impugn Nathan in any manner. He does not deserve it and neither do I.”

Olivia gasped and turned. “I did not mean—”

Elizabeth had her attention now. “We both know exactly what you meant.”

“I’m sorry.”

Olivia did indeed look sorry. And as near to tears as Elizabeth had ever seen her. She gentled her attack. Olivia would be left alone and Elizabeth would have so much. She could not be unkind.

“What is it you find objectionable about Nathan?”

“He’s American.”

“If that is all, then your reaction seems unnatural.”

“He lives in America. Is he prepared to move to be near you?” Olivia demanded.

“That is not necessary, as I’m prepared to go to the ends of the earth to be near him. But, as a matter of fact, he would do the same.”

“That sounds like a foolish fairy tale.”

“It is called love. Is that so horrible?” Elizabeth asked.

Olivia slammed her book shut. “No. It’s not horrible. If it were really genuine. If love even exists, which I’m not so sure it does. And the more I read, the more I’m convinced it’s a false emotion created to make women willing to marry men who are entirely unworthy of them.”

“Dearest …” Elizabeth humored her. “All men are unworthy of women. However, for the race to survive, we must procreate.”

Olivia did not smile. “You have seen firsthand the horrors of humanity this week? I’m not so sure we deserve to survive. And you know nothing of this man. You have been under stress. And perhaps his saving you has made you feel false romantic feelings that in everyday circumstances would make him much less appealing.”

“I would welcome dull after this week. Though nothing could be dull if I am with Nathan. I love him.”

“You don’t love him!” Olivia shouted, frustrated. She hurriedly searched for the right book in the stack and pulled it out for proof. “You are merely suffering from a form of battle stress. Andersen showed me the studies. It is right here. And it says you should not make any important or life-changing decisions while suffering from recent trauma.”

Elizabeth smiled. “I’m going to marry him.”

“That’s exactly what I’m talking about!”

“This afternoon. Captain Stafford agreed to perform the ceremony, and then we are going ashore for the night. Nathan has arranged a hotel for us while repairs are made on the ship.”

Olivia sank back in her chair. Mouth open. “You cannot.”

“I had hoped you’d stand with me as my witness.” Elizabeth felt her throat tighten. “And as my friend.”

Olivia shook her head, appearing stupefied. “My conscience will allow me to do neither. And I’m afraid I must dismiss you from my employ. Of course, you will be compensated for your years of service. I see now”—Olivia swallowed before adding bitterly—“they have been a trial for you.”

Elizabeth could not speak for a long moment. Her chest constricted and her heart filled with anger, hurt, and sadness. “I never thought I would say this …” Elizabeth struggled for control. “Olivia, you have disappointed me. Most seriously.” Unable to speak further, she got up and left.

“The feeling is mutual,” Olivia shouted after her.

Elizabeth hurried to her cabin, knowing she had to get there before she burst into tears. Angry tears, hurt tears, frustrated tears. They were all there waiting to spill forth. To her vast annoyance, two men stood in her way.

“Elizabeth?” Nathan worried. “What happened? She did not refuse?”

Elizabeth nodded briefly, and simply repeated, “Her conscience won’t allow it.” She pushed his hands away, not wanting comfort, only to be alone, and hurried into her cabin, slamming the door shut.

Samuel swore. Damn Olivia. What was wrong with her?

Nathan looked up from Elizabeth’s door. “I could kill her for this.”

“I’ll do it for you,” Samuel promised. His friend nodded, and Samuel turned to enter the chart room and confront Olivia. Her head was in both her hands bent over a book. He closed the door behind him.

“Do you have a minute, Lady Olivia?” There was no hiding the irritation in his voice. What kind of woman injured her friends in such a way?

She spun, on him, taking him aback, eyes red with unshed tears. “Are you going to yell at me too?”

A tear spilled over. Then another. Oh, hell.

“Well, not now.” He shook his head over her weeping figure. He’d be a monster to yell at someone so pathetic.

“She wants to marry him!” she explained.

“Yes.” Samuel struggled for something else to say. “That generally is what men and women do when they love each other. At least if it’s at all possible.”

Her body sunk, hunched over in the chair, her face in her hands. Then the convulsive hiccups began. “But we were”—hiccup—“supposed to be spinsters to-ge-ther!” Hiccup. “Now I won’t have any-body.”

“You have your father.”

“But he’s old. And what if he dies? I’ll be alone again. And I’m not good around people.” She started crying in earnest again, her body heaving up and down on her chair, as upset by her failings, it seemed, as the actual impending marriage.

“Nonsense,” he said. “You’ve improved tremendously in just the time I’ve known you.”

“Not everybody likes me at first,” she explained. “And Mrs. Tisdale knows me already.”

“Granted those are both issues,” he agreed. Agreeing was generally a good tactic with women. Especially sharp-witted, weeping ones. He waited while she took a deep breath to explain further.

“Now she hates me. I was mean and supercilious and selfish and cruel.”

He sighed again and patted her on the back. “You are English.”

“I know!” she wailed.

He crouched on the balls of his feet in front of her and took her hands. Her long, slender fingers were raw from several days of fighting, sewing, and cleaning. The middle finger of her right hand had a callus from her writing instruments. He ran his thumb over it, nearly getting distracted from the more important issue. Squeezing her hands briefly for attention, he spoke. “First. I think you are too intelligent and interesting and amusing to ever be alone, unless that is what you want. Second …” Samuel turned over her hand and caressed the soft skin inside her wrist. “Well, I don’t really have a second. What do you want to do about Elizabeth?”

“Do you think she would forgive me?”

“Of course,” Samuel said.

“What if she accuses me of misogamy?”

Samuel thought that over. What the hell was misogamy? “Would it be true?”

“I don’t know.” She thought. “No. I don’t hate marriage. I just thought neither of us would ever bother with it. There were so many other things to do.”

“I see. Then I’m guessing she will at the very least think you are a complete mome, but will forgive you anyway. In my experience, love makes people forgiving, as well as irrational.”

Olivia nodded, wiping her tears as if he made complete sense.

“I don’t like fighting with my friends.”

“I know.” He leaned forward and pecked her on the lips sympathetically. It had been a natural instinct. She blinked at him in surprise. He’d surprised himself. She didn’t move away or slap him. Though he knew now was not the time to take advantage of her. She was vulnerable. Feeling abandoned. Likely she would turn to the first friendly face. She continued to look at him. When he didn’t move, she inched forward on her seat. A mere two inches forward, but enough to indicate her interest.

He swallowed, suddenly hot. Her lips were the palest pink, salty from tears, as he had already discovered. Her pupils widened, making her eyes partially black, surrounded by cloudy gray. His thumbs brushed the moisture from her high cheekbones. Then he tapped her nose, rolled back on his feet, and shook his head.

“Not a good time for this.” Samuel cleared his throat.

“I know. I have to go apologize.”

They stared at each other, neither moving.

“It would be taking advantage of you when you are not yourself.”

“I feel better,” she said. “Now that I have a plan.” He grinned.

“We could make it short,” she suggested. “Just to see if I even like your kisses. You always surprise me, and I don’t have a chance to figure things out. I need to be able to think it through.”

“Think through kissing?” He leaned closer, skeptical.

“Yes,” she said. “One must plan for things. Know what to do. Be prepared. Then follow through.”

He cupped her cheek in his palm and pulled her in, whispering against her lips. “What if something unexpected happens and the plan needs to change?” A tender smile curled his mouth, making him rakishly attractive.

She met his eyes, inches away. “Then it wasn’t a very good plan. That’s why it’s important to think before you act.”

“Like now?”

“Yes. This will be a test upon which I can draw further information to plan.”

“What kind of information?”

“How you kiss,” she said.

He brushed his mouth softly across hers.

“If I like your kisses,” she said.

He sucked gently, just once on her lower lip.

Her voice grew husky. Her eyelids fell. Her body reached out. “And if I want—”

He covered her mouth and Olivia forgot her explanation. The tip of his tongue stroked lightly against her upper lip, and she moaned, shocked by the ticklish sensation that made her smile and lean in for more. She heard his chuckle and opened her eyes, watching as the pad of his thumb traced the edge of her mouth hypnotically. When he pressed the thumb against the opening, she tasted him, watching as his golden eyes changed from humor to something more primitive and carnal. His skin was salty and warm, and it felt erotically delicious to use her mouth to explore the feel of his hand.

He didn’t allow that for long. His moist thumb folded her lip for him to savor. It felt like he was taking possession of her, claiming her, demanding her to accept him and only him. She hated that he made her need him. For she did. And he knew it.

He leaned back and she leaned forward. He exerted his power over her, his lips exploring hers with a rhythm both soft and sinfully good. Every nerve ending sensitized to his touch as his fingertips glided up her arms. She inhaled sharply and exhaled into him, falling to her knees and wrapping her arms around his neck, allowing him possession of her body to touch, feel, and capture whatever pleasure he desired.

He rolled onto his knees as well, arching her against him, his hands making themselves known to her body, one around her back, the other stroking slowly up her stomach, preparing to move even higher, allowing her to stop him.

She didn’t.

His hand brushed over her breast. She moaned in unfulfilled longing. He brushed again, teasing where she wanted him to take. Creating a yearning and addiction for contact. Desperate, she took his hand and showed him.

Now he moaned.

Her head fell back, reckless of exposing herself further to his view. It had been curiosity at first. And yes, a desire to be held. But now she wanted to know more. Suddenly there was need and hunger to connect—but only with him. His gentle exploration of her breast made her ache for more. She arched her body, offering herself, her stomach clenching when he looked her in the eyes while slowly lowering his mouth to one taut peak. She jolted with the shock of his hot mouth through her linen blouse, the friction of the material causing a pleasurable torment.

She tightened her hold to pull him closer, and his fingers raked the hair from her temples to the back of her head, possessive, sending tingles of awareness down her spine. He held her in place, then took her lips again, controlling and consuming her.

When he stopped, it was as though a blanket of warmth had been torn from her body. “That should give you enough to plan with.”

“What?” She looked up at him, dazed.

“Exactly.”

He pulled her to her feet, a roguish grin curving his lips and a satisfied twinkle in his golden eyes.

Olivia stood unsteadily, fragmented thoughts slowly returning but making little sense. When he let go of her hand she felt stripped bare. Where heat had been a moment before, a chill shook her body. He, on the other hand, appeared entirely self-possessed.

“That was informative,” she said. She must recover.

“Indeed.”

“Hmm.” What did that mean? She would need to think about it more later. She would need to think about it a lot more later. When she was in control again. When she could put her thoughts together. When her body didn’t tingle with life and this new confusing energy. She looked at the large volumes on the desk.

Perhaps there is something in there about this.

“I have to go to Mrs. Tisdale and make things right.” She didn’t realize she’d said it aloud or was standing motionless in front of the cabin door until Samuel helped her out with a gentle shove. She quickly rubbed her face dry and stepped forward.

He was there. Riedell. In front of her cabin. His forehead against the door, his voice coaxing and comforting. He turned when he saw her coming, and her spine straightened, making her two inches taller.

They faced each other like two gladiators. He stepped forward, purposefully.

“I know.” She stopped him before he could start, her voice haughty. “You love her. But I care for her too! And if you ever do anything to cause her pain I will rip your heart out, roast it, and feed it to the sharks … or albatross … or whatever vile creature is willing to eat it.” She poked his injured arm. “And this pain”—she poked the wound again—“that you feel”—poke—“in your arm? It will be nothing compared to what I do to the rest of you.”

He lifted a finger and poked her once, hard in the chest, forcing her back a step. Anger and determination were in every line on his face. “Agreed.”

Olivia grunted, then pushed him aside and went into the cabin after Elizabeth.

Chapter Twelve

Olivia was convinced Mrs. Tisdale, now Mrs. Riedell, would not have noticed whether Olivia was actually present at her wedding. But her friend definitely looked lovely. Beautiful, in fact. Glowing from some mysterious inner happiness that wrapped her and her new husband in a bubble of unawareness. And with her dark, long, wavy hair loose over her shoulders, Elizabeth seemed not much older than Olivia. Strange how she had always thought of her as more motherly.

Kelley and some men rowed the newlyweds ashore in Algiers and escorted them into the city. They would have two days alone before the Avenger set sail again.

A number of Nuh’s former slaves left them in Algiers. The Americans stayed. The English found plenty of ships willing to bring them back home—ships protected by the British navy. Another mark against the Americans. They had very little government to speak of, and no military to safeguard their ships. Elizabeth had no guarantees against attack on the return voyage.

Olivia changed out of her good gown and back into her professor gear to help Andersen make rounds with his patients. He had acquired fresh supplies, so they changed all the bandages. Olivia gazed out over the ship’s rail, envious of Elizabeth and Nathan. She would love a bath in fresh water. It would have to wait another day. Stafford didn’t want her going ashore without him. He reminded her that she had a price on her head, and they didn’t know how far word of it had reached.

The time alone afforded Olivia the privacy to open her father’s letter. She had studied it for a while now, contemplating how to open it without breaking the seal. And then there would be the task of getting it closed again. She thought she had it all worked out. In the worst of cases, she would just explain her concern to her father.

Olivia sat at the small table, waving the letter in the air thoughtfully. Her father was not the problem. It was Stafford. She still felt guilty for breaching his trust in taking the letter in the first place. Of course, if Stafford had only told her about the letter, her snooping would not be an issue. And had she known about the letter, she would have had him open it, and none of this sneaking around would be necessary.

It took patience, but slowly she pulled a piece of thread under the dry wax until she succeeded in freeing the wax from the paper without breaking the pressed circle. Excited, she pulled out the letter.

There was a knock at the door. “Ollie? You in there?”

She jumped. Blast it. Stafford!

“Yes. I’m resting.”

“Are you hungry? Cook made a nice meal for us. You haven’t eaten all day.”

She was hungry. “Maybe later. I’ll help myself in the galley.”

He was silent. She knew he hadn’t left and stared at the door waiting.

“I’d enjoy your company,” he said, finally, his voice warm.

Olivia debated. Normally she found his company stimulating—on several newly discovered levels. But she had to use the opportunity. And part of her believed he just felt sorry for her with Elizabeth gone.

She moved to the door, torn. “I would enjoy your company as well. I’m just”—she searched for a good excuse—“awfully tired.”

“Do you want to open the door so we can at least talk face-to-face?”

“No!” She put her hand against to the latch, to prevent entry. “That is, I’m not decent. I was hot.” She stopped herself. “It’s really not appropriate to discuss my state of undress, Stafford.”

“You’re undressed?” He sounded interested.

“No! I mean partially.”

“What part?” He teased.

“None of your business. Go away.”

“I’ll bring you a tray.”

“No! Really. I’m just not quite hungry yet. I want to nap.”

“Nonsense. If you nap now, you won’t get any sleep later, and we have a long day in town tomorrow. Why don’t you come on deck and get some fresh air? It will wake you up and give you an appetite.”

“Thank you, but I think I really need a break from all the men.” At the silence, it occurred to her he might be offended, and hurried to explain. “I like them all. I just need time to contemplate.”

“Of course. If you change your mind, Andersen and I will be dining above deck. It’s too nice out to waste the evening.”

“Very well. Enjoy your meal.” She relaxed again as his footsteps went away. “Finally. Very persistent tonight, Mr. Stafford,” she spoke to herself.

The letter awaited. She went back to work. Carefully she lifted the envelope and slipped out two pages of Grayson’s script.

Dear Merryvale,

I trust you are in good health and continue to take care.

The dreadful news of Queensbury and Peel has not yet reached London. Once it does, gaining access to the star cone will be near impossible. Agents of Lampley have already tried to collect the cone, but I was able to prevent this. As you know, I am less than certain about the authenticity of Lampley’s interest in this project. However, as long as he provides funding, it will be difficult to remove him.

In reference to the astronomy link, it seems you were right. Over the past two years, a number of priceless astrolabes have been stolen or gone missing. Reports of these robberies have come in from Paris, Athens, Granada, and Constantinople. It appears likely you have found the maker of these particular devices. Why they are important, aside from their intrinsic value, we do not yet know. However, there have been deaths associated with the thefts. I urge you to be cautious.

With regard to Lady Olivia, I will do as you request, though I worry that our plans may put her in undue danger. Whoever has the key, controls the tomb. But whoever has the key, is also a target.

Godspeed,

Paul, Lord Grayson

Olivia held the letter with trembling hands—frightened, excited, curious, and confused. Queensbury and Peel? Her father’s exploration companions. What had happened to them? Was her father alone? This Lampley fellow clearly could not be trusted. Had her father wanted Grayson to send him the star cone? Olivia paused. If the cone was not secure, then Grayson had been awfully lackadaisical in allowing her free access to the museum. Or had that been deliberate?

She put the letter down to prevent herself from crinkling it, a sick feeling in the pit of her stomach. The correspondence had added to her questions, not answered them. Her heart pounded a runaway beat. She scanned the attached document. It was a creation myth of sorts copied from the tomb, with Grayson’s notes inserted.

Astrolabes were being stolen? What was important about these astrolabes? She thought her father and Grayson were searching for ancient scrolls and documents from the Great Library. For the improvement of mankind. This didn’t sound like an excavation to enrich the academic body. She tapped her fingers. What kind of knowledge were they after?

Olivia wiped her inking pen clean, admiring the instrument’s design. Instead of going through quills each week, she’d had metal fashioned into the shape of a quill. It worked wonderfully. She tilted it into her ink and meticulously copied the letter word for word along with the original Egyptian text and Grayson’s notes. She needed time to think. And to research. When she was done copying, she closed the seal and held it facing up over a lit candle. Carefully she softened the wax, and with her sewing needle, pressed bits of the indented Grayson seal into the paper, trying to cause as little disfigurement as possible. Then she put it aside and watched it dry, hopeful of her success.

She examined her work. “Sometimes I amaze even myself. Now to put you back where you belong.”

Olivia slipped from her cabin and approached Stafford’s door. She knocked. No answer. Good. She was about to try the door, when a sailor in the shadows at the end of the narrow hall greeted her.

“Feeling better, Professor?” he asked.

“Yes. Thank you. I was just a bit tired. Is the captain on deck?”

“Yes. Would you like me to get him for you?”

“No, that’s fine.” She moved to the door of the chart room. She would have to see if the connecting door was open to his cabin. “I’m just going to see if I can find a book.”

“Are you sure you don’t want to join the cap’n on deck? Have a bite to eat?”

“Oh, no. I don’t want bother anyone. We all need a little break from each other,” she explained.

He looked reluctant to leave. “As you wish. I better get back to work myself. Have a good eve, Professor.”

She watched as he reluctantly went on deck. Olivia closed the door to the chart room behind her and hurried to the connecting room. It swung open with ease. She climbed a chair and reached for the small, secret ship model and shook.

Silence.

Her chest froze in panic. She shook again. There was nothing inside. Gads. He’d either hidden the key elsewhere or had it on him. Either way, it indicated a decided lack of trust in her. How unforgivably rude not to trust her. She stood on the chair holding the small ship, wondering what to do next.

“Looking for something?”

At the sound of his voice and sudden arrival, the obvious clicked in place. “You had your man spy on me!” she accused, outraged.

He folded arms across his massive chest and widened his stance. “With good reason, it appears.”

“I beg your pardon.” She drew up to her full height, and looked down her nose, for once taller, thanks to the chair.

“You’re not pardoned, you deceitful thief. Did you read the letter?”

She gasped but recovered her outrage. “If you knew I had it, why didn’t you say so?”

“I was testing your honor and trustworthiness. Both of which I find lacking.”

All true. She just hadn’t wanted him to know it. “I read all my father’s correspondence. And you should have told me you had a letter for him, especially after I told you he might be in mortal danger.”

His arms unfolded as he stalked forward and snatched the letter. “You put my personal integrity at stake.”

“You put my father’s life at stake!”

“He put his own life at stake. And likely yours too.” Stafford was angry. With her and her father, it seemed.

She gasped. “Did you read the letter?”

“What?” He was affronted. “Of course not! Why? What did Grayson say? Have they deliberately endangered you?” Fury darkened his eyes in a frightening manner.

“No. I don’t know. I didn’t actually understand what the letter was all about.” She chewed her lip, thoughtful.

“Perfect. So on top of being hunted down, having a price on your head, and being a thief, you have to worry about your father and your late friend conspiring to injure you.”

She denied instantly. “No, no. It was nothing like that. Grayson simply said he did as my father requested, but was concerned it might put me in harm’s way.”

“Well you’ve sure as hell been in harm’s way,” he barked.

“Is there still a price on my head?”

“We can only assume.”

“That’s very unsettling.”

“It damn well should be, Ollie!”

“Stop yelling at me. It’s very upsetting,” she shouted. “And I need to think!”

“You should have thought more before you became a lying, conniving thief!”

She took a sharp intake of breath and released. “I’m nothing like that at all. I had to steal the funerary cone to save my father! He said it was a matter of life and death. Would you not do the same to rescue a loved one?”

He didn’t say anything.

“And then it was stolen from me, so I was fortunate to have the extra script to negotiate with. That’s the only reason I took Grayson’s translation. Heaven knows he can’t translate hieroglyphics to save his life.”

“Agreed. He’s dead.”

“And really, what would you think if the last man to see Grayson was carrying a letter to your father and he didn’t tell you?”

“That it was none of my business. And,” he said, “I wasn’t the last man to see Grayson. His murderer was. I take offense to any implication otherwise.”

“Oh, I never really thought you killed Grayson,” she said.

“Your confidence warms my heart.” He pulled the key from his pocket and put the letter back in the correspondence box. Then he pocketed the key again.

He didn’t trust her at all. That’s not what she wanted.

“Wait here.” She ran to her cabin and snatched the copy of the letter. He stared at the paper when she returned. “I made a copy so I could study it.”

“Of course you did.”

“Don’t be snippy. I have to be prepared if I’m to save my father. He must have written to Grayson at the same time he wrote me. Or shortly before. Otherwise Grayson would have told me my father was in trouble.”

“Maybe he’s not in trouble.”

“He said it was a matter of life or death. I believe that constitutes a great urgency, Mr. Stafford. My father is enthusiastic, but is not one for melodrama. Plus, something ‘dreadful’ has happened to the other members of the party. I think they might be dead.” Olivia held the copy of the letter. “In any case, this new information makes no sense. I don’t know why they would care that the librarian made astrolabes. It’s interesting and would make for a nice collection, but we should be focusing on what is in the tomb and being excavated, not what is already saved. Grayson and my father seem to think—”

“Wait.” Stafford’s voice rasped, harsh. His face paled. “What is this part about the astrolabes?” He reached for her copy of the letter, and she handed it to him.

“I thought you didn’t want to read—”

“That was before.” He scanned the letter. His sister had an ancient astrolabe. Grayson had told him his sister was in contact with Merryvale. They were going to meet when she was in Egypt. What did she hope to learn? And was she walking into a trap? Did Merryvale know about Alex’s astrolabe?

“You look worried. You never looked worried.” She grabbed his arm. “What is it, Stafford? Tell me. What is happening? Is my father in danger?”

Samuel handed her back the copy of the letter. Her father was definitely in more danger than she suspected. He wondered if his sister had told her husband why she really wanted to visit Egypt. Alex had a way of not sharing key information. Olivia stared at him, waiting.

“My sister and her husband are traveling in the area. Grayson said they were going to meet up with your father. Apparently, Alex and he have been corresponding.”

“That’s impossible. I would know about it,” Olivia said.

“Like you knew about this?” He indicated the letter in her hand.

Samuel took a seat. He needed to think. His sister had two parts of an ancient astrolabe—the disc that had been their mother’s and the disc given to her on her birth. They believed there were as many as four more discs out in the world. But they didn’t know where, or what they would learn if the device was completed.

He had thought his sister had left the mystery behind her after it nearly got her killed. If the other parts were hidden or being protected, finding them could be dangerous.

Who else knew of his sister’s astrolabe? He thought about it. A handful of people outside their family. Any of them could have mentioned it to others. And what would they do to get it? Killing clearly was not beyond them. And someone obviously thought all the astrolabes were made by this Egyptian and held some significance.

He looked again at Olivia. She was innocent in this, he was sure. But what was Merryvale’s part in acquiring the astrolabes? And could either father or daughter be trusted once they learned what the astrolabes might lead to? Untold power, a lost empire, ancient treasure.

Olivia said she was after knowledge. But it took money to finance tomb raiding, and most who did it were after a bigger payoff—treasure.

“Stafford? You’re scaring me.”

He looked at Olivia, who was waiting and surprisingly patient for a change.

“I think your father is mixed up with some very dangerous people.” He paused to see her reaction. “Either that, or he is one of the dangerous people.”

She gasped. “No. That’s not possible. It’s not. I promise you. He has spent his life in pursuit of knowledge. But he would not injure anyone for it.” She paused. “At least not knowingly. He can be a little absentminded. And maybe naive about people. Those are his worst flaws, I assure you.

“Really? Because it doesn’t sound like he was much of a father.”

Olivia stiffened and he knew he’d touched a nerve.

“He is a wonderful father. I’ve learned everything from him.”

“He left you with a stranger when you were fifteen.”

“Mrs. Tisdale had excellent references, and she was good and kind. My father traveled a lot, but when he was home we spent all our time together.”

“Poring over ancient manuscripts and copying his notes?”

“It was what we enjoyed doing.”

“Really? Because I would have thought you enjoyed a lot more than that. Why hasn’t he ever brought you with him?”

“It’s too dangerous.”

“But safe enough for an absentminded old man.”

“He’s not that old, and as you point out, he is a man. That does make some things easier.”

“Maybe he plans to take credit for your genius. Claim he deciphered the texts himself. A lot of obsessed men seek fame.”

Olivia’s color rose. “You are utterly and completely wrong!”

“It crossed your mind, I see.”

“No!” She stormed for the door. “I shared this with you so you could help me. Not insult me and my father. You are the one hiding something, Stafford. Not me.”

Samuel didn’t move as she slammed out of his cabin. Olivia had a price on her head high enough to tempt the best of souls. If he were smart, he’d take her straight back to England. Only he needed to get to Egypt. His sister might be walking into danger—something she had a habit of doing, it seemed, despite marital bliss. He grabbed a thatch of hair and slowly released it in frustration and worry. And now Olivia was somehow mixed up in it. Hell. He didn’t want to risk Alex’s life or Olivia’s.

Was it possible to protect one willful woman, let alone two?

Chapter Thirteen

Olivia stumbled onto deck bleary-eyed the following day. She had spent the night researching astrolabes in one of Samuel’s books, trying to understand their significance to her father and anyone else.

Astrolabes were used to show how the sky looked at a specific place at a given time. Olivia had thought on it all night. Even if one had a special astrolabe, they would need to know the time and the arrangement of stars in the sky in order to find their location. Without all the information, she was conjecturing without a goal. It made her even more eager to get to her father. Once she saved him, they could get back to answering these questions.

But first they had repairs to make. And she had a full day in Algiers. Stafford was in the longboat when she arrived on deck. She’d donned her disguise but hadn’t bothered with the beard, choosing only the mustache. It already tickled unbearably. In a small valise she had fresh clothes. Stafford had promised her a room at the hotel where the Riedells were staying. She joined the men going ashore, trying not to be concerned that they all looked heavily armed. Nathan would not have taken Elizabeth into port if it were not safe. She intended to see the sights, bathe, and sleep on a real bed.

The men made room for her to sit near their captain. She greeted him as politely as she could.

“Stafford.”

He glanced down expressionless. “Ollie.”

Gads, he was still annoyed over the letter. Well, nothing to be done about that. She turned to one of the other men and greeted him. Only a cursory reply was forthcoming.

“Everyone is a bit tense this morning,” she said.

“It’s not a friendly port, Professor,” a sailor explained.

She looked at the bustling harbor ahead. People seemed too busy to worry. “How do you know that?”

Stafford didn’t turn to look at her. He merely stared out. “The fish are quiet.”

Her mouth made a small O of understanding, even though she didn’t understand. She suffered the silence until they were ashore. Then she was once again running to keep up.

The group was very purposeful.

Olivia waited while Stafford directed one group to get provisions and another to get supplies to finish repairs. It seemed he wanted to complete the task today. She frowned.

“We sail tonight,” he said. “As soon as the Avenger is ready—at least, mostly ready.”

“But, I thought—”

“Change of plan. Don’t worry. You’ll get your damn bath.” He looked her over. “I’m picking up some gifts. Please remain silent during the negotiation.”

“Of course. I—”

He’d already walked away. She chased after him. And continued to for a good twenty minutes, until they came to a town circle with a mosque. A local carriage driver hurried over, seeming to know Stafford, and soon they were riding to the other side of town. Stafford sat back, apparently relaxed, but his eyes were alert. The crewmen who accompanied them hung on the sides of the vehicle. Olivia tried to enjoy the sights, but the men managed to block her view very effectively.

Finally they got out at the end of a long path that had short, open clay structures—a market, of sorts. Olivia was excited to explore and followed along, taking in her fill of brilliant cloths, strange-sounding chimes, and new exotic faces.

Stafford headed directly to the shop he wanted, ignoring the loud barkers promoting their wares. They entered a darkened shop, covered to keep in the shadows and cooler temperatures. Stafford was greeted with a warm welcome, and Olivia followed, curious as they were brought past other buyers into a back room and given refreshment. She eagerly sipped the peppermint tea, registering every second of the experience to write down later and share with Elizabeth.

The tea was nothing compared to what followed. She gasped.

Stafford turned his head, censorious.

“It’s just … they’re beautiful.” Two intricately woven gold bracelets were laid before them for Stafford to inspect, each about two inches in width. They were not identical but clearly meant to be a set. Then the man brought out a matching necklace. It was a choker with a similar design, only the shopkeeper demonstrated how it wrapped around the neck and clasped in the front, where a length of gold chain hung lower, containing a stunning emerald.

Olivia had never seen anything so beautiful. She had to admit he had good taste—for an American. All she could do was wonder whom they were for. She asked, but he ignored her. It seemed the shopkeeper wanted more money than originally planned. Stafford got up to leave without the jewelry, and she followed, surprised. Then the shopkeeper called them back. They settled on the price, and the man brought out an array of more gems.

“Oohhh.” Olivia couldn’t help herself. She felt a crunch on her foot and jumped in her seat, ready to squeak at Stafford until she realized her voice had not been very manly. She cleared her throat and offered a nonchalant, but deep, “Very nice.”

Stafford waved the selection away and said something that made the man smile. He went away, then came back with a smaller box and proceeded to unwrap a number of large and stunning diamonds. Olivia swallowed. The cost for any of these would be exorbitant. Stafford wasn’t a flashy man, so she’d forgotten his wealth, but apparently he knew what he liked. He picked the largest, clearest diamond and inspected it for a long while before replacing it.

“Who’s that one for? Same person?”

He sighed, but didn’t look over. “It’s for the woman I love.”

Olivia’s head snapped. She stared. Then swallowed. “You’re in love?”

“I didn’t say that.” He looked down. “I might be referring to the woman I will eventually love.”

“Oh.” She was relieved, which was strange, since they were merely friends, and even if she were to consider marriage, it would not be to an American. And indeed, marriage was most unlikely until she became a renowned academic—assuming she lived that long.

He continued, “I did meet someone in London.”

“Oh.” She needed to digest this. “But you’re not sure?” She looked up to find him staring at her.

“No. I’m not sure.”

She smiled. “It’s important to take your time and really examine the merits of a person, not to mention the state of marriage. You wouldn’t want to make a snap decision, like Elizabeth and Mr. Riedell. I know you are used to doing that every day, and indeed, on a ship that is at times required. But it’s much better to take your time over life-changing choices, consider all the benefits, challenges, and possibilities.”

A smile started to curl his lips into thoughtful, sensuous curves. Her stomach flipped, and suddenly she wanted to lean closer to him, to reach up and take one of those lips between her own … She swallowed and stopped speaking. As if knowing her thoughts, he plucked her cap lower over her face, knocking her glasses.

Stafford finished his negotiation, collecting the large diamond and a few other items he referred to as baubles. She dared not ask whom the baubles were for. Likely Margueritte the Maggot. Or women like her. She scowled, grabbed her bag of clothes and soaps, and followed him to the next location. It was a larger shop with furniture.

He met with the owner, and this time she wandered around a bit by herself through the stacks and rows of furniture. There was more upstairs, and she climbed the steps to a connecting balcony that overlooked the shop next door. The neighboring one had furnishings, but mostly lanterns, lamps, vases, bowls, and smaller interior items. There was a table below, where the shopkeeper met with buyers, similar to the one previous. A man walked in with a package and greeted the shopkeeper. They seemed to know each other, but the shopkeeper was reserved. Then the two began talking heatedly. Finally, the stranger opened the package. Olivia watched curiously as the man lifted out a stone object that was eerily familiar. When he turned it to point out the star-shaped end, she gasped.

The funerary cone of the Librarian of Alexandria!

Olivia ducked behind a pillar to be hidden from view and watched. It sounded like a negotiation—only not. Suddenly a third man joined from behind the shopkeeper. Olivia gasped as he pulled out a gun and aimed it at the man with the artifact. She couldn’t believe he would shoot in broad daylight. In a shop. Not far from witnesses.

He did.

The weapon made a muffled explosion, confounding the victim, who looked very disappointed before he crumbled to his feet.

The shopkeeper began to wrap the artifact in a cloth, chattering on about something. He reached into a drawer and pulled out a sturdy string of rope to wrap the package.

Then he reached into another drawer and Olivia saw metal—a knife! With a quick spin he thrust it into the other man’s chest. Before the gunman could recover, the shopkeeper disarmed him and smashed his face with the package of granite.

Then he ran.

Olivia’s heart pounded with excitement and fear as she realized the man with the funerary cone was coming upstairs.

Toward her!

She searched frantically for a weapon and found a solid wooden table statue of a fishlike woman that she hoped would do the trick. He was nearly to the top of the steps.

She swung with all her might and hit her target forcefully in the nose. He staggered backward, reaching with one hand for the nearest wall. She dropped the statue, grabbed the artifact from his loosened grip, and pushed him in the chest.

He reached for her in defense and grabbed her hat and hair in one painful squeeze.

She swung the granite cone up and underneath, into his chin, wincing at the successful contact.

His mouth dropped tragically, his tongue bleeding openly. “Uh-thuh-thew,” he said, falling backward, his eyes rolling.

“I know. No honor among thieves.” Olivia quickly stashed the artifact in her bag.

Stafford stood on alert when she returned to the main room. “What’s going on?”

She tugged his arm. “We need to leave.”

He frowned.

“Stafford.” She squeezed his arm and got only hard muscle. She grabbed the back of his shirt and pulled. “We need to leave. Now.” Olivia was already turning, calling to the crewmen who were with them.

Samuel studied Olivia. She was flushed. And something else … Nervous. Guilty. Triumphant? Scared. Definitely scared. Hat missing. Wig askew. That wasn’t right. “What is it?” he asked.

“Trouble.”

“You find it everywhere, don’t you?”

“Lectures later, please,” she begged, obviously nervous.

Samuel followed her worried gaze as she turned to the stairs. Then to the entrance. Nothing. He shook hands with the furniture vendor and told him to pack his selected items to be picked up on his return trip. Samuel had a feeling there wasn’t going to be time today.

Olivia made her way out, bag secured under her arm. She poked her head out the entrance, then back at him. “Don’t rush. We should look innocent.”

“Most of us are,” he said.

They began their walk back to the carriage. They were halfway there when one of the crewmen turned at a man’s beckoning. He took the hat from the man and called to Olivia.

“Professor. Your hat.”

Samuel watched as Olivia froze and slowly turned. “You’re mistaken. That’s not mine.” Samuel saw the Algerian man watching. Olivia turned away.

“Are you sure?” the crewman asked.

Samuel took the hat and gave it back to the Algerian and explained. He knew damn well it was her cap. So did the Algerian. It matched her brown coat flawlessly, completing the nervous-professor look she had perfected. The Algerian didn’t take the hat back. He pulled a knife.

Samuel acted instantly. He stepped back, kicked the knife from the man’s grip and smashed his heel into his face.

The man fell over.

A hush fell over the market. Samuel looked up and swallowed. He nodded to the bystanders, who froze and stared silently. Then he turned to the wary eyes of Olivia and the men. They spun to escape the danger. Then stopped.

An array of men had formed a semicircle in front of them. A tough, barrel-chested Englishman stood in the center, looking arrogant, satisfied, and triumphant. A little like the way Olivia had looked earlier.

Samuel put his arm around her waist and moved her behind him as she inched backward nervously.

This was not good.

“The bag, if you will, sir.”

Samuel looked back to Olivia. She shook her head, still inching backward, never taking her eyes from the Englishman. Samuel knew what she was thinking. She was getting ready to run. That might be a good thing.

“There’s clearly been some mistake here,” Samuel offered.

“No mistake,” the Englishman said. “That man”—he pointed to Olivia—“took something that belongs to me.”

“It belongs to the British Museum, sir. And I intend to take it back there,” Olivia dared, peeking out from behind him.

“Not if you know what’s good for you,” the Englishman threatened with a wave to his men. They closed in. A bloodthirsty group, if Samuel had ever seen one. He had Olivia and five others. Without Olivia, it might have been an even fight. With her, who knew what handicap she would inflict on him?

He stepped to her side and spoke a few words in German. Thankfully she understood.

The Englishman lifted a gun. “You’d be wise to make this easy,” he said to Samuel. “The first bullet is for you.”

Chapter Fourteen

Olivia stood terrorized. Until Stafford grumbled at her.

“Nothing like having a good day of work disrupted by an arrogant British bastard.” Then he put on his best English accent and mocked the man aiming the gun. “The fuhhst bullet is fa you.” He turned back to Olivia. “I hate it when they say that. It’s so English.”

Olivia nodded in dazed agreement. He’d lost his mind. The stress, likely. Nonplussed, she watched him turn back and realized he hadn’t lost his mind. He’d been reaching for the gun concealed on his side. In one graceful movement, he turned, his left arm uncurling across his right hip, straightening, then—bang. The Englishman wavered, then fell face forward. Stafford reached across his left hip for his second gun and shot another villain. The crew did the same, and in short order, the numbers were even.

The Algerians pulled knives. Stafford’s crew did the same, charging the attackers fearlessly. Olivia stood back, clinging to her bag. Until suddenly her feet left the ground.

“Stafford!” she screamed. The man voice was gone. Olivia bit down on an arm and got her head yanked back. Her glasses fell, her wig came off, and hair was loosed from her tightly wrapped chignon, revealing exactly who she was not.

An Algerian giant carried her and her bag away as she struggled futilely. Receding further from the fight, she forced herself to think, to become aware of her body and the position of the man carrying her. All his parts were big and muscled. She reached in front of her, over the bag.

A hand. Big fingers, but a possibility.

She dug her nails around the middle finger of his left hand and waited for an opportunity. For one brief moment, he reached to open a door, holding her with only one arm. She pulled the finger back as hard and fast as she could. There was a satisfying snap.

He dropped her in surprise.

She fell to her feet. And ran.

Stafford’s directions to her in German were to go to the shop with the yellow covering. She ran back out into the street and smack into Stafford. The collision knocked her down. She got up in time to see the giant barreling toward them.

“Watch out!” she warned. Olivia didn’t think there were many men on Earth bigger than Stafford. Unfortunately, he was about to meet one of them.

The first punch sent him staggering backward. Then, determined, Stafford stepped up and speedily administered three sharp strikes—two at the face, one in the gut.

The giant grunted with annoyance. Then advanced.

“Ah, hell.” Stafford seemed to reach for a weapon, but none could be found. “Ollie! Run!”

Olivia watched. She couldn’t leave and let him be pulverized. She looked for the others. They were engaged. It seemed as though some market locals had joined the brawl.

Gads. She was Stafford’s only hope!

The giant swung, and Stafford took one in the ribs. Another caught the side of his head. He kicked fiercely from the side and pushed the giant off balance. Another strong kick was aimed between his victim’s legs, but was blocked.

Olivia felt around the inside of her bag and repositioned the granite cone to one corner. She shadowed the giant from behind, waiting for the right moment. The two men exchanged fierce swings, Stafford ducking a few frightening ones. Then the giant seemed to need a breath. He huffed for air and stepped back. Olivia stepped forward, swung, and fell to her knees from the force of her move, the weight of the granite carrying her forward.

Crunch.

She grunted. The giant howled.

Bones he didn’t know about in his foot brought him new awareness. He looked down as she swung again at his kneecap.

Crunch.

This time the howl had a fury in it. The back of a hand swung, swiping at her, and sent her tumbling backward. He hobbled. She rolled away, bag secure, and staggered to her feet as Stafford grasped her arm and dragged her away—at full speed—toward the shop with the yellow awning.

“I told you to run!”

“I couldn’t let him spiflicate you after I periclitated you!”

Stafford stopped and stared. Then he laughed and planted a firm and fast kiss on her. “You’re absolutely right. I’m sorry.”

She smiled, gratified. And inspired. And her lips were a little tingly … She was still contemplating his apology when a tall, dark-skinned Algerian woman in thick gold jewelry greeted them. Stafford magically pulled a box from his breast pocket and handed it over.

“This is for you.” Then he planted a firm kiss on her lips as well. “We’re in trouble. I need your help. Can we hide here?”

“In the back,” she said. She glanced at Olivia and nodded. Her expression was neither a welcome nor a scowl. Nothing. The Algerian beauty turned back to Stafford and smiled in a way that was almost gentle. “We will miss your visits, Captain. Now hurry.” She touched his cheek and turned away.

Stafford dragged Olivia through the small maze of wares in the back of the shop. A worker looked up briefly, then went back to his job.

“You kissed her.”

“Yes.” He dragged her further back, looking for a spot to hide.

“You can’t kiss her right after you’ve kissed me!”

“I just did.”

“Well, it’s wrong.”

“What’s in the bag?”

“The funerary cone of the Librarian of Alexandria. The one stolen from me.”

“So you’ve almost succeeded in stealing it, eh?”

“At least I don’t steal kisses.”

“They’re a lot more harmless.”

She huffed.

“It was a last kiss,” he explained, yanking her sideways through a narrow path of stacked fabric.

“Why?” She sounded plaintive, even to her own ears.

“The woman in London. Remember?”

“Oh.” She mulled it over. “Well then, it wasn’t very good for a last kiss. Much too fast, and—”

“For her,” he clarified, wearied.

“Oh. Still …” She thought it through. “Wait. You’re making the final rounds?”

“Yep.”

“That is so … conceited.”

“No doubt,” he agreed.

She was outraged, offended for the poor woman in London who knew nothing about his women in every port. “How many more are left?”

He sighed with marked exhaustion. “Too many to count.”

“Where’s the crew?”

“Running for cover,” he said.

She punched his stomach.

He grunted. “What was that for?”

“That poor woman in London!”

“Right.” Sarcasm dripped.

She didn’t appreciate it. She punched him again.

He’d had enough. He caught her fist, turned and pressed it up against the wall, then pressed his body flush with hers, save for the lump where her bag intruded.

His head lowered to hers, his mouth hovering above her mouth, his breath hot. “Hit me one more time and I will strip off your pants and whip your behind until it’s raw. And I don’t care who sees.” He grabbed a fistful of hair with his free hand and made her look at him. “You got that, Lady Olivia Yates?”

“Yes,” she breathed. “I got that.”

“Good.”

Good? The thought of being stripped suddenly did sound rather … stimulating. Gads! Her heart pounded. When did this happen? The mere thought of being naked next to him made her body flush. She couldn’t take her eyes from his mouth. Her skin became hot. If she stretched on her toes … But no. She looked up again. Into his eyes. The warm gold melted her bones. The thought of kissing him again had lingered on her mind for some time. She had worked out a plan to take a stroll on deck and put her visualization to the test, but it had been very clean and scientific in her mind. A study in pleasure. Not this … this hot, messy, emotion-filled stirring that she had now. This was not good. Not at all.

But she wanted it anyway.

Her body swayed into him. It seemed all the invitation he needed.

“Dammit, Olivia. Not now.”

His voice sounded like she felt. Husky, raspy, pained.

Hungry.

“Maybe we can wait it out here,” she murmured.

Then, as if he couldn’t stand it anymore, he possessed her lips. Slowly, thoroughly, completely. Drinking in every taste he could find. She responded in kind, dropping her bag carefully to the ground and wrapping her arms tightly around him. She felt his hardness, his entire body crushing her, and that other part, between his legs, touching an intimate part of her through her breeches. She arched, pressing closer.

Very stimulating.

He lifted his head, his thumb brushing near her lips.

Then, rip!

She yelped as the mustache came off and was tossed to the side.

“Sorry. Didn’t feel right.” He gently caressed his lips over the red area, soothing her pained whimpers. “That’s better. Soft. Lovely.”

Olivia clung to him. She wanted this. Desperately. To touch him, kiss him, be held by him. It felt so good. She felt so alive. Her hands stroked over his shoulders and down his muscular arms. He was raw. A rare combination of earth and sea. Grounded, but aware. In tune to life around them. In tune with her and her desire for him.

She gasped in shock and pleasure when he hooked an arm under her knee and pulled her more tightly against him. Her head fell back and he plundered her neck, nipping gently, causing tremors throughout her being. She clutched him, unconsciously begging for more, her hands raking down his chest, stopping at the discovery of hard nipples under the pads of her fingers. She squeezed them, surprised when he groaned in her ear. She squeezed, and again a husky moan escaped before he grabbed both hands and flattened her completely against the wall.

She surrendered willingly.

She lost awareness of the outside world until suddenly he stopped. Olivia opened her eyes, and Stafford was gone. She felt only air where his heat had been. It didn’t take much to figure out what had happened. He was sprawled on the ground with a giant towering over him.

She gulped. With two giants towering over him. She looked from one to the other in dismay.

Twins!

Now that was bad luck.

“Oh, hell.” Stafford closed his eyes with resignation.

“Stafford! Get up!” Olivia couldn’t watch. He was going to be spiflicated for certain!

He didn’t need to get up. The healthy giant reached down and pulled Stafford to his feet as if he didn’t weigh a thing.

Gads. Very bad luck. He was never going to forgive her for this … if he lived.

She needed to strategize. Much quicker than she usually did. She discreetly shoved her bag behind some furniture with her foot. The healthy giant held Stafford. It looked as if the injured one would get some free punches.

“Wait!” she cried, peeking from behind the ornately carved armoire. “That’s very bad sportsmanship! Not well done at all.”

It didn’t look as though Stafford could take much more. Which meant she had to make her move. Now or never. With a deep breath she shouted for their attention, holding up her bag. “This is what you want. And I’m the one who’s got it. Not him!” She lowered the bag, slowly stepping away.

The worker who had been minding his own business in the back watched the scene, as she inched toward the narrow staircase. The female shopkeeper, Stafford’s friend, was there too. They all stared, waiting.

Finally, the healthy giant tossed Stafford at his brother. He eyed her, and smiled.

Olivia’s feet froze in fear.

The shopkeeper pushed her to attention. “Run!”

Olivia did.

She bolted to the upstairs room. The ceiling was lower, and the space even more cramped. She couldn’t get through, but she could see an opening, a window in the back. She began to crawl over furniture, cloth, and strange pointy objects that all managed to find her skin to stab into.

“Ouch. Ooh. Ow.”

There was a sound of thunder behind her. She crawled on her hands and knees, halfway across a large dining table. At the crashing sounds, she turned. And gulped.

The giant was clearing a path—by tossing furniture out of the way as if it were nothing.

It was all the inspiration she needed to move faster. She scrambled and leaped to the window. Then she stopped. Not a healthy jump. She probably wouldn’t die, but definitely several bones would be damaged. She didn’t relish that experience.

There was another shop farther down with some kind of awning. It might hold her. Or break her fall. But how to get there? The building was mostly smooth. Not a lot of ledges or crevices to grab. Definitely no vines. She tilted upward. She could maybe get on the roof.

Another crash alerted her. He was running out of room to toss things, but he was definitely getting closer. Olivia thought again. Throughout the room lay whole sections of rolled fabrics. Only, she would have to move toward the giant to get to one. She left her bag by the large window and dived under a table. She dragged fabric from the largest roll and lined it up behind two sturdy legs of a table currently weighed down by a number of other pieces. She hoped it was enough to hold her weight.

She frantically pulled several yards of yellow-orange-pink material and prayed it would work. The giant stared at her from the opposite end of the table and said something in Arabic, or Algerian, or some other strange language she didn’t have a clue about.

“If that was the equivalent to ‘I’ve got you now’ ”—Olivia pulled the bag over her shoulder and sat on the edge of the window, winding one arm and wrist tightly with material—“then think again, sir.”

And with that, she dropped out the window like a petal in the wind, with a rainbow of color floating after her.

Chapter Fifteen

This was his reward for saving the girl. He looked into the eyes of the oversized Algerian fighter whom Olivia had injured earlier. Granted, he should never have kissed her. Not without securing the area. That had been an enormous strategic mistake, and he was about to suffer the enormity of it in the form of colossal pain. A couple of ribs were already damaged, and his brain felt as if he had butted heads with a bull. Samuel stepped backward again, his feet stumbling on some objects and tools in the workshop. He needed a plan.

The injured giant took his first swing with a fast, massive fist. Samuel ducked.

The plan was working so far.

Maybe he could wear the man out. But he really needed to help Olivia. He ducked again.

“Your aim is off, my good man,” he said in Arabic.

The giant swung low to his gut and lifted Samuel off his feet.

Samuel exhaled painfully. “Now I’m mad. And I really don’t want to hurt you. I think you’re probably a very nice man, just mixed up with the wrong people.” There was only one thing he could do, though. Olivia needed his help.

The man swung high. Samuel ducked again, turned, and kicked with his heel at the injured knee. Mean but necessary.

There just wasn’t a lot of time for getting to know each other.

He looked at Sunni, his friend and onetime lover, though it had been years.

“His name is Rashid,” she said. “He is not evil, but he will hurt you.”

“You’ll take care of his injury?” Samuel asked.

She nodded.

“And take care of yourself too,” he said.

“Always, Captain. I am engaged, you know.”

“No.” He smiled. “I—” Samuel stopped at hearing the cry outside. “Olivia!”

He hurried out the back door to the alley. Sunni and the shop worker smiled at each other. It seemed their friend had met his match.

Samuel looked up to find Olivia hanging halfway down the building, her arm wrapped tightly in fabric. It would have seemed a genius solution to descending a wall, had there not been a monster at the top, pulling her back up. Olivia struggled against it, swinging. As if amused, the giant got into the fun and started swinging Olivia until she was swaying dangerously high and being knocked and slammed into the wall. Thump.

“Stafforrrrd!”

“Hold on!”

“I can’t do anything else.” Thump. “My arm is—” Thump. “Owww! Stuck,” she wailed.

Samuel combed the ground for rocks and stones of any kind. He quickly gathered them and took aim. The third one did the trick. Just enough momentum in the face to surprise the giant. He let go of the fabric, and Olivia’s rhythmic swing jolted as she fell into the building. Then more fabric released, and she slid into his arms—with enough force to knock him to the ground. It felt familiar. He grunted.

Then suddenly she was being lifted again. She screamed.

Samuel saw the fabric around her wrist tighten. She was still tangled in material. She dropped her bag and tried to free herself. Samuel pulled violently to give her some loose maneuvering room. She began to unwind herself.

“Just another second!”

Samuel yanked again, and the entire piece of fabric came down, floated in the air, and landed in a tent on top of them. They tore it off. Only to discover one final enemy … and his friends.

Samuel took the bag in one hand and Olivia in the other. They faced the gunmen. Three were European. Three others were local. He heard his men come up behind him.

“Hand over that bag, and no one needs to be harmed,” the leader offered. He was about Samuel’s age, tall, lean, blond, and British. And he was good-humored. A man who would rather charm his way through life than actually work. Samuel hated that type.

He looked down at Olivia. Her face was pained and disappointed. A click of a gun helped make up her mind. It was pointed at him.

He thought he could survive it. Five more guns clicked. He counted. Six bullets might be tougher, but he would try. For her.

Olivia shook her head. “Give it to them.”

The back alley filled with bystanders. Their odds were not insurmountable. Bad, but not insurmountable. “Are you sure?”

Olivia touched his arm gently. “Please. You’re more important than what is in that bag, Stafford. Besides … I’m exhausted, hot, dusty, I want a bath, and truthfully, I don’t think I’m really cut out for adventuring.” The last part was said with pained sadness. She looked miserable.

“A wise person knows their strengths, ma’am,” the leader said.

Samuel smiled at her. “Very well,” he said.

Samuel handed over the bag to one of the local men, who took it from him cautiously and hurriedly stepped back.

“Thank you,” the leader said. “I can get very angry when things are taken from me. However, no harm done. We can part friends.”

“Not in this lifetime,” Olivia grumbled.

They waited as the man mounted his horse and waved farewell. The others followed.

As soon as their backs were turned, Olivia grabbed his arm and waved to the crew.

“Hurry! We have to run! This way!”

“I think we’re relatively safe, Ollie.” Samuel didn’t want to reenter the building with the twin giants, but she was already ahead of him, running into the back of Sunni’s shop. They followed and watched as she pulled out a bundle wrapped in her spare breeches.

“We really have to go, Stafford! I don’t think it will be long before they realize—”

Samuel swore. And laughed. And swore again as he grabbed her arm and they raced to the front of the shop. Their carriage driver was outside, searching for them. Samuel called. An instant later they were barreling back to the ship.

“Had the stone been in the bag, would I still have been more important, Ollie?”

“Don’t be ridiculous.” She said it with disgust, leaving the interpretation to him. “Anyway, we could’ve taken them. Right men?” She grinned at the crew, cocky and full of herself.

They stopped at the hotel and he held her back, sending one man to alert Nathan and Elizabeth of the change in plans.

“Wait. My bath!”

“Forget the bath, Ollie. We’ll be lucky if we survive getting out of the harbor without running into your friends again.”

“They’re not my friends.”

“My mistake. No friends among thieves, eh?”

She elbowed him. In his bad side. It hurt.

He grunted, trying to breathe. “I’ll let you pick: the bath, or what you’re holding?”

She clutched the package on her lap protectively. “Very well.”

“Right.” He smiled having won a very small victory. “I’ll give you one thing, Ollie.” She turned to him, and he noted the recovered artifact in her hands. “You sure are something.”

“What?” She asked curious. “What ‘something’?”

“It’s an expression, Professor,” one of the men explained.

Samuel tried to get comfortable. His head was killing him, his body felt old.

Trouble followed Olivia, and somehow he needed to stay one step ahead.

Hugh Lampley threw himself back in a chair, frustrated. Damn. The wench had tricked him. The contents of her bag lay on the table in front of him. No Egyptian cone. He’d left Alexandria to meet his men in Algiers, only to be betrayed. That left him out of money and out of luck. Without the artifact in his hands, Hugh lacked the power to control the expedition and enter the chambers of the librarian.

Hugh touched the charming bits and pieces displayed for him. They were soft, feminine … intriguing. He sniffed a worn bar of soap appreciatively, absorbing the rose scent. And it had been too long since he’d been with a woman. Too long since he’d smelled anything fresh and innocent. He put the soap down and got up to find a drink. That woman was anything but innocent. He shook his head, amused, as he picked up the male dress shirt at odds with the rest of the items. Not innocent, but damned clever.

A knock at the door turned his thoughts.

“Come in.”

Hugh expected one of his men. Instead, a stranger entered. Behind him were two more men, who stayed posted outside the door. The man who entered was dark, swarthy, and in his midforties. Hugh noted the fake smile and cold black eyes. Not someone with whom he wanted to do business.

“Hugh Lampley?” the visitor inquired.

His voice was cultured, French, and annoying. Hugh threw back two fingers of bad rum and put the glass on the table. “Who’s asking?”

The stranger offered his hand. “Sir Jason Moreau. May I have a seat?”

Hugh ignored the hand and nodded to an empty chair.

Moreau sat quietly a moment, and when conversation was not forthcoming regarding his business, he finally spoke up. “I’ve come to make you an offer, Mr. Lampley.”

Hugh lifted an eyebrow and stared without emotion.

“I understand you have an investment in the excavation of a certain tomb in Alexandria.”

Hugh still did not speak.

“I’d like buy into the project, for a small price in return.”

“We’re not looking for any new investors, but thank you for your inquiry,” Hugh said.

Moreau twirled the short end of his mustache thoughtfully.

“That’s a shame. According to my sources, your funds dried up over a month ago. How long do you think the workers will continue to follow you blindly, Lampley?”

Hugh poured another glass of rum.

“You have a keen interest in business that isn’t yours.”

“I do my research.”

“Do you?”

“Yes. And the thing of it is, Mr. Lampley, is that you need me.”

Moreau laid a bag of coins on the table. “Your reputation for effectiveness precedes you, but even you need funds to remain effective. Don’t let all you’ve invested thus far be for naught. I’m after a single item. Whatever else is in the tomb is yours.”

Hugh didn’t look at the bag. Damn. It was tempting. Enough perhaps to get him out of this mess?

“You need leverage, Mr. Lampley, and I provide that.”

“How so?”

He glanced at the feminine items on the table. “As you know, Merryvale’s daughter is on her way to Egypt. She travels with men and money. Once she arrives, Merryvale will have the upper hand. Where will that leave you?”

Hugh picked up the bag of coins, and Moreau smiled. The man was a manipulative bastard. Hugh should know. He was a master himself.

“It will take a lot more than this.”

“That’s for you, sir. I’ll bring my own men and make sure yours are compensated for as long as needed to achieve our goals.”

“Really?” Hugh was skeptical. “What was it you said you wanted?”

“I didn’t say. But it’s nothing that will be of value to you. I work for a very enthusiastic and powerful collector who is willing to make this worthwhile.”

Hugh pushed his chair back on two legs, relaxing his feet against the table. “My current expenses are substantial.”

“So is my funding.”

Hugh dropped his feet and the chair crashed to the floor. He opened the bag of coin and counted it, while Moreau looked on, amused.

It was too easy by far. What kind of man brought you this much money for so little in return? A desperate one or a very confident one. Either was dangerous. Whatever the man was involved in, it was definitely not on the right side of the law.

Hugh picked up his drink, swishing it in the glass before swallowing in one gulp. He was tempted to take the money and run. But he had enough enemies. And he’d come so far. Everything he had was invested in the tomb. He was certain there was some worthwhile treasure in the area Merryvale wanted them to shut down.

Damn. He was definitely in the center of a mess with nowhere to go but forward. He poured another drink for himself, then a second for Moreau.

“I’m willing to discuss terms.”

Moreau lifted his glass with a satisfied smile and drank its contents down.

Hugh wasn’t a fanciful man, but something about the twisted smirk that passed as Moreau’s smile gave him pause.

He was getting into bed with a devil. He only hoped it was a devil who could deliver the goods.

Chapter Sixteen

Later that evening, after they had safely set sail from Algiers, Olivia assembled her friends in the chart room and presented the ancient artifact.

“Careful,” she said reverently. “It’s over two thousand years old.”

Stafford raised a brow. “You recently used this two-thousand-year-old artifact to beat a man.”

“He was three times my weight, and he nearly pulverized you, Stafford.”

“Pulverized is a bit strong,” Stafford said. He shifted in his seat, cringing from his injured ribs. “Actually, I feel quite refreshed from today’s exercise.” The others laughed. “Now, let us see this piece of rock you risked all our lives and limbs for.”

Olivia scowled. Then she apologized. “I’m sorry I put you in danger, Stafford. Of course, I knew you were up to the challenge or I wouldn’t have risked it. And, Elizabeth …” She smiled. It felt strange to call her chaperone by her given name. “I didn’t know they would come after you in London, but you met Mr. Riedell, so it all turned out for the good, don’t you agree?”

The happy couple smiled at her, forgiving. “All is well. Though I wouldn’t have minded one more night in a hotel,” Elizabeth said, reaching a hand over to her husband.

“Yes, yes. But look!” Olivia held up the funerary cone, triumphant. “This is a night for celebrating!”

She put the cone down just as quickly, closing her eyes at a sudden sensation. She laughed and took a breath of air, explaining. “Dizzy.” Without touching the cone, she continued. “I have made another discovery.” She pulled an iron nail from her pocket and displayed it.

“Filthy,” Elizabeth said.

“Yes,” Olivia agreed. “But look.” She held it to the star side of the cone, and the nail visibly attached itself.

“It’s magnetized,” Riedell said.

She pulled the nail free and put it at the end of the table. “Many Egyptians believed magnets had qualities that can affect the body, even cure ailments.” Could that be what caused her uneasiness when she touched the cone? A magnetic force upsetting her equilibrium? “But I think the librarian, being an architect and engineer, used the magnetic force inside the stone as a means to lock and unlock elements inside the tomb. That is why the men on the expedition need the cone.”

“Why did no one notice before?” Riedell asked.

“I don’t know. When they were collecting, some things were sent back to England by type. So the cone was sent with several others. It wasn’t until they got back to that tomb and tried to enter that they realized there was something unique.

“The magnetic rock is actually inside the granite and strongest at the star side, which is slightly obscured by the indentation. This symbol is engraved on the magnet portion. It a fabulous piece of work. Ingenious.”

Stafford took the granite cone from her and inspected it.

Olivia poured the celebratory toast. “Here we go then, a bit of the good stuff for you, Stafford, and the new couple and me.” She put the bottle of rum down as Stafford examined the cone at the star-shaped end. “From what we know, the shape is most unusual. There is no logical purpose for it, unless it was a new device to help the cone fit more firmly in place,” Olivia conjectured.

Stafford suddenly looked a bit ill. Maybe the cone had a similar effect on him?

“It’s an uncommon symbol,” Olivia went on. “I’m not sure if it was a personal icon or remnants from another ancient language altogether.”

She reached to ease the cone from Stafford’s hands, but he wouldn’t release it. “Stafford, perhaps you should sit. Are your ribs aching? I am so sorry. Had I known giants came in twos I would have never … well, I would have, I just would have warned you sooner.” She really did feel bad about it.

“Captain, you are looking a bit odd,” Mr. Riedell said.

“You said, Ollie, that your father and Grayson believed this librarian made a collection of astrolabes?”

“What?” Mr. Riedell asked. He sounded tense.

Olivia nodded slowly. The two men clearly knew something she didn’t.

“What about the myth you deciphered? The one you said was outside the tomb.”

Olivia swallowed the worry in her throat. She didn’t like the look on Stafford’s face. “It’s common in every culture to have stories like that. Praises to the gods.”

“Tell us.”

“It seemed like a creation story. Again, all cultures have them. This one felt less Egyptian, but ancient Alexandria was a mix of cultures and had a large Greek influence, so likely there was a blending of mythologies at some point.” Olivia lifted her small cup of rum. “Shall we enjoy this now, before you tell me there is some new disaster to befall us?”

The men shot down their drinks and waited, leaving Elizabeth and Olivia to catch up. Olivia choked a bit, put her cup down, and continued. “Well, there was a god, sort of a mother of the sea. The water often represents women and birth or rebirth …” They nodded as if knowing that. Fine. Nothing worse than a know-it-all when you’re telling a story.

“Well, there was a mother who had a great kingdom and divided it between her two children. It was a time of great wealth and peace. Until, as in many myths, the children fought, and one sought the help of another god to conquer the other. They succeeded. Only, the balance that had existed was now gone. The mother returned and, disappointed with her children, sent the oceans to destroy the realm, until such a time that balance might return to earth.”

Stafford nodded. “The goddess’s name is Lilith.” He handed the cone to Mr. Riedell to confirm. “It’s an ancient story. Some believe it’s true and want to find the lost realm and all the riches believed to remain.”

Mr. Riedell looked at the symbol in the star that Stafford showed him. He had an expression of awe and worry. Elizabeth leaned in and observed.

Olivia studied Stafford. “Did you know about this when Grayson asked you to carry the message to my father?”

“I knew the story of Lilith. I didn’t know there was any link to Grayson or your father.” He took the granite object and set it on the table. “Or to this librarian you are so interested in.”

Olivia nodded thoughtfully. “When I told you about the astrolabe, you thought it curious. You suspected something then.”

Stafford poured a small sip of rum in each of their cups. “It seemed a strange coincidence.”

“In what way?” Olivia had a dozen questions.

Stafford shrugged. For the first time in their acquaintance she realized he was about to lie to her. “I have seen an astrolabe once with this symbol.”

“Uh-huh.” She turned to Mr. Riedell. “Have you seen this astrolabe?”

He didn’t answer.

Olivia leaned forward, stern. “Whatever the mystery, hiding important information is not going to help, gentleman.”

Stafford lifted his cup and shot down the liquid. “It’s the only way to protect the innocent.”

“Impossible!” She slammed her palm down on the table. “Stafford, knowledge is truth. If this librarian made the astrolabe you speak of, it’s an important piece of history that should be studied by those who can understand it.”

“And what if those people unlock its secrets and use them to gain power and riches?”

Olivia shook her head. “It’s a navigational device. Surely no one believes there is a lost realm and that my librarian holds the secret to its location.”

The room was silent.

“Gads,” Olivia huffed. “Where is Andersen? I need a man of science.” Stafford was not telling her the whole story, and it was damned annoying.

She lifted the cone and showed them the round end with the writing. “It says this is the wise leader of the grand library. Sage to Ptolemy the Sixth, and king’s astronomer. This part”—she pointed—“is a list of other talents. Mathematician, alchemist, inventor, and architect.”

“Very accomplished,” Elizabeth noted.

“Indeed.” Olivia made eye contact with them. “Do you think a person of such esteem, knowledge, and wisdom would believe in such foolishness, let alone build a device to prove it?”

“I think people write their own epitaphs,” Stafford said.

“But you said the story outside the tomb indicates a belief—” Mr. Riedell pointed out.

“Of course! But in a polytheistic religion,” Olivia said. “Perhaps they believed the gods once roamed the earth. That is not uncommon in Greek or Egyptian mythologies, but to my knowledge, there is no proof …”

“Ollie,” Stafford said.

He spoke softly. It got her attention.

“The problem is not whether it’s true. It is who believes it is true and what will they do to find and control an ancient treasure.”

Olivia stopped her rant. He was right. “But who are they?”

“I’m not sure,” he answered. “But they have a lot of money behind them. Enough to put a price on your head—not to kill you, but to capture you. And the most likely reason is that they know it’s you, not your father, who can understand this.” He lifted the funerary cone to display the collection of hieroglyphics. “You’re talented, valuable, and the closer you get to that tomb, the more grave the danger.”

Olivia paled. “Truly, Stafford. You have a clever way of putting a damper on a celebration.” She poured another drink, raised her cup, and drank—this time without coughing. “If this is truly the situation, then I have much more to learn than I realized.”

Stafford’s brow lifted. “That seems impossible.”

“I’m referring to loading a gun,” Olivia said, determined. “Knowledge is power.”

Knowledge is everything. She would not be used by anyone. And if her librarian was hiding the secret to an ancient treasure, she intended to find out why.

The winds on the Mediterranean were uneven, but overall good for spring, according to Andersen and the rest of the crew. She had gotten to know the crewmen better, asking questions about their homelands and discovering new places to put on her adventuring list. Not everyone was American, but most were. They made America sound very beautiful, which provoked her to ask why they were so eager to leave it. It seemed Stafford paid well, and they wanted the opportunity to follow their own dreams someday. It was something Olivia understood. People could be trapped by so many social and economic constraints.

Since Elizabeth’s marriage, Olivia spent most of her evenings alone in the chart room, reading. Nathan was off duty at this time, and his cabin, which Olivia and Elizabeth had taken over, was the only place for the new couple to share precious private time.

Olivia didn’t mind the chart room. There was a large cushioned chair that she often fell asleep in and by morning she always woke up in her bed. Magically, it seemed. Usually, Elizabeth woke her and guided her to their cabin, though she dreamed once or twice that Stafford carried her to bed. And kissed her forehead. Or stroked her hair. It was a nice dream, if unwelcome, and comforted her as they sailed closer to Alexandria. She grew more anxious each day.

Andersen had wrapped Stafford’s ribs after their outing in Algiers. Samuel said it wasn’t too bad. Likely just some minor cracks. She felt a little guilty about that, but at least they’d all made it safely back to the ship, and when you adventured, there were bound to be casualties, she told him. He grunted.

She made it up to him by being entertaining. They played word games, which she always won. And chess, which he always won. Though to be fair, she had never played before. They shared some stories of their childhoods, though his was much more interesting and funny and endearing. She told him about her love of ancient Egypt and how she had figured out how to understand the language of ancient Egypt. That story had impressed him. He agreed she should be world renowned for that. But he might have just been saying that. The more he healed, the more distant he became.

She studied the funerary cone for additional properties but found none that could explain her unusual reaction to the stone—that strange dizzy sensation.

She sighed, looking out at the landscape, a landscape at once new and familiar. Familiar because of her father’s descriptions, she reminded herself.

She had been spending more and more time thinking about her father and what awaited her in Egypt. Truthfully, she would have liked Stafford by her side when dealing with it. But he was merely dropping her off.

She’d had over a week to get accustomed to the idea. Best for all if she let go easily.

He might make sure her belongings were secured at the Royal Garden Hotel, but beyond that they were through. Which was why his avoidance of her made her restless. He should be making the most of their final days. Even if there was no kissing, they were friends … of sorts. She sighed, looking over the rail. It suddenly seemed too much effort to keep her spine straight and shoulders back. She slumped and hung against the side, watching the coastline. It was beautiful in the morning sun. Gold against gold.

Like his eyes.

“Ugh. I’m pathetic.”

“What now, Ollie?” the object of her wonderings intruded. She turned up to see his face illuminated by the morning sun, his lips curving subtly. It was their last day together. It seemed to put him in a good mood.

“I hate that name.”

“I know.”

She examined his face in detail. The bruises from the fight with the giant twins had faded.

“Are you mad at me? I thought you only called me Ollie when you were mad, but I’ve hardly seen you, and I haven’t done anything of late, so there’s really no reason—”

“What would you like me to call you?”

She stopped her tirade. “Olivia. You may call me Olivia. You have taken that liberty previously, when is suits you.”

“Mmm. Well, then. You may call me Samuel.”

She laughed.

“What?”

“I can’t call you Samuel!” She laughed again and shook her head, explaining. “It’s just not done.”

“I see.”

He clearly didn’t see. She shook her head again.

“I can save you from kidnappers, pirates, murderous thieves, and angry giants, but you can’t use my given name?”

“Exactly. It’s reserved for a different type of intimacy,” she said. “I already took liberties calling you Stafford,” she bragged.

“Calling me Stafford was you taking liberties?”

“Yes! And it’s no fun anymore, now that I’ve learned you don’t realize it.”

“Sorry.” He held up a hand. “But trust me, you need to get more liberal.”

She laughed. It felt good. She hadn’t truly laughed in such a long time. She stopped when he stared at her, dazed, grinning vaguely back at her. “What is it?”

“You have such a beautiful smile it stops me in my tracks.”

Olivia froze. So did he. Then he shrugged sheepishly as if he hadn’t meant to say that, but it was out now.

“So all this time, I could have just smiled at you to get my way.”

“Yes. That’s about it.” His own smile broadened, and long moments later Olivia caught herself in the act of gazing deeply and silently into his eyes. She shook it off. Embarrassed. Confused. They looked out on the bay.

“What’s that castle?” she asked.

“Fort Qaitbey. Built about four hundred years ago by Sultan Qaitbey.”

“You’ve been inside?”

“Yes, I’ve been invited. I’m told it was built with stones from the Pharos lighthouse, which would have stood on about the same spot.”

“I know it! I mean, I read about it! The fort must be fantastic,” she said. “It’s much bigger than I imagined, or even than my father described.”

Stafford told her more about the city and the history he knew. She shared some of her studies on the local mythologies. It took some time to navigate the sandbars around the city to where they could safely anchor in the deeper waters of the bay, so they had a rare hour of amiable conversation. Olivia found that she would miss the rough American. Actually, not so rough as she’d first imagined.

“Thank you for all your help getting us here, Stafford. I shall pay you for your troubles, though half may have to be recovered when I am back in England.”

He stiffened. “You want to pay me?”

“That was the deal. I told you I would.”

“Really? Because I thought I made the decision to bring you here.”

“Well, yes. After the incident at the hotel. But I certainly didn’t expect a complimentary Mediterranean cruise.”

“And will you also pay for the damage to my ship and the men lost?”

Olivia didn’t speak. She could not. And she certainly could not give reparation for being the cause of death. She swallowed, the golden glow of the moment suddenly over.

“Let me know what it would take. I would only ask that you deliver Elizabeth and me to the Royal Garden Hotel with our things. I don’t have the knowledge of the city yet to manage that.”

“I might be wrong, but I’m guessing Elizabeth will be staying wherever Nathan is, and she is no longer your responsibility.”

Olivia swallowed hard, her eyes burning. “Of course. But they will surely stay a short while. Elizabeth will want to see my father.” She would be alone. In a strange city. It was cruel of him to point that out. It would be fine. She was a smart woman and could figure it out. There was certain to be some kind of message from her father at the hotel. Or if he was being held hostage, from one from his kidnappers. She was now in a position to make a clean trade. Then she and her father could continue on. It would all be fine. Most fine, indeed.

“So, you were just planning on leaving, once we arrived?” Samuel asked.

“There’s no need for you to bother any further.”

“I see. Because you’re more than capable of dealing with whatever group or army of fanatics has your father.”

“I have the cone now. It will be an easy negotiation.”

“Ollie, even when the players are honest, there’s no such thing as an easy negotiation. Do you even own a weapon? Oh, wait. Your inking pen. Yes, that will make an excellent weapon.”

“I happen to own a very sturdy inking pen, Stafford.”

“And your wit, of course,” he continued. “You could stab them with your glorious vocabulary.”

“You needn’t be such a brute about it!” She fumed. “Or heartless, or dastardly. Though it certainly suits you well enough.” Her eyes burned at the attack, damaging her vision. “Of course I’m worried. I know I must be cautious.”

“You are planning to leave this ship entirely unprotected. I thought you were the one with all the plans.” His voice was hard. She would have preferred he shout, but he didn’t.

“I do have a plan.”

“Does it involve asking for help?”

She stared at him. Confused. “Who would help me?”

His mouth dropped. He shook his head at her.

“You?” she asked.

“For all your knowledge, you have to be the most obtuse woman I have ever met. And I have a crazy sister,” he said. “You top even her!”

“I thought you loved her.”

“I do!”

“Well then, I don’t understand what you are saying. And you are being overly emotional and getting me upset. I don’t like getting upset. I told you I don’t like fighting with my friends. Are we not at least friends after all we have been through?”

“Yes! And even if we were not, Olivia, do you think I am the kind of man who would abandon a woman alone in a foreign country? Worse, a woman in imminent danger from men who either want to kidnap her for what she knows or kill her to get some useless piece of rock? That’s what you think of me?”

“No—”

He put up a hand. “We drop anchor in less than two hours. Have your things ready.” He spun around and left.

Olivia choked back the tears that threatened. It had been so special. Before he got mad at her. How was she to know if he had time to help her? Or cared. They’d never discussed it. One should discuss these things. Yet he’d avoided her almost entirely the past week. Of course, his ribs were healing. Olivia scrubbed her cheeks from the uncommon moisture. A sailor nearby kindly pretended not to notice. She had never cried before she met Stafford. Leastwise, not in public. Certainly there had been times when her father left for his journeys, and after her mother died she’d felt lost, but she’d always found books to distract her. And parties to attend whenever she wanted. She was a favorite at dinner parties. Stafford wouldn’t know that. And she had Elizabeth, at least for a little longer. Perhaps she would visit her in America. Bring some culture and intellectualism to those heathen Bostonians. That made her smile.

And then maybe she would run into Mr. Stafford again. When things were less hectic. And she would have many adventures and triumphs to regale him with. That was something to look forward to.

She wiped her eyes, straightening.

She would not lose sight of her goals.

Chapter Seventeen

Olivia traveled to the Royal Garden Hotel in her “professor” gear. She thought she might maintain the disguise until she knew the situation with her father.

The lobby of the hotel welcomed guests with a bright, expansive sitting area. The furnishings were English mixed with local design. No heavy fabrics—mostly wood, stone, rattan, and other materials that suited the temperate climate. She liked it. An exotic mix of people lounged in large chairs, enjoying drinks, cigars, and conversation. It seemed safe, harmless, and had a holiday flavor.

They hadn’t been there two minutes when a woman shouted, “Samuel!”

“Allie!” Stafford called back, obviously delighted, and stepped forward to greet her.

“Samuel, indeed.” Olivia muttered over the woman taking the liberty of using his name. He seemed to grant that liberty quite liberally.

Olivia watched with disgust and a bit of jealously as a stunning redhead propelled herself into Stafford’s arms and he spun her around with what could only be a well-practiced routine. When she landed, she pressed her cheek to his chest and squeezed before bombarding him with questions.

The worst part was the look on Stafford’s face. Happiness. Olivia quickly ascertained this would not be one of the women easy for him to say good-bye to.

Olivia couldn’t contain herself any longer. She walked over with only half-hidden disgust. “Honestly, Stafford.” She noted the woman. “Every port?”

“This is different.”

“Really?” She sounded doubtful, she knew, and tried her best not to be rude as she studied the woman. Gads. She was beautiful. She glowed. It was disgusting. Who glowed in this weather? Of course her hair was a horribly bright red. Well … not too bright. And there were some gold streaks that saved it from being completely obscene. But definitely, not the thing. And she had freckles across her nose. You had to be close to observe them, but a flaw nonetheless. She should stay out of the sun. It was fine for Stafford to have his array of freckles. He was a sea captain. He could not avoid the sun.

Olivia couldn’t really fault the woman’s eyes, though Olivia hated her for it. Perfect green. Most annoying. Well, at least she could fault her common sense. The woman wore a blouse with long sleeves, cuffed at the wrist, and a high collar in the back. It was much too warm for that attire. That could only mean the woman was demented. She would warn Stafford later.

The object of her inspection tilted her head to Samuel, then back at her, then back to Samuel. Then she smiled. A dimple on one side. Excellent. A lopsided smile. Only someone who loved her could find that attractive. The smile got bigger as she continued to stare back at Olivia. Until Olivia had the distinct feeling the demented, freckled woman was laughing at her!

Olivia straightened to her full height. An inch above the other woman. The woman nodded to her politely, then turned back to Stafford.

“Samuel,” the redhead whispered so only he and Olivia could hear. “Why is she dressed like a man?”

Olivia gasped. Her costume was perfect today!

Stafford laughed out loud, adding to the insult. “I’ll explain later.” He took the woman’s arm.

“Allie, may I present Professor Oliver Hill.”

“What are you a professor of, uh, Mr. Hill?” she asked, genuinely curious.

“Ancient Egypt.” Olivia was curt. Really, even though she was in disguise, Stafford should have presented the other woman to her. Just because they were in a foreign port did not mean they should forgo manners and rank.

Gads, she was in a bad mood.

“I see. That’s convenient, as we are in Egypt.” The woman’s face withdrew into a polite mask, as if sensing Olivia’s dislike. She turned to Stafford. “Was that a rude question?”

“No. Ollie’s been through a lot. You’ll need to excuse her.”

The woman nodded, accepting, and offered her hand. “Please call me Alex. All our friends do.”

“Alex?” Certain dread struck Olivia. She nearly choked. Then looked at Samuel for confirmation. He had the same hair, only a darkened version. And something in his determined jaw was echoed in the woman’s.

“Yes. Only Samuel and my father call me Allie.”

“Ollie, my sister. Her Grace, Alexandra Stafford Leigh, Duchess of Worthington”—Stafford waved a hand to her—“or something like that.”

“Close enough, brother.” His sister curtsied expertly, but it mocked the English style.

Olivia was certain her face had gone white. “Your Grace, my apologies.” She bowed. Then scowled at Stafford. “You could have told me.”

“I just did.”

She turned to Samuel’s sister. “I thought your were another one of his …” She waved an arm.

“Oh.” Alex frowned at Samuel, repeating Olivia’s earlier words. “Every port? How many ports did you stop in, Professor Hill?”

“Oh. Uh. Only two, Your Grace.”

“Well then. That’s all right. Sunni is engaged, you know. Margueritte I never liked much, but the men can’t help themselves around her. I thought Khalid would have claimed her by now.”

Olivia felt much better hearing that. At least his sister had a discerning mind.

Nathan and Elizabeth entered at the same moment the Duke of Worthington sauntered in to claim his wife. They were introduced, and Stafford’s sister had only warm embraces for Nathan and Elizabeth—now that Elizabeth was “family.” Their circle expanded. That meant only Olivia was not family. She found herself falling outside the circle. Uncomfortable. She also found that her assumptions about Stafford’s sister were not only a mistake, but unkind. The woman looked nothing like a sea captain, for one. A businesswoman, perhaps. There was a spark in her eyes that could not be mistaken for anything but intelligence, and a sharpness that one should not underestimate. But she was warm. And she clearly adored her older brother. Blindly, no doubt. Olivia supposed that was another thing sisters did that she had no experience with. She sighed, inching farther away until Samuel nudged her forward and presented her to the duke. His wife whispered something, but his expression never wavered. He welcomed her unreservedly.

Samuel suggested they freshen up and meet for an early dinner in a few hours. Olivia, for one, could not have been more pleased. She would soak for at least an hour. She felt as if she had accumulated weeks of grime, despite her frequent seawater baths.

Her room did not disappoint, and neither did the service, compliments of the Staffords. It did pay to have rich friends. She immediately threw herself on the large bed, stretching and sprawling on the comfortable mattress, emitting sighs of pleasure as she stared up at the yellow-painted walls and ceilings. After doing that for a few minutes, she went to the small balcony and stuck her face out into the afternoon breeze. She heard Stafford next door, thanking a hotel worker for handling their bags. Elizabeth and Riedell were on the other side chatting. It seemed they liked the bed as well.

Olivia ducked back in the room. She twirled in the center of the room, simply enjoying the space after weeks of confined privacy. Stafford liked her smile. She pirouetted and twirled. And so far no women in this port. She would forgo being Professor Hill for the evening and take her proper place in society. And she needed the edge of confidence with the company she was keeping. Plus … she wanted to look good for a change. She ignored that fact that she wanted to look good for Stafford.

A hotel maidservant assigned to her helped with her gown. Olivia chose a light muslin with silver ribbons. She secured her hair in a knot, but the woman shook her head.

“No?”

“No, m’lady.”

Olivia took it down. It was straight and heavy—largely unremarkable. Elizabeth’s hair fell in luscious waves around her face and over her shoulders. Olivia’s was just straight. The woman produced some shears and offered to trim the ends. Olivia agreed, and the result was a blunt cut to her shoulders that made her tresses feel thicker and more luxurious. When she spun her head the style fell back into place. It felt good. And fun. She smiled to herself, enjoying the childish act of swinging her hair. Yes, this would do.

Olivia dismissed the maid, then fussed for thirty more minutes. She expected Elizabeth and Riedell to come get her on the way down. When they finally did, Olivia’s stomach was filled with tension.

“What is it dear?” Elizabeth touched her arm.

“Nothing. Just anxious tonight.”

“You needn’t be. You are Lady Olivia Katharine Hastings Yates, genius and consummate lady. And you look stunning.”

“Aye, you do, Lady Olivia,” Riedell said. “The captain won’t be able to take his eyes off you. I’d wager on it.” He caught her expression and grinned. “Not that you’d care, of course.”

“Of course,” she replied. But she hoped he was right anyway.

Samuel had reserved a private room for them to dine in tonight, as there was much to discuss and celebrate. He intended to celebrate before he would have to tell Olivia that there was no word of her father around town. His sister had already made inquiries.

He poured a whiskey for himself and his brother-in-law, enjoying a rare sense of peace that only came when someone in his family was near. Seeing his sister safe from harm and enjoying her company was becoming an infrequent treat. Nathan opened the door for Elizabeth and Olivia to join the group. He stood and smiled politely.

And then he saw her.

He was certain his heart stopped. She smiled at him. Deliberately. Knowingly. Her smile grew. No doubt from his dull-witted reaction. He had never seen her look this way. Like a streak of moonlight.

Hair like silver, eyes like two stars. It was true. In the pale dress, with her white-blonde hair framing her face, her eyes glowed even more oddly. Not clear. Not gray. Silver. A precious silver.

He stepped closer to take her hand. A husky whisper escaped. “You look magnificent.” He lifted her hand, their eyes still engaged, and watched as the silver turned to a stormy gray. Her hand trembled, and he observed with relief that he was not the only one moved by their connection. He smiled back, then swallowed as his eyes inadvertently observed the swell of pearly white skin above her low neckline. Her dress paid tribute to parts of her that had been bound and hidden in the last couple of weeks. He was grateful for it now. He met her eyes apologetically, unable to stop his grin when the skin under inspection turned pink.

“You’re a wicked man, Stafford.” She pulled her hand away.

He grinned more broadly. “It seems I am.”

Olivia wished she could have been more nonchalant, but not many men looked at her like that in London. Hungry, possessive, admiring. She felt both giddy and powerful.

She turned to greet the others—and froze.

Samuel’s sister, as yet unnoticed by the others, was staring at her white-faced. Even her freckles paled. If Olivia hadn’t known better, she’d have guessed the woman had just been shocked. Only nothing of significance had happened in the time since she entered. “Your Grace!”

Everyone turned.

“Alex!” The duke immediately caught his wife in his arms and brought her over to the settee, sitting down with her on his lap. “Alex? Alex?” He tried to get her attention, but she simply stared at Olivia, unmoving—as if she were seeing something else.

An eerie shiver went down Olivia’s spine. She stepped forward to ask what is was, and Her Grace recoiled.

Samuel turned to her, his expression questioning. Olivia thought she might be as pale as the other woman now. “Your Grace, please. What is it?” she begged.

No answer.

“Perhaps it is the heat,” Olivia offered. The woman wore long sleeves again, and it was certainly not overly cool, despite the open windows of the bottom-floor chamber.

Finally the duchess gasped for air—as if she had been underwater too long. Her color returned. Samuel poured her some water and she sipped.

“I’m all right. Really.”

She looked better. At least conscious again, Olivia thought.

“I stood still for too long. And I’ve had a little bit of a stomachache lately. Sorry. That was incredibly silly.” She reassured her brother, but turned to Olivia, still staring unnaturally. “Forgive me, Lady Olivia. That was ill timed.”

“There’s nothing to forgive, Your Grace. I have made your brother cringe at the sight of me, so I am more than accustomed to my effect on people,” Olivia admitted, grimacing.

“I cower regularly,” Nathan confessed, causing his wife to laugh and Olivia to gasp. The others laughed at Olivia. She tried to accept it graciously.

“Well,” Samuel said. “I know how you don’t like to be the center of attention, Allie, but I have something for you, and now seems as good a time as any to give it.”

Olivia watched as he brought out jewelry boxes he had hidden in a drawer nearby. She already knew what was inside. They were for his sister!

Elizabeth moved closer to see as Samuel’s sister opened the first box. Both women gave a sharp intake of breath. The duchess lifted the bracelet and fit it over her wrist. “It’s exquisite, Samuel.” Then she turned from the group and pulled up her sleeve before fitting it over her wrist. She turned back to display it, her eyes glistening with unshed tears as she looked at her brother. “It fits perfectly.” She hugged him. “Thank you, Samuel.”

“Open the rest!” Elizabeth sat next to her to see the next surprise.

“Women and jewelry,” the duke said. “Good thing you’re her brother, Stafford.”

“It’s her wedding gift,” Samuel explained.

“I love getting married!” Alex said. The group laughed.

“I hope you’re not intending to do it more than once, my love.” The duke pressed a kiss to the top of her head, and her smile sparkled brilliantly.

“Of course not,” she replied. “Would you mind if I changed? I’ll be quick.”

The others nodded.

“I’ll help you.” Olivia rose to join her. “There’re likely few maids around.”

The duchess hesitated, then nodded agreement.

The women hurried to the duchess’s suite, and Olivia watched as the woman tore through clothes. “Now I don’t have anything to wear,” she complained. Olivia followed her to a trunk and caught material as it came flying at her. Finally Alex stopped on an apple green and pale brown dress with cap sleeves and scooped neckline.

“This one,” she stated. “The jewels will shine perfectly with these colors.”

“I concur, Your Grace.”

“You must call me Alex.”

“I cannot.” She’d responded without thinking.

“Why?”

Olivia paused. Samuel’s sister looked … hurt. “It’s just not how I was raised,” she explained. “It sounds strange. Some things are too ingrained.”

“Oh.”

Olivia suddenly felt remorseful at the woman’s confused glance. The duchess went behind a screen and switched dresses. She came out with most of her back buttoned.

“I can do that, Your Grace.” The duchess turned hesitantly, then fixed her hair over her neck to allow Olivia access. Samuel’s sister stood stiff, and Olivia thought perhaps she was a modest woman. She hadn’t accounted for that. It didn’t go along with her image as a swashbuckling female sea captain. However, nothing about this woman made sense with what she’d envisioned.

“Let me put your hair up. It will show off—”

“No!”

Her Grace spun around, protecting her hair.

Strange.

“No, thank you,” she corrected. “I like my hair down.”

“Of course.” Olivia didn’t know what to say to that, so she went to what was on her mind. “Your Grace? Tonight when I entered the dining room … it seemed as though you knew me from somewhere.”

“We’ve never met.”

“I know. I would remember it,” Olivia said. “Still, it was as if you knew me.”

The duchess paused in her toilette and spoke directly, her body still, her eyes piercing Olivia—searching, it seemed, for an answer. “I thought for a moment I did recognize you,” she said. “From a dream. And … I wondered in that moment … if we control our destiny, or destiny controls us.”

“You prefer the former.”

“I prefer a choice.” Then she laughed, her mood changing entirely. “However, I came here, so perhaps I made the wrong choice.” She shrugged. “I have been under the weather of late. Ignore my musings. They are nothing. Do you care for my brother?”

Samuel’s sister changed the subject—the woman was expert at it—only, this was a topic where Olivia was still unsure.

“You stumble. That’s not good. My brother is the kindest, most generous and honorable man in the world—next to my husband, Joshua. My father is generous, but Samuel is kinder. Matthew is kind, but withholds his heart. Stephen is still learning the cost of honor. Samuel,” she revealed, “already knows it. And he would never hold back loving or forgiving someone. That’s why he is unique among all men I have known. He knows every day is important.”

Olivia swallowed hard. Samuel had a strong advocate in his sister. “He has said equally good things about you, Your Grace.”

“Of course.” She grinned with confidence. “He’s my brother. I saw the way he looked at you. That’s how I knew you were not a man. Your disguise is very good.” She held out her hand for Olivia to clasp the bracelets. “And he’s uncommonly sensitive and thoughtful.”

Olivia gasped. The duchess’s wrist was scarred as if the flesh had been torn from her bone. Olivia looked up to find sharp green eyes staring back at her hard and unflinching.

“I tell you all this because, while I never said anything to him, he knew. He knew I could not bear for my skin to be seen and gaped at by strangers.”

The way Olivia had just done. Brilliant.

“Look again.”

Olivia did, though it pained her to see the distorted skin.

The duchess continued. “The bracelet covers the scars completely, save this longer one.” She indicated a thin pale line inside her forearm. “But that’s not so bad.”

“What happened?”

Her Grace held out her other wrist for Olivia to clasp the second bracelet. It wasn’t damaged as badly.

“I was injured.” She paused. “It’s not as bad, in comparison to—”

“In comparison to what?” Olivia was outraged.

The duchess shrugged her elegant shoulders again. Olivia decided it was best not to pursue that question. She took the necklace from its case. “This one clasps in the front. Very unusual for the choker style,” Olivia said.

The duchess met her eyes in the mirror, and suddenly Olivia had a feeling that the choker was meant to cover something as well. It made sense with her preference for keeping her hair down. Olivia handed the necklace over so the woman could do it herself. Indeed, she very discreetly slid it under her hair and clasped it in the front before going behind the screen again to another mirror, where she fixed her hair. Olivia’s curiosity increased.

“I see how you are looking at me,” the duchess said from behind the screen. “People always look at me that way,” she said, returning. “As if there is something wrong with me. Or I am strange.”

Olivia almost tried to deny it, but it was true. She had been curious about Alexandra Stafford the moment her name began to circulate among the ton. And though she didn’t know her well enough yet to say, she rather thought the woman might be strange—relatively speaking.

“There are many dangers in the world, Lady Olivia,” Samuel’s sister said. “You have lived a safe life. Be careful of what choices you make now.”

“You’re warning me.” Olivia stiffened.

“Yes. You don’t know the dangers you are walking into.”

“I’m fully aware. My father told me they were matters of life and death. I don’t take that lightly.”

“No. I don’t think you would. But what you don’t know, Lady Olivia”—the duchess paused to make sure she was paying attention—“is how slowly one can be made to die.”

A cold shiver ran down Olivia’s spine. No, that was not a possibility that had occurred to her and not one with which she wanted to become familiar. But she fully intended to find her father, whatever it took.

The duchess nodded to herself. As if she had done her duty. She displayed her wrists.

“Samuel also has impeccable taste, does he not?”

“Yes, yes.” Olivia waved a hand over the jewelry. “A man of such perfection has never walked the earth before.”

His sister laughed and winked at her. “Let’s not go that far.”

Chapter Eighteen

Samuel was surprised when Olivia and Alex returned to the celebration in good time. He had been a little worried about having the two of them alone in the same room, but both appeared calm and in good health.

“The lady professor and I have returned,” Alex announced.

Worthington studied his wife to see how she was feeling. “You scared me.”

“I’m sorry,” Alex said. “Look.” She lifted her wrists, and Worthington held them for examination. “I feel normal again.”

Samuel’s throat caught.

“Perfect. But equally perfect without jewels, my love.” Worthington kissed near both wrists, then her forehead, nodding his thanks to Samuel over her head.

Samuel felt a tentative hand on his arm. He looked down, and Olivia gave a brilliant smile. Whether to distract him or comfort him, it did the trick. His stomach clenched in reaction. He put a hand over hers and studied the storm-colored eyes, his thumb discreetly caressing her wrist for an instant before he stepped away, cautious of any inappropriate displays.

Samuel thought their meal went very well. It was a small festivity for Elizabeth and Nathan, who, while appreciative, also asked for understanding in retiring early.

Samuel couldn’t fault his friend. As it was, Olivia smiled at him entirely too much. He was aching to take her to bed. When she moved about, her gown flowed against her long legs, causing him to imagine all sorts of things that would in all likelihood scare Olivia into spinsterhood permanently.

Alex and Olivia seemed to have worked a few things out between them, but he hesitated to leave them alone. He didn’t want Alex finding out about the symbol on the funerary cone, and he didn’t want Olivia finding out about the matching tattoo on his sister’s neck. The link was too uncanny, and Alex would never leave if she knew Olivia, or anyone else for that matter, was in danger from the prophecy. That said, he knew it was only a matter of time before the discovery was made—if his sister wasn’t already one step ahead of them all.

He had given Worthington a warning while Alex and Olivia were upstairs that they needed to talk. The two planned to meet before the women were about the next morning. He hoped they would be able to figure out what happened to Lord Merryvale before Olivia decided to take matters into her own hands.

That’s when Olivia opened her mouth, revealing she was taking matters into her own hands. “I let the hotel know I was here. There were no messages from my father, but I’m certain he is checking in.” Olivia fixed her skirt as it she had given information of no consequence.

“You what!”

She jumped. “I—”

“I heard you!”

“Don’t shout at me!” Olivia’s voice went up a notch.

Samuel took a deep breath. They had been having an after-dinner drink. Samuel had a plan in place. He didn’t need her bumbling into danger. Didn’t she trust him yet?

He took another breath. He’d upset her. Hell, she was sensitive. He inhaled one more time and released. Sensitive and stupid. His sister smiled in amusement, biting her bottom lip.

“Ollie—”

“Don’t call me that. You have no right to be mad at me.”

“Really? Is that right?”

“Yes, that’s right.” Olivia’s back went even more British. It couldn’t be comfortable.

“I see.” Samuel would have to explain things to her. Fortunately, he was a patient man.

“Olivia, first it’s best to get your bearings in a dangerous situation before announcing your location to the world and making yourself a target for all those people eager to get their hands on you while you are unsuspecting and unprotected.”

“I’m not unsuspecting—”

“Second, in case you have forgotten, there is still a ten-thousand-pound price on your head.”

His sister gasped. Impressed. “What did you do?”

Olivia spun to her innocently. “Nothing!”

Alex smirked. “Oh. A story. I did not take you as an adventuress, Lady Professor.”

“Indeed, I am not!” Olivia sounded insulted.

Samuel grunted. “Could have fooled me.”

Olivia gasped.

“In any case, you don’t know the danger you might be walking into. It would be smart—You do consider yourself a smart woman, don’t you, Olivia?” he asked.

She huffed at him in response.

He continued, “It would be smart if you gathered some information before acting impulsively.”

“Impulsively! You insult me? I’m never impulsive! I have done nothing but think through this entire journey. And now that I am here, I have no intention of waiting for your approval before I can act. You’re not the boss here. Or captain of the hotel. Or minister of Alexandria.”

“Indeed, you are not, Stafford,” Worthington added, pulling his wife against him on the settee. “I always thought he was a bit bossy myself, Lady Olivia.”

Alex smirked. “It comes with being the eldest.”

Samuel saw that their support made Olivia even more stubborn. Excellent.

“And one night won’t matter,” Olivia said. “I’m going to go to the tomb site in the morning. If my father is not there, someone will surely be able to tell me where he is.”

“You know the tomb site?” Samuel questioned.

“Of course.”

“And when were you going to tell me?” He reminded himself he was a patient man.

“I didn’t know whether I could trust you yet.”

Samuel’s voice dropped. “You didn’t know whether you could trust me yet?”

“Well!” his sister intervened, instantly. “I’ve been eager to get a tour of the tomb site. Your father promised me himself. How fortunate that we now know where to go.”

“It’s just outside town. Very close,” Olivia said.

Samuel wasn’t done. “I bring you safely to Egypt, comfort you when you are sick, save you from hundreds of marauding, mercenary pirates—”

“I’ve been corresponding with your father,” Alex continued. “But we’ve been here several days and have not seen him yet at the hotel.”

“I did help fight the corsairs,” Olivia chimed, ignoring Alex.

“I didn’t collect ten thousand pounds for your capture, or throw you overboard when you were annoying—which was often, I might add.”

Worthington laughed and Alex nudged him to hold it in.

“But you didn’t know whether you could trust me?”

“Yes.” Olivia put her hands on her hips and stepped toe to toe with him. “Exactly.”

“You didn’t know whether you could trust me!”

“You’re verbigerating, Stafford.” She turned to the duke, “That means repeating something over and over.”

Samuel caught the duke’s wink of agreement, while Olivia decided to create some distance between them. A smart move on her part.

“He is indeed verbigerating, Lady Professor. Stafford, you really must stop that,” Worthington insisted.

“Yes,” Olivia agreed, stepping further away from him. “Next you’ll be fulminating—”

“Fulminating is definitely bad,” Alex agreed, as Olivia moved behind her. “Fortunately, Samuel rarely fulminates, Lady Professor. I’m sure you are quite safe. He looks calm indeed.”

Olivia stood behind the settee. “That’s calm?”

Samuel was about to tell her the plan, when she continued. “Look, Stafford, I appreciate that you have delivered me safely here. But here’s the plan: Tomorrow I will get transportation to the excavation site. I will find my father, and if necessary I will give them the inscription from the artifact.” She tilted her head at him. “No need to give them the artifact if it’s not really necessary. Don’t you agree?”

“What is the artifact?” Alex inquired.

“Nothing. A stone,” Samuel said.

“Not just a stone!” Olivia turned to his sister to elaborate on her favorite topic. “A funerary cone for one of the librarians of the Great Library of Alexandria!”

Alex sat up. “You know for certain that it’s a librarian?”

Samuel tensed. His sister definitely knew something she wasn’t sharing. He saw the duke’s eyes narrow as well.

“I would greatly enjoy seeing this artifact, Lady Olivia.” Alex stood. “Do you have it hidden away, safe?”

“Yes, actually. But I can get it now.” Olivia was already walking to the door.

“It’s late,” Samuel said. “Plenty of time tomorrow.”

“Not if we are going to the excavation site,” Alex said. “We are not letting you go alone,” she told Olivia. “That’s just madness.”

“Quite right,” the duke agreed.

“And since this stone is something my brother does not want me to see, I must surely see it.” His sister frowned at him. “I, too, like to be informed.”

Olivia looked at Stafford, curious. He was hiding something from his sister. And his sister was hiding something from the duke and her brother. Strange. Interesting. Confusing. Olivia made a decision to get whatever it was out into the open.

“But …” Her Grace paused, worried, and they all looked at her as she fell deep in thought, the concern on her face apparent. “Do you think there will be any killing? You know I don’t kill people anymore,” she reminded the men.

Olivia swallowed, horrified. “You don’t kill people?”

Then to Olivia’s further horror, she saw that the duchess misunderstood her worry.

“Trust me. It’s better that way. But we should be as prepared as possible.”

“I concur, Your Grace.” Olivia said. “I will get the artifact.” She looked over at the sound of Stafford’s pained sigh. He was raking his hair again. “You can’t have everything your way, Stafford.”

“I can try.”

She laughed. “I’ll be right back.”

Olivia raced up the hotel stairs to her chamber. She had to pass Elizabeth and Nathan’s room on the way. At the sound of laughter, she stopped. It was Elizabeth. Olivia frowned. Her friend had always been full of gentle smiles and good humor, but rarely if ever could Olivia recall her laughing. Olivia jumped back when the next sound was Elizabeth’s squeak of surprise. How curious. Was married life fun? She stepped closer. Her friend was laughing again, but this time it was huskier, becoming breathless. She thought she heard a deep I love you. Nathan again. What an annoying man. “I love you,” he repeated.

Suddenly Olivia realized her ear was crushed against the door. She backed away and shook it off. Laughing in bed. Very odd.

Returning to her task, she retrieved the artifact, and hearing moans from the chamber next door, hurried back downstairs. She was breathless and hot when she arrived.

“Everything all right, Ollie?” Stafford asked.

She nodded, wanting nothing more than to fan herself. “Yes. I’m fine.” She unwrapped the artifact from her clothing and held it for the duchess. “The front end here, where it’s widest, is the name of the person buried in the tomb, along with a bit of pomp and circumstance about their role and importance in the world. It was found facing out this way”—she demonstrated—“and fit into the wall at the entrance of the particular tomb, which is actually within a much larger burial chamber.”

Olivia indicated the name piece. The duchess touched it, fascinated, while Olivia read to her the inscription she’d translated. She paused when the duchess looked with astonishment at her, and then at her brother, as if to confirm.

“You understand the hieroglyphics!” she said.

“Yes, assuming my translation is correct. It seems to make sense—to me at least. It was quite easy, actually …”

The duchess turned white for the second time that night, reaching out to Olivia as if to protect her. “Samuel, she is in great danger. They will need her to decipher whatever is in the tomb.”

“Well, they can’t kill me.” Then Olivia remembered what the duchess had told her earlier in the evening. She really didn’t know how slowly a person could be killed.

Olivia sat immediately. She fought off sudden nausea and continued her description of the stone, turning it around to the star-shaped side and holding it up to the light.

A synchronized gasp emitted from the pair on the settee. They both turned to Samuel, then to her, then back to the stone. It was uncomfortable. And yet comforting. Clearly there was something familiar. New information they could share.

“You recognize this symbol?”

Silence.

Olivia waited. When no one spoke, she did. “The star shape is very unusual for a funerary cone, but the pattern, this symbol inside, I have found in my research. Stafford had some books on the ship about it.”

His sister jolted to look at him. He shrugged. “I was curious.”

“It is often associated with death and rebirth. Or with”—Olivia paused—“myths regarding the god of the underworld. His opposite or complement.”

“Lilith,” the duchess stated.

Olivia nodded, surprised. She supposed she shouldn’t be, considering their strange reaction. But what did they know? And why did they know this odd piece of history?

“Do you know Lord Heatherly of the British Museum?” the duchess asked.

“Yes. He is an acquaintance.”

“He told me this symbol represents Lilith. Though she is known by other names in other cultures. There is an ancient myth …”

“Yes?” Olivia didn’t know the specific myths. It wasn’t in any research Stafford had.

Stafford’s sister glanced at her scowling husband before sharing. “Lilith divided her realm between her two daughters, only one became greedy and tried to conquer the other,” the duchess told her. “Despite her best efforts, she could not succeed, and just when it looked like she might lose, it is said she asked the god of the underworld for help. He did help, giving her the ability to command the seas and thus conquer her sister. She became queen, and her empire is said to have extended beyond any in recorded or known history, with wealth beyond imagination.”

“That is the story outside the tomb,” said Olivia. To Stafford, “Why did you not tell me when I shared it with you?”

“I figured the fewer people who know, the better.”

“That is very closed-minded of you. Surely no one thinks this story is real and poses any threat?” Olivia said. “If there had been such an empire, there would be evidence of it.”

“Not unless it was destroyed.”

“Uh-huh.” Olivia was not convinced. “How?”

“The queen had to sacrifice her first child to the god as payment for his help.”

“Ah. And did she?”

“Of course not. She took her sister’s firstborn and tossed the child off the cliff at the altar to the underworld,” the duchess explained, as if personally outraged.

Olivia absorbed this. “Devious … but brilliant. Except that in most mythologies, mortals are severely punished for tricking the gods.”

“Exactly!” the duchess said. “Here is where the myth varies. Some say the devil, or whoever the god of the underworld was in this myth, rose up and destroyed the queen. Others say Lilith returned, was furious about the turn of events, and sang a song to the seas that made them rise up and destroy all, save for a few survivors to tell the tale.”

Olivia leaned forward, staring at the artifact. “That’s the most ridiculous story I’ve ever heard. Why would she destroy all her work? And what does any of that have to do with this?”

Three voices informed her of the connection.

“Treasure,” Samuel offered.

“Power,” the duke said.

“The end of days,” the duchess finished.

Olivia froze, stunned at their collective response. “Gads. A trio of temptations.” Clearly something was going on that she was not informed about. “But this tomb …”

“It’s possible that the location of the realm was passed down through the ages. Or perhaps the librarian was merely a follower of Lilith, and this is a coincidence that people hope means more than it really does. We don’t know yet. None of us have explored the tomb. It’s heavily guarded, from what I’ve learned,” the duchess said.

The duke turned to his wife. “Wait.”

His wife froze, caught in her own web of secrets, it appeared.

“You know where the tomb is as well?” he asked.

“See how it feels?” Samuel said.

“I only made a few inquiries. I was worried about Lord Merryvale.”

“Thank you, Your Grace,” Olivia said. Olivia decided the women were on the same side. And that all men were bossy.

“So I guess we’re not really here to sightsee, visit the pyramids, and get away from the dreary weather?” The duke’s mouth twisted up with wry humor.

Olivia watched as the duchess shrugged, her eyes widening apologetically. “I thought it would be an opportunity to learn more while we were in the area, husband.”

“Uh-huh.” He didn’t believe it. “We’ll discuss this later.”

The duchess took the artifact and studied it, staring for a long time at the inscription on the end. She ran her fingers over the carved words. “The material at this end is not granite. It looks to be plaster.”

“Yes,” Olivia agreed. “It has been found at other ancient sites in the area. It would have made it easier to engrave.”

The duchess stared at it longer, then mumbled, “Or hide something.” She measured the size of the circular end, curious, then looked at her husband again. Only now she had a decidedly sad expression. “You can’t run from destiny, Joshua.”

He stood and took the artifact from her, handing it back to Olivia. “But you don’t have to run to it. And not so quickly.”

His wife nodded and took the hand he offered, squeezing it tightly. There was something melancholic in the action. As if they knew they did not have much time for holding hands or being together. Olivia frowned, worried. Before she could learn more, they were bidding their good evenings and promising to meet in the general dining area for breakfast.

The duchess turned and waited. Olivia reluctantly followed, leaving Stafford alone with his thoughts.

Two hours later, Olivia had paced several miles within her room.

Gads, she was restless tonight. No amount of deciphering could distract her. First, she was bombarded by the sounds of Elizabeth and Nathan in their marital bliss. Next, she had to witness the duke and duchess throughout the evening. Stafford was right. It was a love match. All that love was making her confused. Was it love? Or merely a very strong connection? Infatuation. Kindness mixed with lust. Was that what she felt for Stafford? Friendship and lust? That would account for her desire to be near him so much. Tonight it had been even more intense. She had wanted their knees to touch under the table.

And he was considerate. He always had been. When she’d first met him, when she was seasick, when Elizabeth had abandoned her for an American. He wasn’t kind only to her, either. She had seen it with his crew, with the slaves he had freed, with Nathan, with his sister.

Yes, he was bossy, but everyone had at least one flaw. She found she admired him—intensely.

It was awful.

Perhaps that was what people mistook for love—admiration, friendship, and lust. That would make for the core ingredients. Except that would mean she was in love. She shook her head. That was entirely impossible. She snorted. Even if she did discover this “love,” she would not give up her life for marriage. She would be trapped. She was going to decipher the writings in the great tombs of Egypt. There had to be hundreds yet to unearth. An entire history lost that she and her father could recover and share with the world. She would be acknowledged for her work and invited to speak at the top institutions.

For long moments, Olivia imagined the possibilities. Then she accepted the reality.

She was a woman.

No matter what contribution she made, a woman would not be invited to speak at the top institutions. She wasn’t even allowed to attend lectures at the top institutions. It was a bitter truth.

Then there was this other issue. Perhaps not all her father’s colleagues were in Alexandria for the right reasons. What if some of them did think the librarian’s tomb held secrets to an ancient treasure? How far would they go to get it?

She stopped. No. That all just seemed too silly to believe. She would not get caught up in myths. She dealt with facts.

Olivia walked out onto her balcony and breathed. The air was perfect. Soothing, dry, and cool. Surprisingly she missed the lull of the sea at night. She tilted her face to the moon and tried to relax, slowing, finding peace.

Then she heard a cry—of pleasure.

Gads! Was everyone in the building fornicating? She marched back into her room and put on her professor breeches and a shirt.

There was another moan through the wall. Olivia covered her ears in frustration. Would they never go to sleep! She wondered if Stafford was still awake. Perhaps they could talk. She wanted to find out more about his sister. What had happened to her?

And it was also a good time for Olivia to explain that he should not become attached to her. He was attached to her. She was certain. And it was making her attached to him, which just would not do. She did best without attachments, as she’d been forced to learn lately. She could be like the great Librarian of Alexandria—or at least decipher all the work of the great librarian. With a mission like that, surely there would be time for little else.

She would have to tell Stafford. Quickly she pulled on her soft-soled boots. Stafford’s room was next door. She could easily cross to his balcony. What with all her recent climbing experience, a couple feet would be no problem. This would be simple.

She sensed he’d wanted to talk a bit longer tonight too. Not using the hall would avoid any impropriety. Now that they weren’t on the ship, she needed to be more careful.

Samuel hung his clothes over the changing wall. He was just about to climb into bed when a shadow on the balcony alerted him. Damn. This was inopportune. He rubbed the tingling at the back of his neck where little hairs had spiked. His weapons were on the other side of the room. He pressed his body against the wall and waited. As soon as the shadow stepped into the light of the room, he grasped the intruder tightly around the neck, choking a startled cry from the trespassing—

Oh. Soft.

He breathed in the fresh, sweet scent of roses as pale hair swung over his arm. His body reacted instinctively, rapidly, and obviously. He swore. Extremely inopportune. Damn her. Her body struggled against him, panicked, doing nothing to curb the growing hardness between his legs.

He loosened his hold without releasing her. He could feel the bottom curve of her breasts where his arm wrapped around her midsection. His left hand stretched over one breast. A normal reaction when he had a woman in his arms.

She froze. “Stafford! It’s me.”

“Yes.” His thumb brushed over her full curve, and she gasped. He closed his eyes for control as the hardening nipple made the nerves of his fingertips sensitive and the rest of him more aware than he wanted to be. “Ollie,” his voice came out a harsh rasp. “This was not a good idea.” His hand rubbed lightly down her waist, then over and across her thighs where they met. It was a brief touch, but enough to know she wore nothing beneath her shirt and breeches.

No, definitely not a good idea. But he was starting to be won over. His hand slid under the shirt.

“I couldn’t sleep.” She squirmed, trying to turn around. He tightened his grip to stop her from doing so. “I wanted to talk. I have to tell you something,” she said, breathless.

“Right.” God, save him from women who just wanted to talk. “Now is not the best time.”

“But—”

“Ollie, just be still. I’m going to let you go, but don’t turn around until I permit it. Agreed?”

“Agreed, but—”

He squeezed to silence her, then very firmly placed her away from him. He had not yet reached a bed sheet when he heard her gasp. Quickly he wrapped the sheet around his waist. Then he wrapped it again, cursing. Nothing like getting caught without your pants on.

When he turned back around she was staring. Mouth open. Silent. The silent part was a nice change of pace.

“Stafford.” She stepped forward, her eyes glued to his chest.

He stepped back. She was in her professor clothes, but with the tangled hair, a loose shirt, and a hungry expression, she looked very un-professorly.

“Stafford?” She took another step forward.

He swallowed hard and took another step back. Against the bed. “What was it you wanted to tell me?” he reminded.

Her hand came out to touch him, and he caught the wrist in defense, his other hand tightening its grip on the sheet. He sucked in air, praying for control. She’d driven him mad all night with her dress stretching dangerously over her bosom. Then there were her knees bumping his under the table causing lightning shocks of awareness, added to her sly smile when she tilted her head up at him. She epitomized trouble. And if she came one step closer, it would be too much.

He would ravish her.

“Stafford,” she breathed softly, one last time, her other hand finally making contact.

She didn’t take her eyes from his. It unnerved. He could see the outright hunger on her face, and it did nothing for his control—nor did the palm splaying against his chest and sliding seductively downward over his abdomen. It was too much.

He hissed for control.

Then he lost it.

Samuel grasped her by the waist, spun the two of them around, tossed her on the bed, then followed. His body covered hers completely as she reached around his neck to weave a hand through his hair. Her other hand teased mercilessly, nails grazing over his shoulder and down his biceps. He caught her face in his palms, her white-blonde hair in disarray against the pillow. Her eyes were cloudy with emotion, her mouth slightly open, beckoning him. And her body arched into him, wanton.

It was really more than he should be expected to resist.

Then she spoke. A deep, husky whisper. “Yes.”

“Yes,” he agreed.

Their breath mingled as he lowered his mouth to hers, taking his time—for once at leisure—tasting her, feeling the shape and curve and fullness of her lips with his. His own sigh of pleasure was more of a groan as he lightly grazed his lips over her cheek to her ear, mouthing the delicate shell before breathing softly into her ear, “I want you.”

She arched again, her head tilting back. “Yes.”

“Umm.” Samuel grasped her hair, smiling. “Who knew you could be so agreeable?”

Her eyes flashed open, and she looked at him in surprise. Then she laughed. As if surprised by her own laughter, she stopped, then laughed again with understanding and delight.

“You find something illuminating, my love?”

She nodded but didn’t share. Her eyes went cloudy again, her head lifting for him, wanting his mouth against her. He obeyed, and she wrapped her arms around his neck tightly, pulling him close.

Olivia forgot her purpose, her mission, her mind. She only felt. Who knew a man so powerful could be so gentle?

His large hands stroked down her body, learning her, soothing her, waking her. It had all been leading to this. She could see it clearly now. Feel it clearly—with her skin, her muscles, her heart.

It felt wonderful.

His fingertips grazed underneath her shirt and tickled her belly button. She grinned at him, their eyes meeting, the intimacy of the moment capturing them both. Then his expression softened, and he gently kissed her again, slowly rekindling the fire in her lips, her heart. She gasped as a warm hand slid lightly between her legs.

“Yes. There.”

She didn’t know she’d said it aloud. Some part of her mind heard the hungry groan. She would have sworn it was someone else. There was also a knocking sound on the wall. Indeed, she decided everyone in the hotel was …

Olivia gasped again, losing that train of thought. Gads, he was experienced. Her breeches were loosened without her awareness. She decided she didn’t care. His hand grazed over her skin again. Near her hip, across her belly, down her thigh, then there …

“Yes,” she arched. “Oh, Stafford, please.” She took his lips to hers, greedy for him, ignoring the continued knocking. He rolled over, taking her on top of him, and pulled her shirt free so her chest could be against his. Skin on skin. They both breathed with pleasure, their eyes meeting again, each relishing the moment, smiling at the wicked pleasure. Olivia could feel his heart pounding rapidly under her hand, equal in pace to her own. She couldn’t seem to get enough air. She closed her eyes and slid against him, the sensation evoking a groan from Samuel that made her grin with delight.

If this was love, love was good.

Her lips curled with wicked delight as they brushed against his throat intending to work their way up for a kiss.

“Olivia …”

She opened her mouth to say his name.

“Samuel!” It was shouted.

Not by her.

Olivia lifted her head in time to see the door burst open.

Gads! His sister!

Olivia saw only the color and shape of the visitors before she was tossed into the air and flipped roughly to the floor. The gentle intoxication of the previous minutes shattered with the invasion of not one, but four people!

“Good Lord, Samuel! She’s English!” his sister shouted.

Olivia scrambled across the floor, still mostly hidden, and grabbed the shirt that had landed there earlier in the frenzy of desire. She pulled it on.

Samuel finally stood, and Olivia heard a gasp that could only be Elizabeth’s. She peeked over the edge of the bed, then ducked back down, cowering.

“I see you, Olivia Katharine Hastings Yates. You get over here. Now!”

Olivia secured her shirt, while Samuel stepped over her and went behind the changing wall to put on his pants.

The duchess continued. “You can’t just do that with an Englishwoman! They have rules!”

“Quite right, Stafford,” Worthington added, calmly but firmly supporting his wife. “And seeing that I’m the only Englishman here to defend my countrywoman …” Worthington stepped around to the other side of the bed and swung hard at Stafford when he came out from dressing.

“No!” Olivia cried out in panic. It looked as if the duke might take another swing. And Stafford wasn’t swinging back!

“Stand down, Worthington.”

Olivia looked with relief at Nathan, who helped her up.

“Go to Elizabeth, Professor,” Nathan directed.

Olivia obeyed, for once thankful to have Nathan there. Then he shocked her by landing a crack on Stafford’s jaw that made them all gasp.

He turned to Olivia, “Elizabeth is the closest thing you’ve got to a sister. That makes me the closest thing you’ve got to a brother-in-law.” He turned to Stafford. “Sorry, Captain.” Then he punched him twice more, in the gut and the jaw, right where Worthington had struck. Olivia was grateful Nathan’s other arm was not yet fully recovered.

“Nathan, for—” Olivia stopped at the fire in Nathan’s eyes.

“Professor, there’s a way things are done. And this is not the way.” He took her arm and led her out. “Elizabeth, see to her.”

Elizabeth shook her head and took her away.

“I just wanted to talk,” Olivia defended.

“Really, dearest? In what language?” Elizabeth inquired.

“The language of lov—” Worthington’s voice was cut off by his wife’s elbow.

Olivia scowled and moved out of Samuel’s room toward her own. “Honestly, with all the activity going on in this hotel, how is it possible that all of you were alerted at the same time?”

Her Grace joined Olivia and Elizabeth at the open door to Olivia’s room and explained. “I came to talk to you about the librarian, and your chamber was empty.”

Olivia observed the open door. The duchess had entered her room—only it had been locked. “How did you get in?” Olivia accused.

“I picked the lock,” the duchess said, unapologetic, eyes direct. “How did you get into my brother’s room?”

She met the duchess’s eyes equally fierce and unafraid. “I climbed the balcony.”

The duchess nodded. “Good night then.”

“Good night,” Olivia replied.

Nathan shook his head in dismay at both of them as he joined her and Elizabeth.

Olivia looked at him, not sure if he was mad at her or not. And not certain why she cared. Except that he had just defended her honor. As if he cared. No one had ever done that for her. And she had been nothing but difficult with him.

“I’m sorry if I sounded severe, Lady Olivia, but the captain knows better.”

“No, I’m so sorry, Nathan. I should never have put you in that position. And now I’ve come between you two. I’m sorry. I don’t know what to say.”

“Ach. Trust me. It will be fine in the morning. It is already. He took his licks. He didn’t strike back because he knew he was in the wrong.”

Olivia looked down, her heart dropping into her stomach. It hadn’t felt wrong. Had Samuel really felt that way? Perhaps it was best they’d been interrupted.

“You’re all right, Lady Olivia?”

“Yes, yes. Just completely humiliated.”

“Nonsense. We’re all family,” Elizabeth said. “At least we will be when you marry Stafford.”

“I’m not getting married!” Olivia shouted.

Elizabeth smiled. “I was just teasing. Your reputation is fortunately safe. However, should you want to get married, Stafford would be obliged to do so. You might consider that.”

Olivia wilted. “I would not force anyone, you know that. And indeed, I went only to tell him that he should not become attached. Nothing can come of it.”

Nathan frowned. “Why not? Are Americans truly so abhorrent to you?”

“No! Not at all. It’s just that I want to continue my work and share it with all the great minds of the world and publish my learnings. Stafford would merely be a distraction.”

“Right.” A deep voice caught them unaware.

They all turned their heads to see Stafford in the doorway. Olivia stared, appalled that he had heard. His gaze met hers, intense but without any warmth in the golden eyes. Instead they were blank, his face expressionless, one side reddening from the blows he had accepted moments before. Then his lips turned up slightly on the left. Cold.

“I just came to see that you were all right. I’ll close this for you.” He reached for the door. “Good night.”

Olivia stared, horrified. Then she fell to the bed ready to collapse. Only minutes ago they had been intimate, enraptured with each other. Closer than she had ever been to anyone in her life. She’d felt as though she would die if she could not be with him, closer to him, possessed by him. Her heart pounded again, remembering.

And now … nothing.

“Well, then.” Elizabeth spoke to fill in the silence.

Nathan added, “It’s for the best. If your feelings are not sincere, it’s best Samuel know now.”

Nathan sounded disappointed with her. Again she wondered why she cared.

“I—I don’t know what my feelings are.”

He nodded. “There’s time then for you to work that out. We aren’t leaving soon.”

“You’re not?” Olivia’s surprise and relief must have shown.

“Of course not!” Elizabeth affirmed. “We wouldn’t leave you while there is trouble. And we have yet to see if your father is safe. And we certainly would not abandon you alone in a foreign country.”

“Indeed,” Nathan added. “We will stay as long as needed until you know what you want to do. We can also return on another Stafford ship if the captain leaves sooner, but I certainly would not leave you until that was all worked out.” He patted her shoulder. “Not that Elizabeth would allow otherwise. You’re not alone, you know.”

“I’m not?” Olivia didn’t mean to sound surprised. It was too much to absorb. Why would they care?

“Olivia!” Elizabeth shook her head disappointed. “How could you think that? You are like family to me.”

“I am?”

Nathan chuckled. “Sorry. We have been self-absorbed, but of course you belong with us.” He shook his head. “Don’t look so dismayed. It’s insulting.”

Olivia laughed out loud. Surprised. Relieved. Hopeful. And stronger. It did help to have people behind you. “Thank you.”

“Of course, dearest.” Elizabeth took her husband’s arm to leave, then winked over her shoulder. “We’ll try not to keep you up any longer. Sleep well.”

Olivia lay back on her bed. It wasn’t long before the sound of the hotel guests caught up with her again. But this time she imagined herself with Stafford. Nathan was right. She had time to figure that out. Stafford would just have to wait. She would explain it all to him tomorrow.

Tonight she would dream. And she did. A dream where she was an Egyptian librarian, married to a wonderful man but forced to protect a terrible secret.

Chapter Nineteen

The camel was going to make her lose her breakfast. The rocking, the smell, the heat—just when she thought she had the adventure under control, it was something else.

Olivia rubbed her eyes, still a little groggy. Stafford had wakened them early. Something about traveling while it was cooler. This was punishment for certain—waking her early and giving her the only camel because she came down late. She slapped the beast’s side to hurry to a place alongside Stafford’s horse. No time like the present to say you’re sorry.

“Stafford?” Once next to him, she smoothed her blue riding jacket and rearranged the matching blue skirt over her legs in a seat not meant to be a sidesaddle. Her back twisted, distinctly uncomfortable. She should have worn breeches instead of yielding to the vanity of a proper traveling habit, matching hat, and gloves. They were suitable enough for the weather, just not for riding a camel. The duchess, on the other hand, with her unique split-skirt style, appeared comfortable and at ease. Olivia would beg the woman later for the pattern.

“Stafford?” she repeated when he didn’t answer. She tried again, attempting to be discreet. “Stafford.” After the third call, she realized he was ignoring her. She huffed. That was so childish! “Stafford!”

“What!”

“Why didn’t you answer?”

“I’m ignoring you.”

“I know!”

“Then why are you continuing?”

“Because I want to talk to you!”

“Ollie, last time you wanted to talk I ended up being punched by two men with whom I’m supposed to be friends. And they punch hard, in case you hadn’t noticed.” He turned his face and pointed to the bruise along his eye. “And yes, it hurts.”

“Well, I didn’t do that.”

“You stole into my room!” He encouraged his horse farther ahead to end discussion.

Olivia gasped. He was trying to get away from her! She spurred the camel, separating from the group, and clung tightly when the beast bounced her callously forward.

“What is so important?” he finally asked.

“I didn’t mean that you were just a distraction. You’re more than that. And not an unwelcome distraction by any means.”

“You’re miserable at apologies, Ollie. Let’s just accept we’re not right for each other and go our separate ways.”

“But … it’s just that we haven’t known each other long, and I’m trying to figure out how I really feel and what affection really is and—” She rambled and she knew it.

Stafford stopped his horse. “You know how you feel, Olivia. You’re just too damned afraid of what it means to your grand plan.”

“It’s not that! It’s just you don’t give me time to think! You’re rushing me. And—and—”

“You came to me,” he reminded.

“To gather information about how I felt! Not to … to …”

“To what? To entice me into ripping the clothes from your body and ravishing you? Because that’s the direction we were going, and I didn’t see you doing anything to stop it.”

Olivia’s face and body went hot. Then she looked behind Stafford and went cold. “Stafford.” Olivia swallowed fearfully.

“You’ve been nothing but trouble. I can’t wait to dump you on your father’s doorstep for a visit. A long visit.”

“But Stafford …”

“What!”

She pointed.

He turned to see a company of men, primarily Egyptian. Their leader, in a brightly colored uniform and hat, was at the center. Samuel swore and whirled back at her. “Unbelievable.”

“I didn’t do that!” she said.

“Right.”

Samuel sighed. Hell. He knew she hadn’t arranged this.

They were just outside town, and he hadn’t taken any chances. Their party was nearly thirty, with local guides and help, and his men were well armed. But they couldn’t compare to more than a hundred soldiers on horseback.

Worthington rode up to join him.

“You can handle them, Stafford,” Olivia announced.

“Just keep your mouth closed.” Samuel took a deep breath and reminded himself to be patient. “Not everything requires force. For the record, I’m the peacemaker in the family.”

Olivia pressed her lips together and raised an eyebrow of doubt—as if he were deluding himself. She looked at Worthington and the duchess. They agreed with him.

“That’s very sweet, but they”—she pointed to the group encircling them—“are not family.”

“Stay here.” Samuel picked out the leader and rode his horse forward, muttering within the other man’s hearing. “She thinks I’m just some brainless brute here to do her bidding. To clear the chaos she creates. She’s a damn curse.”

The leader tilted his head curiously at Samuel’s muttered oaths. Samuel took a breath, smiled, and made the appropriate greetings. He told the man, Riad, their destination. It never hurt to have the right people know where you were. Riad warned that the tomb site was a very secure area. No one in, no one out—even the most humble of servants. After fifteen more minutes of conversation, the group opened in the middle and allowed them to proceed. Samuel guided them forward, ignoring Olivia’s questioning look.

No need to let her know Riad and he were drinking buddies.

Samuel watched as Olivia wobbled back and forth on the camel, her hips swaying in a rather attractive manner, despite his determination not to be attracted. Just as she was passing him, his friend called for them to stop. Samuel repeated the command in English, turning to Riad, curious.

Riad’s brow furrowed as he clucked at Olivia’s camel to come over. It obeyed, and Olivia could do nothing but wait. Samuel caught her worried look. He looked at his friend, who strangely enough closed his eyes and began to chant something that sounded like a prayer. When finished, he nodded with a grin to Olivia, speaking in English.

“I remove your curse. You will be better now,” the Egyptian said.

Samuel suppressed his wince and shrugged at her expression to indicate he knew nothing about a curse. “The polite response for removing a curse is ‘Thank you.’ ”

Olivia’s mouth dropped, but nothing came out.

Riad laughed and slapped Samuel’s back. “Ha! See, my friend. Silence. Better already.” He pulled his horse around to leave. “Next time, you buy.”

Samuel rode ahead, but Olivia bounced along, determined to keep up. “You knew him!”

“So?”

“You let me think otherwise.”

“So?” Samuel said slowly, extending the word.

“And he’s your friend!”

“Peaceful men like me make a lot of friends.”

“But you told him I’m cursed,” Olivia hissed.

“You are.”

“Like some—” Olivia stopped whatever she was going to say, catching up with his conversation. “I’m not cursed.”

“Well not anymore, thanks to Riad.”

“Would you stop—”

“Ah hell, does it never end?” Samuel swore.

“Don’t curse at me, Samuel Stafford,” she shouted, nearly falling sideways off her camel.

“Not you, Ollie.” He nodded forward. “Them.”

Olivia looked out and saw nothing. Then suddenly the sand shifted and rose. She gasped fearfully. She realized they were men.

Hiding in the sand.

Ready to ambush them.

Camels that had been held to the ground rose until nearly a hundred men on beasts and another hundred on foot surrounded them. They looked rougher than Riad’s troops, their costumes not uniforms, but swaths of cloth to cover their heads and faces from the heat reflected all around them. Their leader, however, was definitely English. She thought she recognized him.

“Looks like they hired everyone in town,” Samuel noted. “No wonder no one was talking.”

Olivia turned to Stafford. “Maybe I should handle this.”

“Ollie, you don’t have friends in England. What makes you think you’ll have luck here?”

“I’ll just tell them where we are going, that we mean no harm, and have a jolly day.”

“A jolly day?”

“Indeed. Come along. I really cannot sit this camel much longer without becoming irritable.”

The duke and duchess and Samuel all opened their mouths to comment.

“Don’t say it.”

They closed their mouths and reined their horses toward the incoming group. To Olivia’s great chagrin, she recognized their leader. It was the blond Englishman from the Algerian market she had fooled when she captured the stone.

“Uh-oh.”

“You do know them, then,” the duchess commented, adjusting her long overcoat.

Olivia studied the invaders surrounding them. At least the twin giants did not seem present. She glanced toward Stafford to gauge his reaction. His lips were pressed, his expression grim, and his look toward her—irritated indeed.

“It’s not as though I’m responsible for this,” she said.

Stafford lifted an eyebrow.

Olivia ignored him.

“Definitely a situation,” Worthington said.

“Welcome!” the leader called. “We meet again.” The man pranced his horse over to Olivia until they were facing each other. “I’m afraid we did not get formally introduced last time.”

“You were too busy threatening my life,” she retorted.

He ignored her maligning. “I’m Hugh Lampley.”

Olivia gasped. Lampley! One of her father’s colleagues. According to Grayson’s letter, one of the least trustworthy. Now she had proof of it too.

He offered his hand with a friendly smile—attempting to dispel his villainous image, no doubt. Olivia lifted her chin and sniffed her nose as if from a bad odor.

His smile broadened. It was a rather attractive smile. Then he winked. The damned nerve. She saw Stafford move his horse closer to her. The bothersome man was about to make things worse. Best to be civil. She reached down from her perch, accepting the greeting.

Stafford’s horse, squeezing in to separate them, immediately broke their connection.

Samuel didn’t like the way the stranger looked at Olivia.

She was too innocent to recognize manipulation hidden beneath smiles, but the man had sharp, knowing eyes. Not nearly as harmless as he was trying to play it.

“If you don’t mind, we were heading the opposite way. Have a nice day, Hugh.”

“I’d be happy to escort you,” Hugh said. Then he smiled at Olivia again.

“Not at all necessary.” Stafford planted his horse firmly between Hugh and Olivia, forcing himself not to look back at her. The hairs on his neck were tingling, and he was certain she smiled back at the bastard. Women.

“Not an issue, sir. It’s my pleasure.”

“To annoy us?” he shot back.

Hugh smiled, as if entertained.

It irked Samuel even more.

“I hope I’m not as upsetting as you imagine.” He glanced past Samuel again, keeping his eyes on Olivia. “Actually, it’s my hope to see the funerary cone of the librarian returned to the tomb in one piece.” His gaze didn’t waver. “Along with Lady Olivia.”

Olivia gasped. “Is my father there?”

“Of course. Who do you think asked me to escort you?”

Samuel hissed in a breath. His sister caught his eye. She was wary. At least one woman had sense.

“Jolly good news. Isn’t it, Stafford?” His brother-in-law played the jovial Englishman. He knew Worthington could match Hugh charm for charm when he wanted. The fact that he took on the role now was Joshua’s subtle advice that they should not tip their hand.

Olivia jumped back into the conversation. “He is well then?”

“In excellent health.”

Elizabeth and Nathan joined them.

“That’s wonderful news, Olivia,” Elizabeth said.

“Yes,” Olivia agreed, still eyeing Hugh before noting the rest of his men. “You’re not going to attack, threaten, or injure us then, are you, Mr. Lampley?”

He laughed. “I believe we are on the same side, Lady Olivia. I apologize for our earlier meeting. I had heard of you, of course. But you were not so recognizable, and quite frankly I didn’t expect to meet you under those peculiar circumstances.”

Samuel was pleased when Olivia’s eyes narrowed suspiciously. “Just where did you expect to meet me, Mr. Lampley?”

“Celebrating in a ballroom with a glass of champagne, of course.” He winked again. “Come along. We still have time to tour the tomb before luncheon. The site is very close.”

Hugh turned to guide them without looking back. Olivia surveyed the group, then clucked at her camel to follow.

Alex encouraged the men. “We didn’t come all this way not to tour the tomb. Don’t you want to see it?”

Samuel growled, but turned his horse. Olivia was already even with the snot-nosed bastard. He galloped to catch up. He didn’t trust the man. Olivia, heaven help him, had no qualms about playing right into his hands.

And he didn’t want that man’s hands anywhere near her.

Chapter Twenty

The tomb site sat in the middle of a fairly pleasant but small oasis. The amount of flora made the area feel lush compared to the dry landscape they crossed to reach it, but it still suffered from the desert heat and dust. Workers and tables of excavation materials took up the space near the entrance to the catacombs. Past that, a small community of tents formed a semicircle. It was an elaborate operation. And well guarded on all sides.

Hugh helped Olivia to the ground. She thanked him absently, already absorbed in the sights, sounds, and mysteries around her. A worker passed by carrying a red and turquoise bowl. She followed after it, unaware of Stafford until he put her down on the other side of a narrow ditch she’d nearly fallen into.

“Oh.” Olivia blinked to clear her vision, confused and surprised to suddenly see him. The elaborate bowl seemed familiar. It was used to give food offerings to the gods. She swallowed with surprise at her certainty and shook off the sudden goose bumps. She must have automatically deciphered the glyphs on the outside of the bowl. Her skills had sharpened.

“What is it?” Stafford asked.

Olivia bit her lip. Uncertain. The duchess stared at her as well. As if she knew something already and waited for Olivia to catch up.

Olivia smiled and shrugged. “Nothing. Just overwhelmed. This is a dream.”

Hugh called them to stop when some guards came to greet them. “We have a policy,” Hugh said, looking toward the men and indicating their weapons. “If you don’t mind, this is a place of exploration and study.”

Olivia smiled approvingly as Stafford and Worthington were disarmed, including the weapons on their animals.

“Your Grace … ?” Hugh questioned with a smile.

Samuel’s sister smiled back—brilliantly. “Of course.” She nodded to her horse and they removed the short musket. “But I expect that back, Mr. Lampley.”

“Of course.”

“I can’t help to notice, Hugh,” Stafford commented, “that for a place of exploration and study, everyone else seems to be well armed.”

Olivia caught the hardness in Samuel’s voice. It put her on alert. Indeed, Samuel was right. Except for the people carrying artifacts and objects from the entrance of the tomb, everyone else was armed.

Mr. Lampley stood firm, though his stance appeared casual—legs apart, with thumbs hooked over his breeches. “They’re my men. Our goal is to protect the site, the men excavating it, and the valuable discoveries they are making. That includes any visitors.” He smiled warmly at the ladies. Olivia considered the veracity of his statement. For now, it seemed reasonable to go along with him.

“Olivia!” The voice set any lingering qualms aside.

Her father!

She looked toward the sound and saw him exiting the tomb. “Father!” Olivia rushed ahead of the others, weaving between guards and servants. Joy surged through her.

He is safe.

Instantly, weeks of tension released from her body. She stopped short of him, nearly swaying on her feet with relief.

He was still slender, though he seemed smaller than his six feet—hunched a bit from hours of crouching over ancient stone and dusting off rocks. He had aged significantly since their visit a year ago. It made her protective. And worried.

“Olivia! Good golly, girl! Whatever are you doing here? I didn’t believe the news!”

Olivia froze. Uncertain.

He reached out. “Come here. I’m dusty and unfit for company, but let me see you.” He took her hands and examined her with his scientific eyes. Suddenly she was one of his specimens. “You’re safe and unharmed?”

“Yes, Father.” Olivia had never felt so unsure in her life. “Are you happy to see me?”

“Of course.” He relaxed a little. “Only frightened at the thought of how you have journeyed here. I can’t believe Grayson didn’t have more sense. This was not what I had in mind.”

Samuel stepped up to guard Olivia from behind. “I brought her.”

Samuel studied her father. Elizabeth, Nathan, Alex, and Worthington joined him. They were letting Lord Merryvale know they stood with Olivia—even if she didn’t know it. Her father’s greeting had been less than wholehearted. It might be an English thing, but it angered Samuel. Olivia had risked her life to come and save him, to see to his safety. A warm welcome would not have been inappropriate—especially after not seeing her for so long.

“Father, if I may introduce you. Stafford, this is my father, Nigel, Lord Merryvale. Father, Captain Samuel Stafford of Stafford Shipping.”

“Stafford? Well, then. That would have been safe enough. I’m told you have special privileges in these waters.”

“Usually,” Samuel said, hesitant to reveal much. Instead he indicated his sister, Worthington, Elizabeth, and Nathan. Elizabeth stepped forward and took both of Merryvale’s hands, greeting him warmly. Slowly everyone began to relax. News was shared, and Merryvale congratulated the Riedells on their nuptials.

“I see now that you had to deliver her,” Merryvale said. “That was very thorough of you, Mrs. Riedell.”

“Nathan and I will stay until she no longer needs us, my lord,” Elizabeth answered.

“I must release you now,” Olivia murmured to her friend.

Merryvale turned to Alex, causing Samuel’s interest to perk. “This is quite a bounty today. Your Grace, it truly is a pleasure to have you here. Your correspondence has been a great comfort to me.”

“I am gratified to hear that, my lord.”

“Unfortunately, we have had no further luck at opening our mysterious tomb.”

“I can help!” Olivia chimed in excited. “My fluency—”

“Yes, yes,” Merryvale cut her off sharply. “Hugh! We must arrange a tour into the chambers. And lunch.” He turned to the duchess. “It’s early, but you might be hungry.”

“Yes,” Alex said.

“No,” Olivia contradicted. “I want to see inside the tomb—”

“Food first,” Alex insisted.

“We ate not two hours ago,” Olivia insisted.

“I’m hungry. And you never know when your last meal is going to be. Trust me, Professor. I’ve been adventuring a lot longer than you.”

Samuel studied his sister. She didn’t trust their situation. He tended to agree. In which case, better to figure out who was who and what was what before they were trapped with the dead several feet below ground.

“Food would be welcome. Thank you, Lord Merryvale.” Samuel settled the issue.

“But—”

Olivia looked longingly at the entrance in the ground where local workers were carrying out priceless objects. Her heart pounded with excitement. Who could eat now? They were on the verge of what could be the greatest discovery in history! Olivia stared at the others, who were already following her father to a long wood table in the middle of the large tent camp.

She ran back to her camel to secure her bag with the star cone and, in case she might need it later, grabbed the leather water pouch that Cook had filled. As she scrambled to catch up with the others, she made as many observations as possible along the way. It was a rather large operation. A number of local workers were carrying objects to one station of tables, where they were sketched, labeled, and numbered. Then they were brought to another station, where they were logged in a book and boxed. Some artifacts were occasionally brought to her father for his assessment. The oasis had armed guards circling at regular intervals. To keep away thieves? Hmm. She smiled at the irony. That put her right where she needed to be.

Olivia joined the others, though she was still restless and unwilling to sit. Her father had a map on the table.

“This is what we have uncovered so far.” He pointed. “There are three levels. The first filled with catacombs, small tombs—largely unremarkable. The second floor is more interesting. There is a great hall, like a rest area for visitors, then paths off in several directions. These seem to be the tombs of more prominent members of the city. It is also the level where we found the star cone.”

Olivia carefully laid the object in question on the table. “And I’ve brought it back … for some mysterious reason that I am most eager to learn.”

“In good time, Olivia,” her father promised. He pulled another map and laid it next to the other two. “The very bottom are more catacombs. There appears to have been some flooding at the furthest level. But …” Her father pointed to the second level again. “We were able to enter all the tombs on this level. All were quite similar in layout. This one”—her father lifted his eyes to hers and didn’t move—“we have been unable to enter.”

“Why is that?” Stafford asked.

Hugh chimed in behind Olivia. “It appears to be a cunning lair of mortal traps.”

Olivia tilted her head to find the man’s face inappropriately close to hers. “Mr. Lampley,” she noted, with unease.

“My lady.” He winked.

She ignored the flirtation, though a smile threatened to twitch free regardless. Stafford folded his arms across his chest, impatient.

“What kind of mortal traps?” Stafford asked.

“The kind that kill,” Hugh said, turning serious. “We lost Queensbury when we first attempted entry. The initial chamber is a trap of poisonous darts.”

Olivia gasped.

Her father continued, “Then Peel died mysteriously in his sleep not long after. A heart ailment no doubt, but the coincidence did make us more cautious.”

“I see.” Olivia swallowed, uncertain. Maybe she didn’t need to go into all the tombs. And it seemed her father had never been in any grave danger. “Is that what you meant, Father, when you said getting this”—she touched the funerary cone on the table—“was a matter of life and death?”

“Yes. We believe it’s the key to safely open each room in the tomb.” Her father looked at the stone object with relief … and something else. Undisguised eagerness. The stone had nearly gotten her killed more than once, and suddenly he didn’t even see her.

“I’m most relieved to see it wasn’t your life, Father, that was in peril.” A bitter taste filled her mouth. She wondered how much to tell him. “You might have warned me of its true value before placing my own life at risk.”

Her father’s eyes widened. “I didn’t think you would bring it to me.”

“What did you think then? That I would entrust its delivery to a stranger?”

“Yes. I did. With a wily and discreet explanation as to what it was.”

“Did you also tell Grayson to leave it somewhere such that I could easily get it?”

Her father’s face flushed. “He wanted to help but could not be involved. He is a curator. You must understand, no one else could easily get access. Nor would anyone suspect you. You were the perfect solution—if only you had sent it to me as you have so many other items.”

Olivia fought for self-control. “You had little enough faith in me, it seems.”

“Not at all, Ollie,” Stafford jumped in. “I’m certain your father’s lack of faith is only in your thieving skills, which you shouldn’t be boasting about in any circumstance.”

Olivia’s stomach hurt. She pressed it, willing the knot away. No one seemed the least upset by this situation. Her father had set her up to be a thief, knew she would be inept at it, and then doubted her loyalty and love as a daughter to deliver the important object herself. And now that she had arrived, funerary cone in hand, he did not seem particularly happy to see her.

“Come let us sit. I’ll fill you in over luncheon.” Her father waved to a table of food nearby that had been hastily spread for them.

“I don’t need lunch. I’ll fill you in now.” Olivia knew her voice was tight. She was angry and hurt. It’s not as though there had been great shows of affection in her family, but was it unusual to expect something? And why did she suddenly need it?

“Food is usually good in these types of situations,” the duchess remarked. “And tea. Do you have tea, Mr. Lampley?”

Lampley nodded and stepped away to make sure tea was added to the luncheon fare.

“Grayson was murdered, Father. By people trying to get this ‘key.’ ”

To her satisfaction, her father’s face went white.

“And those same men have been trying to kill me. On more than one occasion. First when I tried to take the cone, next while asleep in my very own bed. They killed an innocent person in my place, Father. Meggie. Next they hunted us at the hotel where Mrs. Tisdale and I tried to hide, and last at sea—but that last incident may not be related. Honestly, what kind of madman would put a ten-thousand-pound price on an Englishwoman who had never stepped off the shores of our grand isle and who for all her life has been an obedient and dutiful daughter? Wait. Correction.” She turned to Mrs. Riedell for confirmation. “An exemplary daughter, is that not right?”

“Quite right, dear.” Her friend gave a pained smile, reaching for her husband’s hand, as if anxious.

“Actually—”

Olivia turned as the duchess rudely interrupted.

“Lady Olivia, as I understand from those who know rightly, and believe me, they have told me quite clearly, an exemplary English daughter would have been married by now, not an unmarried adventuress, roaming the Mediterranean and stealing ancient artifacts.” She reached for a sharp tool on the table and studied it, before turning her attention back to Olivia. “I think perhaps you need to rethink your justification for exemplary. If by exemplary you mean intelligent and accomplished and talented, using those gifts for a productive, or perhaps even higher purpose, then you might be an exemplary person. But you are most certainly not an exemplary English daughter.”

“Your Grace, how can you jest with me, when it is clear this is not a light matter?”

“I jest, Lady Olivia, because you seem to be the only one here unaware of the fact that we are the only ones unarmed, and a small army is slowly encircling us.”

Olivia looked up in shock. Her father did as well, though his look was more wary than surprised. The duchess was right. The men on the outer edge of the oasis stood guard, but a smaller contingent had quietly surrounded the group while her father distracted them. She studied her father anew, wondering whether the maneuver had been deliberate on his part. Olivia retrieved the funerary cone from the table and put it in her pouch. She turned to where her camel and traveling support remained. There was no doubt this was fast becoming a hostile situation.

Lampley returned to the table and diffused the immediate danger. “Forgive my men. They are meant to protect, not intimidate. I just received word that our new partner is joining us this afternoon. For now, luncheon is served.”

Olivia felt as though she were teetering on a cliff. Samuel gave her a nod to follow the man, assuring her it was safe … for now. They were invited to a long wood table nearby, complete with matching chairs and a table fitted with bone china and silver flatware. The expedition traveled in style.

Before she could sit, her father called, “Olivia, if you will escort me to my tent for just a few minutes. I want to show you something.”

Olivia didn’t hesitate. She would not disobey her father publicly, despite her uncertain feelings toward him. She also wanted some answers. Only, it made her uneasy that even when going to her father’s quarters, they were escorted by armed scouts.

His tent was large, equipped with a bed, a long desk area, and a small sitting table with three chairs in a corner. There was a shelf with books and a stack of writings that he had completed. He closed the heavy tent flap behind her and raised a finger over her mouth, indicating they should speak quietly. Olivia’s nerves went on alert.

She adjusted the heavy pouch on her shoulder more comfortably and took the seat her father offered. He sat across from her, elbows on the table, chin resting on folded hands. Finally, he breathed and reached a hand out to her palm up, imploring.

He looked sad. Regretful. Worried.

She took the hand.

“Father? What is it?”

“Olivia … I’m afraid … I’m afraid I’ve placed you in a danger more ominous than I ever suspected.”

“A grave danger?” she deadpanned, leaning forward, eyes earnest.

He blinked, surprised. Then laughed, his chest shaking with humor, a smile splitting his face briefly. “You can still jest. For that I am grateful.”

“After nearly a month of surviving grave dangers, Father, it is nearly all I have left. Why did you want the funerary cone? And why do you not want me here? You know I can help.”

“It is not that I’m not joyful to see you alive and in good health, Olivia, but now you and your friends might be trapped along with me.” He took a breath. “I had hoped only to keep the artifact from the wrong hands. Lampley’s, to be specific.”

Olivia didn’t speak for a moment, studying him. Then she said softly, “You have been at this for a long time, Father. How do you know that yours are the right hands?”

He gave a deep sigh and nodded. “You have grown in humor and wisdom, daughter.”

She pulled out the letter from her bag and handed it to him. “Stafford said I could give this to you. I read it.”

“Of course.” Her father examined the letter, smiling. “Nice job at sealing it again, dear.”

Olivia appreciated the compliment, but her humor disappeared quickly. “They were likely Grayson’s last words.”

He clutched the letter. “Good God. What have I done?”

“Father?”

“Queensbury, Peel, and now Lord Grayson. I never should have involved him. We have stumbled onto something here, Olivia. Something very valuable to some people who are very powerful.”

Olivia absorbed this, trying to piece together what she knew. “Grayson believed the librarian has something to do with a series of thefts. Of ancient astrolabes, strangely enough.”

Her father nodded, reading through the letter. “We initially thought it was a librarian of the Great Library.”

“It is. I’m certain!” Olivia insisted quietly.

“I agree, Olivia. But there are many ancient traditions, beliefs, even cults that we have yet to discover or understand. Through my correspondence with Lord Heatherly, who is currently in Egypt studying the pyramids, and from my letters in the last year from Duchess Worthington, who also knows Heatherly, I’ve learned about another myth—”

“Lilith.”

She caught a surprised glint in his eyes. “Yes.”

“I know all about it. Stafford told me.”

“The American?”

“His mother was English,” she defended.

“I wasn’t critiquing your choice, dear.”

“He’s not my choice. He’s my friend. And … he’s a good man, Father. But don’t tell him I said so. He’s ridiculously arrogant.”

“Arrogance doesn’t keep a man alive in his line of business,” her father said.

Olivia stopped. He had a point. She would think on that later and come up with a new flaw for the man. At the very least he was a bit of womanizer. And he was still half-American.

“I digress. The symbol,” she said. “When I was able to steal the cone again, I showed it to Stafford—”

“Steal it again?”

She sighed. “Long story, Father. Anyway”—she pulled out the cone to show him—“he recognized the symbol. It is used to represent a goddess named Lilith.”

Her father nodded. “Her followers used it as well. It’s at the entrance to the tomb and inside the first chamber. We stopped trying to get any further. At least, I did.”

“Why?”

“Did Stafford tell you the prophecy part of this ancient myth?”

Olivia shook her head, quizzical. “Just the two sisters. One kills the other, and Lilith kills them all until balance is restored to the earth.”

“The prophecy predicts that the balance will be restored when the correct sister makes the sacrifice,” her father explained. “Then once again, her family will retain wealth and power to control the earth.”

“But that makes no sense. They’re all dead. And the sacrifice was the deal of the lord of the underworld, not Lilith’s. She destroyed any possibility of restoring balance.”

“Descendants of the sisters survived,” her father said. “Or so it is surmised. This librarian might have been one of them. And might have the treasure from that realm hidden in the tomb—or a map to the treasure’s location.”

“And what? Hidden the location in the astrolabe?”

“Exactly.”

“What do you hope to find, then?”

“I no longer hope to find anything. I only wanted to put the funerary key back where it belongs and lock the entrance to stop anyone else from entering. It is meant to be left alone. Lampley wants to continue. He is hoping to make up his investment in treasure. He does not want to accept that those buried here had very little treasure entombed with them. He rests his hopes on this sealed chamber of the librarian.

“I know he sent someone to get the star cone in England. If so, he might be behind Meggie’s death. Five have died since we tried to enter the librarian’s tomb, including Queensbury. Lampley has invested as much as anyone else, but with more to lose. I thought he would be forced to leave by now, but he has held on. When he returned after his last trip, it was with funding and a new investor—one who is backing him specifically.”

Olivia absorbed all her father shared, relieved he seemed to be the same man. “But what of your motives, Father? You cannot put the cone back and expect no one else will try to enter. There will certainly be others.”

“Let them come,” he said. “We can only guard the entrance while it is our turn to do so. There is something there we are not meant to disturb.”

“But what about finding the ancient scrolls, or any number of artifacts that could add to our current body of history?”

“I don’t deny the thirst for discovery is strong, but not when the past can kill you. I would like to have a future, my dear. I have been unable to leave camp for some time. Lampley has made me an imprisoned guest until he can figure out the ‘best course of action.’ I want for nothing but freedom. Strange how it feels when that is taken. I have learned new lessons in my old age.”

Olivia started to ask another question, when they were interrupted by Hugh Lampley. “Lord Merryvale,” he said. “Our new partner has arrived.”

“Indeed?” Her father spoke with a hint of resentment. “That is timely.”

“Curiously, he’s asked to meet you, Lady Olivia.”

A chill went down Olivia’s spine and she looked at Hugh alarmed, dread filling her. Stafford had warned her, hadn’t he? Her mouth went dry as the desert. “What is his name?”

“Sir Jason Moreau,” he said.

“Son of a Moor,” she cursed, getting up.

“No, French,” Hugh corrected.

She shook her head and for once didn’t bother to explain. Moreau was their new investor? What did the bastard want? And more important, what would he do now that he’d found her?

Chapter Twenty-One

Samuel squinted at the heavily armed new arrivals. There was a swarthy man, clearly the money, accompanied by a larger, tough-looking Egyptian squad leader, who took command of the small troop.

Lampley greeted them. Something did not seem right about it. Lampley’s posture turned defensive. Warning hairs tingled on Samuel’s neck when they went to Merryvale’s tent. He took the opportunity to find his men.

Nathan waited with Kelley and the others, none of whom looked happy.

“Don’t like it, Captain,” Nathan said, arms folded, feet planted firmly.

“Neither do I. Kelley, take two men and a guide back to town. Let Andersen know what’s up. And find Riad. We’ll need his help to even the playing field if things get nasty. We’ve enough to camp for a week, but I want to leave as soon as possible. I’ll send my sister and most of the group back tonight. It’s going to be a little harder getting the professor away.”

“Got it, Cap.”

“And, Kelley,” he said. “If no one shows up tonight, consider the situation hostile.”

The four had already mounted when Lampley called to them.

“Go.” He swatted Kelley’s horse, and the four men raced to the edge of the oasis.

Lampley shouted to the guards, and Samuel had to give Lampley credit for the well-trained men. They responded instantly, ten of them forming a barrier and raising their guns. Samuel leaped to his mount and followed, hoping to avert disaster. Lampley was fast on his heels.

A warning shot was fired into the sand, and his men stopped.

“Gentlemen, really! We’ve not even finished lunch,” Lampley said, catching up to them.

“Ain’t hungry, mister. Got duties back in town and want to spend my night with a willing woman, not a buncha sandmen,” Kelley said.

“Of course,” Lampley agreed. “However, I’m afraid no one leaves without an escort. It’s too dangerous. Many groups have become lost in the desert with just one wrong turn.”

“That right?” Stafford said. He pulled a compass from his pocket and tossed it to Kelley. “Don’t worry. They’ll be fine.”

“I’m afraid I must insist.”

“That bein’ the case, we accept your escort,” Kelley said. “Who will be joining us?”

“Ahh.” Lampley raised his trigger finger and shook it in the air. “There’s the problem. You see we are a bit short of escorts at the moment.”

Stafford took a deliberate look around the small fortress’s worth of men. “Is that right?”

“Yes.” Lampley heaved a sorrowful sigh indicating the men. “They are all wonderful guards, but always losing their way.”

“My guide is more than willing to risk the danger. But thank you for your concern,” Samuel said.

He motioned for his men to leave.

The guards raised their guns again.

“Please let’s not make this uncivilized, Mr. Stafford.”

“Holding people against their will is uncivilized.”

“It most certainly is.” Lampley pulled a gun and aimed it him. “Kindly join your friends at luncheon or I will shoot you in some part of your body that will be very uncomfortable to bear this far from medical help.”

“Gladly, Hugh. It’s nice to see your true colors again.” Samuel nodded to his men. His sister stood waiting to see the outcome, pensive but no doubt ready for action. He waved to indicate all was well.

“Who are the newcomers?” Samuel asked.

“Our new investor,” Lampley said. “Sir Jason Moreau.”

Surprised, Samuel yanked his reins too hard.

“You know him?”

Samuel shook his head negatively. “Should I?”

Lampley shrugged. “Just assumed all you rich sort knew each other. Be warned.” Lampley gathered his reins. “He’s brought his own men. And they don’t appear nearly as tolerant as I am.” He spurred his horse, returning to the luncheon group.

Samuel joined the group. Olivia came to him, her face tense, her eyes bright silver icicles.

He took her hands. They were unnaturally cold.

“That man is Moreau.”

“I know,” he said.

“He wants to talk to me,” she said. Then she blurted a stream of undecipherable words he took as insults. He pulled her to him and held tight, rubbing a hand over her back to calm her trembling, and pressing his lips to her forehead.

“Are you leaving?” she mumbled pathetically against his chest.

“No.” He leaned back to look her into her eyes, wanting to tell her how much he loved her. “It seems we are to be guests of Lampley and Moreau for a short while.”

“Stafford—”

“I know. You’re worried. You should be. But it’s going to be all right.”

“Promise?” She stared back, wanting a nod of confidence that he could make everything normal again.

He couldn’t promise that exactly. “I promise not to leave you—willingly.”

Her eyes glistened with moisture. “Oh, Stafford—”

“Hush, Olivia.” Her irises softened to a magical cloudy gray. “Hush.” He leaned down and brushed her lips with his, a thumb caressing her soft cheek as he gently held her face in his hands. Slowly he deepened the kiss, losing awareness of everything but her. Nothing mattered but keeping her safe, and his heart ached at how her fantastic adventure was about to end.

She gently pulled free and smiled. “I won’t be afraid as long as you are with me.”

He started to grin when suddenly fingernails dug into his arm. It was his sister. She didn’t release him. Her lips smiled, but her eyes were furious—and frightened.

“That was incredibly stupid, brother.”

“I couldn’t help myself.”

“Try,” she hissed. Her other hand held a small plate stacked with food. To Olivia she said, “Eat every bite of this or so help me I will shove it down your foolish throat myself.”

“Allie, don’t.” Samuel knew why she was worried. It was for him. Not herself. She did not want their enemies injuring him to manipulate Olivia. “They will use us regardless.”

“You needn’t give them a target.” To Samuel’s dismay, his sister’s sharp green eyes flooded with tears. She spun away and bumped into her husband. “Will you please tell them this is no time for ardent interludes!”

Her husband snaked an arm around her waist and pulled her forcibly to him. She tried to push against his chest, but he wrapped another arm around her shoulders and secured her before dipping his head and kissing her thoroughly. “My darling, this is the most important time for ardent interludes. But I agree we must keep our wits about us. Go make a snack for Samuel.”

Worthington had a way of managing his sister. Alex nodded. After she left them, Worthington explained, “She’s been emotional lately.”

“It could be the heat, Your Grace. She really should take off her coat. It might help.”

Worthington nodded. “I’ll tell her. In the meantime, what do they want?” He indicated the men behind him.

“I don’t know, but we are about to find out,” Samuel said.

Merryvale, Lampley, and Moreau approached. Only Lampley smiled—a little too much to be natural. Moreau did not look dangerous, but Samuel knew from experience not to believe a person wouldn’t murder you just because he had kind eyes and a friendly grin. Moreau had neither of those qualities, but everyone had their own strategic style. He’d only to figure out Moreau’s.

The man was of average height and had a slender build. His mustache was black and trim and curled sleekly at the ends. Aside from dark, expressionless eyes reminiscent of a shark, Moreau appeared to exude warmth and sincerity.

Samuel wanted to spear him.

“My lady, I’m so thankful you made it to your father safely,” Moreau said.

“Indeed,” Stafford said.

“You must be Captain Stafford.” Moreau held out his hand. When Samuel didn’t take it, the man reached for one of his arms. “I heard about your run-in with corsairs when my ship was in Algiers. It was the talk of the town. A miracle you survived it.” He turned to Olivia. “My dear, you’ve had a terrible time of it. You must travel home with a proper naval escort. It cannot be allowed otherwise. I was right behind you. A shame you were not with me.”

“Your concern is touching, Sir Jason,” Olivia said. “Thank you. I’m sure you are right.”

“But you were lunching. Forgive me. Mr. Lampley wants to show me the catacombs. Perhaps you will join us after you are properly revived.”

“It would be a pleasure, sir,” Olivia said. “Excuse us.” She bowed her head properly and stepped away.

Samuel followed her. “That was damned strange,” he said in a strained whisper.

“It took the wind out of my sails,” Olivia whispered back. “What do you think he is up to?”

“No good,” he said. “Moreau could not get you one way, so he’s joined the expedition to have you cooperate another way.”

“I suppose we play along?”

“For now, but I don’t trust any of them a bit. And Olivia …” He stopped her to study her next reaction. “I’m not so sure where your father stands.”

“With us,” she said. “I spoke to him. He wanted to leave as well. Lampley left orders to hold him at camp. That’s why your sister couldn’t contact him.”

She put her hand protectively over the funerary cone. “I want to go in, Stafford. That’s the pain of it. But we can’t let Moreau get anything that’s inside. That would be highly iniquitous.”

“Then we need to make sure we get out of the tomb alive,” he said.

“Stafford,” she said, a look of panic on her face. “I had not even considered the alternative.”

“Consider it, love. This is not going to be an easy afternoon.”

* * *

Standing at the entrance to the tomb, Olivia recognized the magnitude of the moment—the fulfillment of a lifelong dream. It should have been the most thrilling day of her life. It turned out to be, but for different reasons.

On one hand, her heart pounded with excitement. What would they find? What would they learn? This day could change her life forever.

On the other hand, Moreau had his own aggressive-looking men escorting them, her companions were weaponless, and priceless treasure and knowledge could possibly fall into the wrong hands. She breathed in to control the increasing palpitations. Yes, it was an uncertain situation at best. Olivia adjusted her leather bag and water pouch.

They assembled outside the wood-supported opening—Stafford, his sister, the duke, and the Riedells. Elizabeth looked wary but protective. Riedell kept hold of her hand, equally protective. Lampley had arranged a number of soldiers to escort them. Kelley and their men waited not far from the entrance, and Olivia lifted a hand in farewell.

“Friends, any weapons?” Lampley said it with a smile.

“You’ve already disarmed us,” Stafford said.

“I meant the women.” Lampley’s eyes sharpened on the duchess. All eyes turned.

Worthington stepped in front of her. “My wife is pregnant. Anyone who touches her is a dead man.” He said it low and threatening. Olivia believed him.

His wife gasped with shock, touching his arm and drawing his gaze.

“You knew?” It was a hushed whisper of surprise.

The duke grabbed her hand, sudden understanding dawning on him for all to see. “You are?”

“Yes.”

“Alex,” the duke said on exhale, pulling her close.

“Joshua,” she cried softly.

And then they were in the most passionate embrace Olivia had ever witnessed. She waited. Then looked around. Then back.

Still in the embrace.

Olivia finally turned away, embarrassed. The others stared, dumbfounded. Even Moreau was stupefied.

Stafford cleared his throat. Olivia looked at him, surprised that for once he looked uncomfortable. It seemed he still was not accustomed to his younger sister’s being married. He cleared his throat again. Olivia heaved a sigh and went over to them, poking the duchess firmly in the back of her shoulder and enunciating into her ear. “No ardent interludes. Remember?”

The duke lifted his head. Vows of love were proclaimed. Olivia got testier. Love! If love made you lose your mind in the midst of life-threatening danger, she could well do without it! Granted, Moreau hadn’t officially threatened them yet, but he was making it difficult to fight back should there be disagreement.

The duke once again stood in front of his wife. Only this time he was brutally harsh, his expression mercilessly cold. “As I said, anyone who touches my wife is a dead man.”

Olivia swallowed with shock. She hadn’t recognized this trait in the duke. Guards stepped back, recognizing the danger. Moreau nodded to Lampley.

“Your Grace,” Lampley said to the duke. “Will you do the honors?”

The duchess lifted one leg for the duke and he discreetly removed a gun. Lampley handed it to one of his men and they prepared to leave.

Moreau stopped them. “Your reputation precedes you, Your Grace. I know you have at least one knife on you.”

The duchess smiled beguiling. “Two actually.” She lifted her other ankle for her husband. “Remarkable how people have nothing better to talk about.”

Lampley accepted the knives, shaking his head. “Shame on you, Your Grace.”

She shrugged. “I like to be prepared.”

Lampley laughed. “Excellent. If no one else is bearing arms, let us proceed.”

Moreau looked at Olivia’s leather bag, and she opened it for Lampley. “The artifact and writing materials to make notes for later study.” She tapped her other pouch. “Water.”

Lampley nodded and they began. The men were handed torches before stepping into the darkness of the tomb. Olivia acquired a lantern. Though the expedition team had already fitted the catacombs with an array of lamps to illuminate the explored areas, she did not want to depend on anyone else should she be left in darkness.

They navigated down a long flight of stairs to the first level, the temperature dropping with their descent.

“This is a much more agreeable temperature,” the duchess said.

Elizabeth disagreed. “There’s an eerie feel to it.”

“Nonsense,” Olivia said. “The Alexandrians would have been down here regularly, visiting their loved ones. This is not like a pyramid tomb. It was more of a visiting place.”

“I can think of some better visiting options,” Lampley chimed in. “A cozy bed with a view of the sea, and a willing—”

Stafford whacked Lampley on the shoulder.

Lampley apologized. “Sorry. Surrounded by beauties, you know. Can’t help it.” He winked at Olivia and Elizabeth. When he tried his charm on the duchess, she froze him with a chilling glare.

“You’d be quite likable, Mr. Lampley,” she said, “if you weren’t such a damned ass.”

“Now then, Your Grace. No hard feelings over the knives. I promise you will get them back before you leave.”

The duchess huffed and joined Olivia’s father to better hear his commentary.

Olivia stayed near her father, proud of him at that moment. True, he had managed to find himself in a bit of trouble, but charisma emanated from him when talking about his passion. She’d heard his stories of the Greeks and the Egyptians converging on Alexandria endless times but still listened, spellbound. Every now and then he turned to her to share the attention, and she eagerly expounded on a piece of knowledge or story she’d learned from him. It felt like they were a team—just as she always imagined.

Her father’s commentary made the experience feel like an excursion, and for twenty minutes she nearly forgot there were armed men with them. Even those men were fascinated by their surroundings. Olivia smiled despite herself. It could not be so bad. Moreau must have a common respect for the magnitude of this discovery. He must realize what a rare chance it was to experience this in their lifetime. She lifted a hand to feel the cool wall, wanting to touch where other humans had touched thousands of years before her.

For the umpteenth time, she adjusted the bag hanging from her shoulder, the funerary cone heavy.

The leather strap was lifted over her head. She turned, and Stafford draped it over his own shoulder.

“Thank you.” While she had not wanted to relinquish it, she trusted him, and her numb shoulder felt relieved. He reached a large hand to the spot and rubbed. She smiled gratefully and reached to put her hand on his.

He took her hand firmly, his grasp warm. He pulled her closer to his side until he could lift her hand to his lips. Then he lowered it, gave a quick squeeze, and led her through the tunnel to the next open juncture.

It felt natural to hold his hand through the dark, and their connection made her feel unusually happy. And stronger, she realized. She felt stronger when he was near.

The group slowed as they reached another flight of stairs, and he released her so she could follow him downward. She placed a hand on his shoulder as they stepped deeper into the cold, dimly lit home of the dead. His heat and strength reassured her somehow that all would be well.

The second level more easily captured the lingering scent of decay. This was where the wealthy families rested. It had more spacious tunnels and elaborate murals.

When they finally reached the bottom of the steps, they walked through a short vestibule into what felt like a grand central courtyard. Olivia wasn’t the only one gasping.

“It’s beautiful,” Elizabeth exclaimed as Lampley instructed the guards to light additional torches around the great hall.

Her father advised them to take a break and have some water. Servants who had joined them carried supplies, and water was passed out. For now Lampley and Moreau allowed her father to run the expedition, and Olivia found that encouraging.

The colossal room where they rested formed an octagonal space with minialtars recessed into each wall and stone benches for visitors to rest. Riedell brushed a stone seat for Elizabeth to sit on. The others followed their example.

Olivia took her time, observing it all with a keen eye. There was not enough light to distinguish the design on the ceiling, but she thought it might be a tribute to the god Osiris, judge of the underworld. She mentioned it to her father, and he ordered the men to light the torches they’d installed into the walls. When they did, the room lit up magnificently, casting shadows that danced merrily across the walls.

“The Egyptians, according to Herodotus, were a deeply religious culture. All wanted to be on good terms with the god of the underworld when they entered the final realm.” He showed them a representation of Osiris on a mural wall.

“Why is his skin green?” Elizabeth asked.

Olivia joined them and answered, “It’s a color of rejuvenation and rebirth.” She observed the four tunnels that led out of the great hall. “This is the way,” Olivia said to her father.

He nodded.

She’d been drawn to it without knowing, sensing something strangely familiar, as if she’d been here before. It made the fine hair on her arms stand on end.

She took another step and touched an empty, stelliform hole at the outermost entrance, instantly recognizing the star shape. They had obtained the funerary cone here! She looked at the inscription below, reading the hieroglyphics left to right, the meaning starkly and in some ways frighteningly clear.

WHAT YOU SEEK, YOU ALREADY HAVE.

Were these the librarian’s last words of wisdom? Advice or warning?

Her father explained, “Those other paths lead to rest areas, smaller than this hall, with six to eight family crypts leading off from each. That one is different. A long path, maybe fifty yards, that opens into the tomb at the end. The artwork from here to there is unsurpassed.”

Olivia entered the tunnel only intending to inspect the entrance. An icy cold emanated from the walls that no amount of heat from the torches could warm. The floor chilled her toes even through her sturdy shoes.

She stepped toward the wall to study the mural, in awe of the complex designs framing each vignette as well as the elaborate pictorial rendering. Slowly she walked along, her fingers grazing the surface ever so lightly, desperate to touch, but careful not to damage the ancient art. It was as if a distant memory called to her.

The story started with a beautiful landscape near an aqua-colored sea. She wondered if it was meant to be Alexandria. People then began to swim out of the water to the beach, until there was a large number. Eventually the story described the construction of what seemed to be a fairly modern city made primarily from quarried stone. Stunned by its beauty and familiarity, she pulled her hand away.

Over the templelike city a figure with orange hair and a long robe reigned. Olivia stopped in her tracks, unaware of the duchess behind her until she spoke.

“Is it a story, or is it real?” she asked.

Olivia turned to her and lifted the lantern to the duchess’s cold, determined face. There was a hint of fear.

“Which is it?” she asked again.

Their eyes made contact. Olivia guessed the woman wanted to hear the former. “I’m not sure, but …”

At her pause, the other woman kept walking to the end of the story. Olivia followed as the images changed to those of a war, then finally to that of a small person either being sacrificed or jumping at the edge of the city’s wall into the ocean. Olivia knew in her bones the figure did not go willingly, but at the duchess’s distress, she kept her thoughts to herself.

The scent of rot and decay became heavier the closer they walked to the room’s entrance. Olivia covered her nose and mouth from the smell.

“Olivia,” the duchess whispered. “We must not go further. No one must enter this tomb. Look at the other side of the wall.”

Olivia did. A female figure lifted her arm toward the seas. The next scene showed the destruction of the city as it crumbled into the earth and a tidal wave swept it away.

“That’s the past, Your Grace. It won’t affect us now.”

“No—”

“Something of interest, ladies?” Moreau interrupted, a handkerchief over his mouth, the others behind him.

“Just noting how the beautiful colors have survived,” the duchess said.

“Ah. Quite a history lesson, isn’t it?”

“Or a parable about the dangers of greed,” she returned, her voice cool.

“Nonsense.” He lifted his torch over the archway.

“Merryvale, you’ve been no use to us. Perhaps your daughter can tell us what this says.”

The casual threat in Moreau’s voice put Olivia on guard. She glanced to Stafford. He and the others appeared on alert. Damn if she were going to tell this malevolent, odious, contemptible abomination of a man anything that would help him.

Olivia stared at the hieroglyphics above the entrance to the next chamber. She motioned for Stafford to bring her bag and pulled out her journal. Elizabeth held her writing tools as she wrote down the symbols, already understanding, but struggling for the closest words in English.

“I’ll need time to study them,” she answered, staring at her notes.

Then she heard a click.

It had become a familiar one.

Moreau held a gun to her father’s head. And he looked ready to kill.

Chapter Twenty-Two

Excellent. In a tomb, surrounded by guards, a loaded pistol to her father’s brains, and Moreau thought that was conducive to coherent analysis and translation? Truly an ass and mome.

Moreau nodded to the guards, and suddenly weapons were aimed at her friends.

Her father looked to Lampley. “It doesn’t need to be like this, Hugh.”

“You’re afraid of success, Merryvale. You want to let others take credit for the work we have done.”

“So you do this? Threaten? Will you murder as well? Or have you already crossed that line?”

Lampley laughed harshly. “This from the man who tried to get the star cone behind my back. What did you think I would do? Give up?”

Moreau shoved the gun harder against her father’s head, ensuring silence. “You have ten seconds, my lady.”

Her father stared at them speechless, but she saw his left hand tremble.

“Five seconds, dear.” Moreau smiled.

Somehow Moreau had learned she could read hieroglyphics. She didn’t dare test his willingness to follow through with his threat. She stumbled, her nerves making the words come out a bit jumbled.

“I believe it … it says—”

Suddenly a warm, reassuring hand squeezed her shoulder. She looked up, knowing it was Stafford. He’d moved toward her at the first threat, and his hand rubbed her back steadily, sending heat back into the core of her body.

He winked. That was supposed to help, a wink? Damn silly man.

The annoying thing was that it did help. She straightened her back, recovering. She’d fought vicious pirates. She could handle Moreau. And she would not let him succeed, no matter what.

“I believe it says, ‘Here rests a treasure of no value … er without price,’ ” She spoke clearly and with confidence. “ ‘So a priceless treasure, a secret some will perish for, and knowledge of …’ I think, ‘of all time, or of the ages.’ ” She breathed carefully, covering her mouth again from the sickeningly sweet odor, and looked to see if he was satisfied. “Something like that.”

Moreau lowered his weapon. “Very good, my dear.”

Lampley nodded to Moreau. “You were right.” Then to her father, “Shame on you, Merryvale, for hiding that from me.”

“That was cruel and malicious,” Olivia spat. “My stomach is ill.”

“Nonsense, my dear,” Moreau said. “You’ve a talent. Sometimes it just takes a little encouragement to make the talent blossom.”

The guards lowered their weapons again.

“Now then, gentlemen.” Moreau turned to Lampley and her father. “That is very promising news.”

Olivia didn’t speak. She recognized the wary looks of her companions.

“Olivia, I’m going to return to camp,” Elizabeth said. To Merryvale, “Thank you for the tour, my lord. I’ve had enough excitement for the day, and I’m afraid I’m not dressed for an extended excursion.”

“Of course, my dear,” he replied.

Riedell took her arm, ready to leave. Guards blocked their way. He turned back to Moreau and waited. The man gave permission.

Riedell nodded to Stafford and escorted Elizabeth out. Four guards followed them.

Olivia swallowed her fear and anger, and turned that energy to what was next. It was difficult. The smell increased—she thought she could taste it. Her stomach burned with tension, and she felt more than a little lightheaded as she faced the vestibule to the next chamber.

Her father stopped her before she could enter. “Three men have died here,” Merryvale explained. “It seems the passage has some kind of trap. We believe on the floor. When you step through, poisonous darts shoot from the walls.”

“Clever,” Olivia said.

“This is what happens when people have too much time on their hands,” the duke noted.

Her father continued his theory. “Olivia, here’s where we believe the funerary cone might prevent the dangers in each room.”

“It’s the key,” the duchess said, understanding.

Olivia opened her pouch and pulled out the cone. She lifted it to the matching insert in the wall and pushed. It stopped a bit, and she pulled it back out to feel around for the obstacle. She cleared a small pebble and tried again. The cone slid in perfectly, and at the end the magnet’s force pulled, and it attached with a click. There was a brief silence followed by a strange deep grumble under the dart room—as if a wall moved under the floor. The group listened in silence to the slow reverberating movement at their feet.

“Perhaps our protection is in place,” Lampley said. “Who’s first?”

Olivia stepped into the chamber. The smell of rotten meat assailed her. She choked.

“Olivia, don’t move!” her father cried.

She froze, half confident, half terrified. When nothing deadly occurred, she released a breath of air. “There. No darts.” She just needed to trust herself. She took another step deeper into darkness. Then another. Samuel leaped ahead to follow.

Her father followed right behind, shouting a warning.

“Really, I think we’re safe, Father—other than the horrendous odor.” She took another step onto the patterned floor of the immense chamber that opened up before them.

Her father grasped the back of her shirt and yanked violently.

A sound whished loudly in front of them and ended with a thud.

Samuel held his torch in front of Olivia to illuminate. Where she had stepped, there now stood a long, sharp spear buried in the ground.

Olivia swayed dangerously, and he pulled her against him. The others joined them in the space, staying around the edge of the room. Their combined light illuminated what Olivia had not seen previously—two dried corpses speared in standing position not far in front of them.

She gasped and turned her head into Stafford’s chest, her nails digging deeply, her body huffing for air. His sister simply stared, face hard and controlled.

“That must have been a piercing disappointment,” the duke remarked, voice dry.

“After them, we stopped trying,” Merryvale said. “We knew we needed the cone. Each tile appears to have a number of spears connected to it.” Merryvale lit the torches installed behind them. “We did not want to risk more lives by counting them.”

The space was much larger than it had first appeared. Olivia pulled herself together and counted the tiles. Forty wide and forty across.

She moved free of Samuel’s arms and ran back through the hall. All made way for her. She released the cone from its lock and brought it back, relieved that the dart room only needed to be unlocked once.

She looked for the next star-shaped enclosure. “There must be another key insert in this room.”

Samuel looked around. She was right. “There is.” Everyone turned to him and he pointed across the room to two more doors. “Across. There’s a star shape between the two entries. Only it doesn’t help us over there.”

“What is the writing above the doors?” Moreau demanded.

Olivia squinted. “I think it’s the same as the entrance.”

Samuel and the others waited for her to explain.

“I cannot determine from this distance, but it looks similar. ‘What you seek, you already have.’ ” Olivia glanced unconsciously toward the gouged victims. “Now that I have experienced a bit of this, I would suggest it is sage advice and we need not go further.”

Lampley didn’t agree. “What about the other passage you noted? ‘A priceless treasure, a secret to die for, knowledge of the ages.’ ”

“There are many other discoveries to be made at this site,” Olivia insisted. “Perhaps this tomb is not meant to be opened.”

“I’m afraid that’s not an option, Lady Olivia,” Moreau said.

Samuel thought Lampley and Merryvale looked relieved.

“We’re a smart lot. I’m sure we can solve this puzzle,” Moreau said. “Look around, Lady Olivia. Are there any clues?”

She looked. “None that I can identify.”

The torch-bearing guards held up light so they could examine the floor. Samuel studied the patterns for a long moment, when it suddenly occurred to him what the answer was—at least part of it. “It’s a maze.”

“What?” Olivia looked at the floor curiously.

“A logic maze. You need to figure out the repeating pattern in the squares and follow that path across.” He hadn’t seen one of these since he was a child. “Our mother used to make them up to amuse us as children.”

“Not amuse, Samuel,” his sister corrected. “A-maze.”

He looked at his sister. She gazed back with a humorless expression. She’d figured it out as well, he realized. She just had no intention of helping them advance into the tomb. She knew what awaited them at the end when Moreau had all he needed. He couldn’t fault her analysis.

The group studied the floor trying to find a pattern.

“Here.” Olivia pointed to the symbols to explain. “They represent earth, air, fire, metal, water. Balance,” she said, thinking aloud. She lifted the skirts of her riding habit and moved to cross, until Samuel snatched her back.

“A little caution would be appreciated, Ollie.”

“Trust me.” She stepped forward and waited. No stabbing swoosh. She stepped again, following the repeating pattern left and right, with Samuel at her back until they crossed the room to safety.

Merryvale stepped next, followed by Alex, the duke, and Moreau. It took them five minutes to travel the circuitous route. Lampley issued orders to remove the bodies and mark the path. Alex reached out a foot and stepped on one of the unmarked stones. Then another. Two spears shot down.

“Allie,” Samuel warned.

She ignored him, taking one spear for herself and tossing the other to her husband. “It will make a nice walking stick, brother.” She nodded to Moreau. “And Sir Jason means us no harm. He simply wants the treasure at the end for himself. I have no issue with that. I am happy to enjoy the adventure.”

“It is a joint venture, Your Grace. Sir Jason is our partner,” Lampley asserted.

“Indeed,” Merryvale assured cynically.

Olivia pulled out the cone and pressed it into the slot. A serious of clicks sounded, followed by another loud movement under them. A turning motion activated the doors. The door on the right revolved halfway, allowing entrance, while the one on the left lowered completely into the floor.

The group members contemplated their options, peeking cautiously into each chamber.

“Do you think there’s a right and a wrong?” Olivia asked.

“Right is always right,” the duchess stated. “Left is historically evil.”

“Unless the librarian was left-handed and therefore more evenhanded with our torture,” the duke said, looking into the left room.

The duchess entered the right-hand room, leading with her spear and testing the ground. “It doesn’t seem like the floor is part of this puzzle.”

Olivia followed, lifting her lantern. It took a moment for her eyes to adjust. When they did, she recognized they were in a cylindrical tower. The men were exploring the other room. She called to Stafford to bring the torch. He came in, providing more light.

“Look!” She pointed up.

The light revealed an open doorway at the top of the tower. Odd. There were more than a hundred star-shaped cones sticking half out of the wall, with progressively fewer up higher. She pressed one of the star cones into the wall. When it clicked in place, a large stone next to it slid out two feet.

“Excellent! We merely figure out how to make our own steps to the top. Get the key, Stafford. This one seems much less deadly than anything thus far.”

Stafford left the room while Olivia and his sister studied the problem.

“I think we need to work from the top,” the duchess suggested.

The sound of stone turning got their attention. They ran to the entrance.

“Wait!

The door rotated. The duchess threw her weight against the revolution, trying to reverse it. Olivia joined her. It was impossible, despite similar efforts on the other side. The stone door locked in place with a resounding crash.

On the other side of the door Samuel looked around for the cause of the problem. Lampley had removed the key from its slot.

“Put the key back in!” Samuel shouted.

Surprised by the development, Lampley reinserted the key, but nothing happened.

Worthington pushed against the door forcibly. It wouldn’t budge. He listened, his hand against the stone, tormented.

“Alex! Alex!”

Samuel heard his sister’s voice, the sound muffled.

“Joshua! I love you, Joshua. I love you!”

Olivia’s voice was next. “Go through the next room! We’ll meet up!”

“Be careful!” Samuel hollered.

Joshua’s forehead lay against the cold stone door. He slammed the meat of his fist against it in frustration, clearly not wanting to leave. When he lifted his head, Lampley was in his sight.

He picked Lampley up by the throat and slammed him against a wall. “I swear if anything happens to my wife there won’t be a place on Earth you can hide from me.” He dropped the man and pushed his way to the other room to survey the problem. “What do we need to do?”

Merryvale redirected the men to the task at hand, while Moreau claimed the key. The second room was also circular, but had a low ceiling that the men could easily touch.

In the center of the room was a giant contraption of sorts—a large stone wheel on a circular track, with an enormous wood lever to pivot it around the center.

“I say we push this lever and see what happens,” Lampley said.

After a careful look for darts and spears, the others shrugged and decided to give it a try.

Joshua went to the lever, testing the weight. Samuel and the others joined with some additional guards to help push the wheel out of its two-thousand-year-old rut. As they pushed, a loud screech reverberated around the room. It seemed as though the entire tomb would fall in on them. The noise was not the progress of the wheel they turned, but the wall that turned with it, moving in a circle counterclockwise to them. Soon the opening they came through was blocked by the interior wall they turned with the contraption, indicating that there must be another matching doorway to realign with in order to get out. Encouraged, the men pushed harder.

“Brilliant,” Merryvale breathed, awed by the engineering.

Once they started, the movement required only two men.

Slowly they pushed the wheel in a complete revolution, noting various symbols revealed on the outer wall as their door frame circled the room. Unfortunately, without Olivia they were unable to decipher any potential clues, and they completed the circle without discovering another opening.

Back where they started, all contemplated the dilemma.

“We’re locked in,” Joshua said.

Samuel stepped back and thought. Then he slowly nodded, comprehending the situation. “You’re right. We need the combination. This room is a lock, and we’re inside it.”

“Hell,” Joshua swore.

“Yep.” Samuel knew his thoughts. Alex was the expert lock picker in the family.

Merryvale gasped again in awe. “If this truly is a combination lock, the technology predates the first known locks invented by Muhammad al-Astrulabi in the early thirteenth century.” He shook his head. “Astounding.” To the unimpressed Lampley and Moreau, “Gentlemen, truly astounding.”

“But can we get through?” Joshua asked.

Lampley cleared his throat to get their attention. “I might be of service.”

“Are you a thief?” Joshua snapped.

“I prefer locksmith. A useful tool for a man in the security business.”

“Uh-huh.” Samuel waited. “Can you get us out?”

“If this device plays by the same rules,” Lampley promised. “Listen and line up the discs.” He motioned to the men. “Turn it clockwise, slowly.” To the audience, “I will need utter silence.”

“How can you have silence with a thirty-foot-wide stone floor and wall creaking about you?” Stafford asked.

“Captain.” He raised a hand. “If you please. Your doubts are affecting my sensitive hearing instruments.”

Samuel glared at the man, barely able to contain his impatience. “Please …” He waved for Lampley to continue.

The men pushed, and Samuel could not distinguish anything unusual in the noise when Lampley signaled for them to stop.

Merryvale scribbled down the symbol quickly.

“Counterclockwise, please,” Lampley ordered.

The men turned, but as they did, another sound interfered with Lampley’s sensitive hearing instruments.

Bloodcurdling screams.

“The women!” Samuel ran to the sound, listening against the wall, then calling to Olivia and Alex. They no doubt could not hear him over their own nightmare.

Then just as suddenly it was silent.

Joshua paled. “Lampley, get us out of here!”

“Yes, yes.” He filled in, “Or there will be no place on Earth that I can hide.” He rubbed his left ear as if it had clogged. “Gentlemen, if you please. Counterclockwise.”

They turned, and very shortly Lampley had them stop and switch directions. When at last he lifted his hand, his face straining for auditory confirmation, Samuel was convinced the man was a complete fake.

He was soon proven wrong.

The room shifted so slightly that the change was almost unnoticeable. Then a loud crash shook them, the earth quaking below their feet.

Just as suddenly, it stopped.

The men didn’t move but stared at each other, wondering what this particular noise of doom meant.

Samuel found Lampley’s eyes. “You sure that was it?”

Before Lampley could respond, the room did it for him.

The floor dropped out from under their feet.

Chapter Twenty-Three

Nathan didn’t waste time when he left the tomb with Elizabeth. Without Lampley or Moreau to enforce the rules, the guards were a little more flexible. Moreau’s personal guards still protected his tent, but the Riedells had access to the other structures for shade.

Nathan kept watch while Elizabeth discreetly searched Lampley’s tent, acquiring a small flintlock pistol and some shot that were secured in a chest. He also chatted up the workers. While the guards had been paid just that morning, the workers doing the heavy lifting and transporting of objects had not been paid in three weeks. It was not the longest they had gone without pay, but it was becoming the trend, and there were enough people ready to abandon the project. Most stayed in the small oasis, but a surprising number left in the evenings to homes elsewhere. He could count on their support should a safe opportunity arise, but none wanted to incite danger, nor did they have weapons, other than the tools provided to them.

They did help him with one key strategy.

He was able to get enough clothing from locals to dress one of the crew—Longstrom—like them. Nathan then sent him to join the workers wrapping and transporting objects from different areas of the catacombs. Once Longstrom mixed in, the guards did not notice. When the local workers left that night, he would go with them, then return to Alexandria to find Riad and assistance.

Nathan needed to get Elizabeth out of there and back to the ship. He didn’t trust Lampley, and he certainly didn’t trust Moreau. For now he could only pace, praying the others down in the tomb were safe and would join them again soon.

Olivia felt nothing short of guilt and sorrow as she held the lamp behind the duchess. The woman laid her forehead against the stone door parting her from the duke, her palm pressed flat against the cold divider, pained by the separation. Olivia waited in silence until Samuel’s sister slowly breathed in and faced her.

She expected a display of emotion, but the duchess appeared utterly composed, focused, and all business. She even smiled encouragingly, reaching for the spear she’d used earlier. “With the door closed, at least the scent is not so bad. And there are no poisonous darts or piercing spears. This should be easy.” She studied the opening above. “Right, Professor?”

“Yes, yes! Most definitely. I think this is the next one.” Olivia climbed the first stone and pressed a star cone into the wall. Another block came out on top of the one she stood on and forced her off, back to the ground. Olivia jumped, her lamplight flickering precariously.

There was a light sound of something dropping, and they both turned. The duchess shook it off and pressed another key. “Not that one, this one.” A stone came out on the very bottom next to the two others, so that now they had two steps created.

Thump.

Again, the women spun toward the sound.

“What was that?” the duchess asked.

Olivia huddled next to her, holding out the lamp, hoping to expose the source. As she did, something dark fell in front of them. Too close.

Both women jumped back in surprise.

Then it uncurled.

Olivia’s lamp shook violently from her trembling body as she illuminated the venomous vermin. “Snakes,” the duchess whispered.

They took a slow step back.

Another fell in front of them and they jumped back, clinging to each other, as it lifted its swaying body curiously.

“No,” Olivia corrected. “Egyptian asps. One bite will cause swelling, hemorrhage, vomiting, paralysis, and death in approximately fifteen minutes.”

More thumps sounded behind them, and when something hit their heads, sliding against their hair, they didn’t need to guess what is was.

Bloodcurdling screams filled the chamber.

The two women scrambled up the first two steps to get away.

Olivia steadied her lamp to find the next block that would advance them. The duchess began to unbutton her leather coat.

“No, leave it on, Your Grace. It’s your best defense!”

Samuel’s sister laid her coat and spear against the curved wall of the first step. “Not likely, Professor.”

Olivia raised her light over the duchess. Across her chest and around her hips rested an assembly of knives. “What?” That’s why the duchess had insisted on keeping her coat on through the heat. “What is that?”

“A wedding gift from my brother Matthew.” She pulled a knife and nailed an asp to the wall. “I love getting married.”

Olivia stared in shock. Grateful shock. “You’re mad. Thank heavens!”

“I prefer prepared, Professor. Now, you were about to lead us out of here. I’ve only seventeen knives left, and if I’m not mistaken we are directly underneath the snake den.”

“Oh.” Olivia knew her voice sounded weak. She looked for the next option, holding up the lantern and trying to visualize backward. She locked another key into place, and another step took her higher. The duchess was still on the first stair, aiming at the most threatening targets. One asp suddenly slid up from nowhere and peeked over the stone at her feet, its small flat head and snout pointed toward her.

Then it got taller, its scales extending out like a hood.

“That cannot be good.” The duchess inched backward slowly, reaching for her leather coat to protect her legs as she climbed the next step.

“Careful,” Olivia warned.

The hiss was all the warning they got.

The serpent shot forward and attached itself to the bottom of the leather. The duchess swung her coat against the wall, then the stairs, then the wall. “Get off, you bastard!”

“Throw the coat!” Olivia ordered, cringing, chills covering her body as she shuddered with each violent thwack.

The duchess continued to swing the snake and the coat until finally the asp released with the final slam. Its body stuck to the wall, then abruptly fell.

Two more snouts popped up in its place.

“Try this.” Olivia handed her the pouch. “Open and spray.”

“What is it?”

“Spanish chili-pepper juice.”

“Brilliant!” the duchess said. She sprayed the serpents.

They hissed and rose up in fury, their flat snouts ready to spring. Alex scrambled up to the next stone step. “Brilliant, but not on snakes. Hurry. They’re slithering.”

Olivia swallowed her panic. They were slithering. Toward them! The duchess released three knives in succession, wielding them with enough force to send the first few flying backward.

“Your Grace, the path is going to switch directions. I need you to stand on the same step as me or the next block will knock your head off.”

Alex stood carefully trying not to alert the snakes, stepped up, and squeezed behind Olivia. There was barely enough room for both of them.

“Keep going, Professor.” Samuel’s sister reached for a new knife, climbing backward onto the next step.

They were about to continue upward when the room began to vibrate. Olivia pressed against the curved wall, waiting. The vibration increased until the earth quaked beneath their feet and male roars sounded from the room next door.

“The men!” Her Grace cried out in panic. The tremors stopped. “Dear God.”

Silence.

Olivia tried to comfort the other woman, but her own fist clutched with terror. If something happened to Stafford, she would never forgive herself. They waited long moments, hoping to hear anything besides the hissing of snakes.

“Alex?”

“Yes?”

“May I call you Alex? It seems quicker than Your Grace, under the circumstances.”

“I gave you leave before, Professor. If we survive this, you may call me whatever you damn well please.”

“You’re just like your brother,” Olivia said, smiling with quivering lips.

She pressed the next key, and sure enough the block came out where she’d expected. She moved with more confidence, leading them up in a winding circle around the edge of the tower, while asps fell regularly past them into the center of the cylindrical space, occasionally coming close. They made good progress until they were three steps from the doorway—on the wrong side of the room.

The women paused, examining the wall with the flickering light.

“There,” Alex pointed. “Another direction change.”

Olivia looked at it. “It looks different. It’s not star-shaped, but circular. Though I don’t see any more star-shaped ones.”

“There couldn’t possibly be any more snakes,” Alex offered. “What could happen?”

“Very well.” Olivia pushed in the key. The step she was on began to move.

It recessed into the wall.

She lost her balance and quickly jumped to Alex’s level as Alex moved out of the way. Then the next step recessed, and they crawled farther down. The sound of a hissing frenzy became ominously louder as they were forced to go lower and lower.

“Make it stop!” Alex said.

“I can’t!” Olivia shouted, scrambling behind Alex, seeking a safe ledge.

Finally, it stopped.

“Wrong turn?” Alex gasped.

Olivia struggled for air. She looked at the wall. “I guess. Here’s another path.” She pressed in the key, and they began a new ascent.

Until … thump.

“Alex?” Olivia didn’t move, staring at the asp on the block in front of her.

“Use this.” Alex shoved the spear into Olivia’s hand in exchange for the lamp. “Swush it. Before it uncurls!”

“Swush isn’t a word.”

“Of course it is. It means the act of swiping and pushing. Swush.”

“Oh.” Olivia stuck the spear out between the wall and the snake and pushed. Only her swush was more like a spank.

“Swush it, Olivia. Harder!”

The asp began to curl lazily around the pole of the spear. Olivia lifted and pushed harder, but the asp continued to slither around the spear until it lifted its head and fanned its hood. Both women knew what was next.

“Ahh!” Olivia threw the spear as far into the pit as possible, and though safe for the moment, she could not stop shaking. Even her teeth chattered.

She felt Alex’s hand on her shoulder. “Equally effective. Shall we continue?”

Though the duchess was trying to make her feel better, Olivia saw the slight wobble in her hand as she returned the lantern.

Olivia got them back up to the top, level with the door, and within two stones of escape. She paused. Strange that there was only one more key. Of course there was a final test. “Oh, hell. Get ready for anything,” she warned her companion.

Olivia pressed the final key and a stone came out under the door.

“We’ll have to jump,” Alex said.

“What if the rock isn’t stable? Or if it’s slippery? Or we overjump and fall to our death?”

“It’s only four feet. You could take a long step.”

Olivia wasn’t sure. She pressed her body against the wall, exhausted. Despite the cold, she was hot, sweaty, and her hands were clammy. “You can do it. You’re a Stafford.” It came out sounding like an accusation.

“Yes,” Alex agreed. “It is nice to know who you are.”

She pushed Olivia aside and stepped across with a little hop. “You are Olivia Katharine Hastings Yates—professor, explorer, adventuress, killer of angry asps, and puzzle mistress extraordinaire. I don’t think a few feet of air is going to keep you from achieving your goal. Now straighten up and move your arse over here.”

Alex put on her leather coat and reached out her hand. “Take my wrist … in case you do decide to stumble and fall thirty feet to a grisly death.”

Olivia reached across. “Thanks.”

She stepped across, false confidence in place, but nearly certain this would be fine. She stepped onto the stone at the same time that she heard a familiar sound.

Thump. Then something else slapped at their linked wrists. Thwack.

Olivia jumped backward. Instinctively. Away from one danger and into another.

Her body dropped and air rushed her ears with an all-too-familiar …

Woosh.

Samuel pushed himself to his knees and checked on Worthington and the others, his heart pounding rapidly. They had dropped only about four feet, but it had effectively scattered the group. Soldiers scrambled to secure their weapons.

Samuel pointed to an opening on the other side of the room, about four feet high. “There,” he said. “A passage.”

They began to crawl through hurriedly, as no one was certain the floor wouldn’t drop again.

What awaited them was a long, wide, rectangular resting chamber with approximately fifteen-foot ceilings, benches, wall art, and little side tables made of stone—probably meant to hold candles or lamps. Guards went to work setting up torches on the walls as they had in previous rooms.

Samuel and Worthington hurried in the direction where they’d last heard the women—only there was no door.

Worthington cursed as he searched the space. It seemed as though they were at the end of the tomb.

“It has to be another puzzle,” Merryvale said.

“Samuel,” Worthington called, his face grim. “Over here.”

Samuel joined his brother-in-law. Around the west end of the room were murals of the puzzle rooms they passed through showing both solutions and their morbid failures.

Samuel studied the ancient art the duke indicated. The image showed one person escaping up a maze of circuitous stairs, while another was knocked off the stairs and depicted midair, falling into the pit of eager vipers’ jaws, while a third was being devoured.

“Please tell me we did not leave our women in that room,” Worthington said.

Samuel swore, nearly pulling out his hair. “We have to go back.”

Merryvale stood with them, unable to express the magnitude of his fear. “Asps!”

“Gasp?” Worthington asked. “Yes, it’s—”

“No! Egyptians asps! Poisonous. Venom. Certain death,” Merryvale said, his words filled with horror.

“I got that part!” Joshua shouted, furious. “But thank you for clarifying.”

Before Samuel could intervene he caught the sound of an eerie wail echoing through the chamber. Several guards tensed, whispering that the tomb was haunted. Others froze as the wail became louder. It was getting closer. He frowned, rubbing the hairs at the back of his neck, recognizing something familiar.

He had just worked out the mystery when the tower-room art he and Worthington studied exploded in front of them.

Bits of wall splintered forth violently.

He lifted a hand defensively, but it did not stop the creature flying at him or prevent him from being knocked flat on his ass.

Then darkness surrounded him.

Chapter Twenty-Four

Some things just were not fair. One, the women getting the snake pit room. Two, nearly getting out, only to be attacked by two asps simultaneously.

Jumping was instinctive. And it eliminated the asp between their arms. Unfortunately, when Olivia dropped, the snake plopped on her shoulder, some part of it slinking under her chin and against her neck, before fortunately sliding off her back.

Their light clattered into darkness, hitting a couple stones before landing with a thud, softened by the layer of snakes curling about.

Fortunately, the duchess did not let go. Olivia blessed her tough American stock. She truly doubted another Englishwoman of her acquaintance would have saved her. She swore that, if she lived, she’d rethink her prejudices about Americans.

The duchess meanwhile had leaped through the doorway, providing an anchor for Olivia’s weight. There was one more asp, stunned by its own fall, making its way toward them.

“The floor is slanted,” Alex said, reaching her free hand under Olivia’s armpit. “Slippery. Can you get your other arm over the edge?”

“Yes, but … don’t move,” Olivia whispered. “It’s coming.”

“I know,” the other woman said through clenched teeth. “So do it now. If it bites me, you’ll die as well.”

Olivia pulled herself up, getting traction against the wall while Alex held her, and managed to get her other shoulder over the edge.

“Stop,” Alex hissed.

Olivia didn’t move. She knew asps responded to vibration more than sound. The women clung to each other in their precarious position, trying not to move. In the dark, they had only sound to tell them where the danger lay.

They did not like what they heard.

It was the sound of slither over leather. Olivia’s heart pounded. The asp was exploring the duchess’s back.

For long moments they held, their grip getting slick. Finally there was no more sound.

“Where is it?” Olivia whispered.

“My back. In my hair,” Alex said, breath shallow.

“Let me go,” Olivia insisted. “Then flip on your side … fast. I can hold on.” Olivia wasn’t sure Alex had the strength left to move. “If you die, I die. Let go. Now!” Olivia said, her voice harsh.

Alex let go and flipped violently. They both heard the landing of the asp, followed by a sliding sound. The duchess reached under Olivia’s shoulder and helped to pull her to safety. “Careful. Remember, this room is slanted.”

She’d no sooner said the words when Olivia began to slip. Olivia grabbed for the edge and missed. Instead she caught Alex and pulled her down with her.

It wasn’t a room.

It was a funnel.

And it was steep.

Olivia slid on her back, reaching out. The slide narrowed into a turn at one point, then widened … as it dropped.

They both felt the steep drop at about the same time, their surprised wails echoing around them. It lasted for one very, very long breath.

In the darkness, Olivia didn’t know what she’d hit, but she was glad her feet had hit it first. Her hands went up to protect her face as the slide ended and she was airborne … until the next obstacle stopped her cold. Then she fell over.

She heard the duchess’s warning cry behind her. Somehow the woman didn’t land on her.

Painfully, Olivia lifted her head and pushed her hair out of her face. She was on her knees. With the men. There was light. She was so grateful for light.

Then she realized she was sitting on a rather warm body, her skirts enveloping the man’s face. A large hand grabbed her knee, under her skirts but over her cotton undergarments. She swiped at it, fidgeting over the assault, while it fought with her skirts and finally threw them up at her to reveal Stafford’s red face.

“Professor,” he cracked, sounding pained. “It’s not that I don’t like this position, but next time, perhaps we could choose a softer landing.”

“Gads, Stafford!” Olivia worried over the man, touching his head, cheeks, chest. “Are you all right? You made it.”

“You seem relieved.”

She smiled. “Yes! Oh yes!” She would have kissed him, but for the fact that her legs were spread scandalously across his chest and her father was helping her up. She turned to look for Alex. The duke had caught his duchess.

“I’ve got you, my love,” he repeated over and over, running soothing hands over her back and stroking her hair.

Alex was having trouble articulating. Her mouth kept opening, but nothing came out. Samuel grabbed her from Worthington. “Have you been bitten, Allie? What is it?”

She pointed. Then she found the second spear nearby, grabbed it, and threw with amazing force toward the passage she’d just exited. Samuel jolted as the spear landed deep in the floor. The snake hissed and squirmed violently.

“Disgusting,” Lampley noted, joining them.

“Snake,” the duchess said.

“Egyptian asp,” Merryvale corrected—until he got the cold glare from Alex. “Nasty snakes, they are …”

“Thank you, Alex,” Olivia said. “You were very resourceful.”

Samuel watched as the two women embraced, still recovering from their ordeal.

Alex asked what they had accomplished. He told her. Her eyes smoldered and she began to shake. “You had to pick a lock? That’s all?”

“Well, it wasn’t easy without you, my love,” the duke explained.

She looked at Olivia and mocked, “Simple! We merely make our own steps! Far less deadly. Egyptian asps? Oh, how interesting. Do you know their poisonous venom can paralyze and kill you in a mere fifteen minutes? So interesting.”

Samuel asked, “Was it bad?”

Alex indicated her knife assembly, currently empty. “I have no more knives left.”

“That was her wedding gift from Matthew,” Olivia explained. “It was quite useful.”

“A lock. You had to crack a lock,” Alex muttered, walking away to see the rest of the chamber, every now and then swatting the back of her neck as if something were there. Her husband followed and put his arms around her, pulling her against him.

“It looks like you forged a link,” Samuel said to Olivia.

“Yes,” she answered, staring at him. “But I wish you had been there.” Her fingertips subtly reached out for his.

“Uh, Stafford. My lady,” Lampley said. “Moreau needs you down at the other side.”

Merryvale grabbed Lampley by the scruff of his neck, guiding him firmly away. “My daughter needs a moment to recover, Hugh. Moreau can wait.”

Samuel wasted no time in taking advantage of the limited privacy. His fingers slid under the leather strap across her breast, his knuckles brushing strategically against a heaving curve under the thin material of her dress.

He swallowed hard.

So did she.

He drew on the strap, pulling her to him. His arms went around her and held tight as she rested her head on his chest. Samuel stroked her hair, gently sorting out the tangles.

“I missed you when we were separated,” Olivia confessed.

“My brawn or my brain?”

“Both.” She grinned up at him, a hand on his chest exploring with a featherlike touch.

“Huh. That’s progress.” His thumb stroked under her chin, lifting her face, as he threaded his fingers through her hair. The flickering torch posted nearby illuminated her skin and reflected in her eyes. He turned her away from the light, holding her, lightly caressing the planes of her face. His heart pounded under her hand, but he didn’t give into his desire. He planned to kiss her. He was waiting.

She looked him in the eyes. “Samuel?”

Her voice was husky and low. She’d finally said his name. It gave him strange satisfaction, as if a barrier had been broken, a victory had been won.

“Yes,” he acknowledged, pleasure filling him. “Can I do something for you, Olivia?” He lowered his head and brushed lips down the side of her neck, smiling as she shivered, wrapped her arms around his neck, and pulled demandingly.

“What do you want, Olivia?” he whispered in her ear.

“Samuel,” her gravelly voice begged. “Distract me, please.”

Softly, against her ear, “With pleasure, my love.” Then he took her lips, tasting her, absorbing her, filling his essence with hers, tortured by her scent, her feel, her shape, and—most of all—her damned brilliant mind. He smiled, lost.

He loved her.

If only she would let him.

He lifted his head to see her face in the shadows, relaxed and wanton in his arms, trusting him completely to give her what she wanted, to show her how it felt, to prove to her this emotion between them was more than friendship, more than lust, more than affection. He gently brushed back behind her ears the silky strands of her hair and cupped her cheeks before grazing his lips lightly over the curve of her smile. Then he could hold back no longer. He reached for a rounded curve above her thigh, slipped an arm around her back, and hauled her to him, making her feel how he felt for her.

She rasped his name again with hesitant surprise.

He plundered her lips.

Olivia held on, pressing desperately against him. The feeling of him, his body, his heat—it surrounded her, made her head spin and her heart ache. She gasped, awareness and emotion overflowing, confusing her.

She couldn’t get enough of him and she couldn’t understand it, but she demanded more. She loved the feel of rippling muscles under her hands, but even more, the knowledge that he would protect her no matter what trouble she fell into. He cared for her in a way no one ever had. It gave her courage.

Her nails raked under an opening in his shirt, loving the heat of his skin and the crisp curl of hair between her fingers. Her hand pressed into him, nearly clawing as she inhaled and pulled his head more tightly to her so she could plunder him.

She’d forgotten where she was until Lampley nudged them both several times, finally shaking them out of their reverie. It was incredibly rude.

He cleared his throat. “I really must insist,” he said. Then, at their irritated looks, he sighed and walked away.

Olivia brushed down her skirts. “I feel better. Thank you.”

Stafford grunted, dissatisfied. “I would like to have my leisure with you, Lady Olivia.”

She lifted her nose at him and gave her hair a sassy toss. “Ladies don’t take their leisure in the manner you are suggesting, Mr. Stafford.”

He clasped a hand behind her head for a quick kiss. “In case you didn’t know this, Professor, you’re not much of a lady.”

She gasped, and he laughed. “You’re so easy. Come on.” He grabbed her hand. “The dead await.” He pulled her along to join the others. To Lampley, “Have you figured out what’s next?”

“It seems like the end. No doors,” Lampley said.

Olivia shook her head, perplexed. “It’s a tomb. There would at least be a sarcophagus.”

Moreau joined them, accompanied by his men. He held the funerary cone. “Lady Olivia. You’re back. Excellent. Your services are needed. The art on the end is of particular interest to me.”

“Lovely to see you too, Moreau,” Olivia said, following him. The duke and duchess were already there, staring at the image. They turned to Samuel for his reaction. He studied the pictures, then looked away, his face expressionless.

“It’s a story of an astrolabe,” Moreau explained. “And look, on the crown here is the same symbol as on our funerary cone. That is the astrolabe I want.

“What I would like to know, Lady Olivia, is what does the tale reveal, and is it among the treasures in this tomb?”

Olivia studied the large section of wall. The entire piece was framed by three rows of five-pointed stars. In the center shape appeared to be an astrolabe; within it was the image of a dark-haired Egyptian, working metal. Around this were vignettes of the inventor holding the six pieces and giving them to five people. Each of the five traveled far away—across water, over mountains, through desert, to what seemed to be very distant lands—though it could well have been as close as fifty miles from Alexandria. All those conditions existed. And in the ancient days, faraway was relative.

“Above each of these pieces of art is the same warning as before,” Olivia announced. “ ‘What you seek, you already have.’ ” She thought a moment and read the lettering along the bottom of the images, conveying her interpretation based on what she’d learned at the entrance of the tomb.

“This is ‘the secret men will die for.’ ” She walked backward to the other pieces of art on the walls. She pointed to the pictures of people engaged in life, noting, “ ‘The treasure without price.’ ” Walking to the last chamber, she indicated the image of a person reading scrolls, surrounded by what seemed to be a temple library. “And ‘knowledge of the ages.’ ”

“But where is the treasure?” Lampley demanded.

“Or the knowledge?” Merryvale asked. He knocked his hand once against the art, then again, before looking at his daughter knowingly.

They scrambled to find a latch to release the art until a crash got their attention. Olivia turned in time to see Alex lift her heel and slam her foot through the priceless ancient art a second time, causing it to splinter into bits.

“Stop!” Olivia shouted, running toward her.

Moreau leaped at her in outrage. Until he saw the result. They looked through to find a room behind the painted screen.

“Let me just clear this away for you,” Alex said.

Moreau stepped in front of her. “That will be enough, Your Grace. I don’t want you to be injured.”

Olivia debated whether he meant to do the injuring himself. “There must be a lever or release somewhere. Let’s look.”

“I’ve got it,” Merryvale said. “It’s dry. Careful.” He showed them how to fold open a latch that then allowed the wood screens to be opened like wall-sized doors. Merryvale gasped with awe at what was before him. The room of knowledge was a giant chamber cluttered with objects and instruments—some for learning and some that seemed for everyday use. But what awed him most were the walls. Embedded in the stone of all the walls were shelves filled with ancient scrolls.

“We did it, Olivia. We did it.” He touched the scrolls and codices reverently, walking slowly along the wall in wonder.

Olivia joined her father, her hand grazing the parched, dusty records. Gently, she slid one out from the top. Her father laid his jacket on the table and they unwrapped the outer material, which looked to be shreds of linen. Next they unfurled the scroll.

“Papyrus,” her father touched the scroll. “I’ve seen only one other very rare sample. The dry climate has protected it from rot”—he lifted a section of scroll—“and provided us with a miracle.”

Olivia read the symbols and explained it to him. “It’s a genealogy, Father. Of the kings. A proof.” She swallowed hard, moved by their find. Then they grinned at each other like schoolchildren up to mischief. Her father’s body shook with delight, and Olivia wiped the sudden tears filling her eyes. She’d done it. She’d discovered mysteries of the ancients. Accomplished something few in the world would ever do.

“Now what do you have to say to me, Merryvale?” Lampley said.

They looked up, all three a little dazed. Her father huffed. Then smiled reluctantly. “I still don’t approve of your methods.”

Lampley nodded. The two men seemed to have a truce of sorts for now. Olivia left them. Where was Stafford? He must see this. She wanted to share it with him.

Olivia rushed past some guards to find the man. He was in the room at the end. The astrolabe room. The room of the secret.

She didn’t join him. Instead, she stopped in the center room and went in, mesmerized as she stepped slowly around the giant slab of red granite. Her hand reached out before her and touched.

The sarcophagus.

Here lay the librarian.

Sarcophagus—Greek for flesh eating. Horrific, how her mind worked. Thankfully the victims were already dead.

She slid her hand along the edge and stopped in surprise. Carved into the limestone cover was not just the librarian, but a couple. A handsome couple. He with the ornamentation of the Greeks. She with the look of an Egyptian. A mixing of cultures. They lay wrapped in a peaceful embrace, as if only down for a short nap, a smile on the woman’s face—as if she had just made love. She recognized the librarian’s necklace from the artwork, the astrolabe with the symbol of Lilith at the top of the necklace. Her fingers traced the lines to the place where their hands met and fingers entwined. She touched a ring on the woman’s hand.

“She’s put us through quite a lot today,” Alex said.

Olivia startled. Then she realized Alex knew.

“Of course it had to be a woman,” the duchess continued. “It’s always the women in this story.” She observed the couple. “He was handsome. She on the other hand …” Alex looked back and forth at Olivia and the librarian. “She looks a bit like you.”

Olivia felt lightheaded. “That’s impossible.”

“Of course,” Alex agreed, staring at her curiously. “It would indeed be peculiar if she was an ancient ancestor.”

Olivia closed her eyes briefly, fighting off the dizzy spell.

Strange how my balance is upset in certain parts of the tomb.

She shook off the reaction and reached out to touch the linked fingers carved in stone. They each wore a ring. A simple band.

Olivia stepped back, then swayed again as the room appeared to move.

Alex reached to catch her at the same time as Samuel.

“You’re exhausted,” Samuel said. His fingers soothed over her temples, comforting, and Olivia began to relax.

“Better?” he asked.

“Yes.” She squeezed his hand in thanks and stood to face an impatient Moreau urging her to the last room.

Lampley studied her in Stafford’s care. “I will tell them you need a moment. It has been an exhausting experience.” Olivia was grateful, if surprised by his sympathy.

Samuel helped Olivia forward. A clammy hand clasped his. A sure sign of her growing strain.

They paused outside the splintered door of the astrolabe room, and he pulled Olivia in front of him to watch. She leaned her back into his chest and he wrapped an arm around her waist, his chin touching the top of her hair for the briefest of moments.

The entire group stood around a large circular table. Engraved on the top were stars of different sizes with lines connecting them.

“It’s Canis Major,” Samuel said. They looked at the largest star in the constellation map, and he pointed. “And that would be Sirius.”

“The brightest star in the sky,” Olivia said. “I learned that from your books,” she told Samuel. To her father, “It’s important for navigators.”

Moreau lifted the funerary cone. “Sirius, it is.”

The star shape of Sirius made yet another insert, and Moreau placed the artifact in the slot. It fit only halfway, but made a familiar click, indicating a correct action. Then another click sounded … and another. They listened.

Silence.

“Now what?” Merryvale asked in hushed tones.

Samuel’s attention was diverted by Olivia stiffening in his arms.

He stepped aside to see her face, one hand keeping connection with her. She studied the walls. He knew that she was reading whatever mystery lay before them, and whatever it said spooked her.

Olivia studied the hieroglyphics on the walls. It was not the Lilith story as depicted outside the tomb, but a continuation—a prophetic vision promising great power and riches and a transformation of the world as they knew it.

This was the prophecy the Staffords feared.

The daughter of Lilith had to restore balance at the altar of the original transgression. Through her death and transformation, a new era would begin, and those who offered the sacrifice would dictate the power of a new age.

Olivia’s skin tingled with worry. The astrolabe was the beacon that would lead the family of Lilith home, should they become lost.

Startled at the realization, the importance of that one instrument, she turned to the duchess again. And understood her fear. Olivia just wasn’t sure she believed it. If the art the duchess had just tried to destroy was correct, then the astrolabe had been divided and sent to the ends of the earth—a precaution against it falling into the wrong hands?

That is—all but one piece. The piece the librarian guarded herself.

The piece Moreau wanted.

He was behind the thefts and murders across Europe. He was trying to find the mythical treasure. And he thought the key to lead him to it was in this tomb.

The keeper of the astrolabe was depicted on the wall near the prophecy, a necklace hanging over her white robe. She looked more like a goddess than a librarian, but it was this woman who had made the astrolabes. Olivia also understood something else of this very logical, accomplished sage to the pharaohs. She was a prophetess. Olivia cursed inwardly.

Can no one stick with pure science?

Moreau stared at the round table waiting for something to happen.

Olivia stepped up and ran her hand over the writing on the surface around the edge. If she told them, would they discover the final disc Moreau sought? Did she want him gaining access to unknown power?

“It’s a lever,” Moreau said, pointing to the artifact now attached to the table. “It should turn.” To some guards, “Help.”

It required three men to loosen the stiff axis. They turned the table, but nothing happened.

“Keep turning,” Moreau insisted.

Something fell and crashed.

Olivia and the duchess jolted back in terror, expecting asps or something even more horrible.

Stafford picked up the object that had fallen.

Not a creature. A thing. An astrolabe, its antique chain shattered.

They tilted their heads upward. The lines in the ceiling were not engraved patterns, but slots.

“Keep turning,” Moreau said. His voice became urgent, filled with excitement.

As the stone table circled, nearly fifty ancient astrolabes lowered from the ceiling on chains of various lengths. All were different sizes—from four to twenty-four inches in diameter. As they were lowered they began to spin gently in the air—some made of brass, some bronze, and others Olivia thought were perhaps gold. The twirling metal discs reflected and bounced the torchlight around the room, creating a kaleidoscope of light and color.

Fantastic.

Only Moreau didn’t think it so fantastic.

He grabbed Olivia’s arm. “Which one is it?”

“Is what?” She yanked her arm free as Stafford stepped forward.

“Which of these is the secret? The one we need?” His eyes turned dark.

“None,” she said. Her chest got tight and her breath came in short gasps. “The secret was divided.” She explained the picture that lay shattered and the stories written on the wall. “The pieces were sent to the ends of the earth.”

“It’s true.” Alex stepped forward. “If you look at some of these, the styles are clearly different. Made by different hands. A study of them would perhaps find common signatures. The person buried here was an inventor, but also a collector.”

“Not all the pieces were sent. I was told the librarian kept a part,” Moreau said.

“I don’t know,” Olivia said, backing up into Stafford. His arm went around her protectively.

Moreau leaned into her face with his. “Then you’d better find out.”

“Don’t threaten me, sir. I need to perlustrate. I cannot do that with you acting like this. Calm yourself, please. It is imperative that I have calm surroundings to think!” Olivia panicked. Moreau wanted answers, and she did not know them. If there was a piece of the astrolabe to be collected in the tomb, she did not know where it was.

“Perhaps it is in one of the astrolabes, or in the tomb chamber.” Olivia hoped to delay any answers. And she was eager to explore the middle chamber. It was surely the most important, being in the center and larger than the others.

Moreau led them to the third chamber. Olivia’s father joined them. The walls were covered in writings.

“Well?” Moreau said.

Olivia opened her leather pouch and took out her writing materials. “There is too much. Too many unfamiliar words. I need to copy them and check with words I know.”

“What do you mean?” Moreau said. “I thought you understood the language.”

“It’s a science, sir. Not magic.” Stubborn, Olivia pulled out her inking pen and jar. “I will likely need more ink if I am to copy all this today.”

Her demands silenced the room.

“But this is the treasure room, is it not, Lady Olivia?” Lampley asked.

“Yes, but—” Olivia didn’t know how to explain. “It may not be the type of treasure you seek.”

“I don’t understand,” Lampley said. “Why go to this trouble?”

“I don’t understand either. That is why I am trying to copy and study the words. Perhaps you can help my father in the first chamber.” She lowered her head to her work and ignored them all, hoping they would go away.

Samuel ordered a guard to find her a seat and table. Moreau nodded his assent. Olivia wrote in her journal, but her hand shook violently. Samuel rubbed her shoulders from behind. “All is well for now, Olivia. Just write your notes. It will all be well.”

One of her hands reached up over his and squeezed, her head still down, afraid her face would reveal something she didn’t want to disclose.

Samuel stood guard over her, studying the sarcophagus room as he waited. There were three star-shaped inserts, five feet apart from each other, in the center of the room, with a stone lever just to the right of each. The insert holes were nearly shoulder height for the average person and much larger than the funerary cone inserts. He brought his torch over to examine them and see if light would explain their purpose. Above each option there was a symbol. He frowned. A star, a triangle, and a circle. Another puzzle? He bent and looked inside. There was something at the end, barely within reach. It looked innocent enough. Next to each hole was a lever of sorts. He stood back and pushed the third lever next to the circle symbol.

A heavy guillotine-like blade whooshed past the opening next to him and lodged in ground. Swallowing hard, he raised his torch to discover a contraption in the ceiling. He warned the guards, then turned and left the room, checking his toes and feeling more than a little ill.

Merryvale and Moreau took over the organization of conveying the relics and scrolls to the outside. Moreau had them take down all the astrolabes to transport as well.

Lampley stayed with them, and much to Samuel’s relief, the duke and his sister were allowed to return above. Alex may have been in perfect health, but she was with child, and Samuel wanted her as far from this business as possible.

It seemed as though Moreau was content to give Olivia time to figure out the treasure room.

That would give him and Nathan time to plan their departure.

Chapter Twenty-Five

Nathan met Samuel at the entrance of the tomb many hours after the rest of the expedition had surfaced. Olivia stumbled as he helped her out, her eyes bleary, her fingers ink-stained. Elizabeth rushed to assist her to her father’s tent to rest.

The captain shared the details of the adventure, though the others had already heard of the day’s success and watched the conveyance of artifacts being brought from below.

Dinner was a short, simple affair. Neither Merryvale nor Moreau and his men joined them. Lampley also ate apart from the others, in the company of a few of his trusted companions.

While not permitted to leave, Samuel and the rest were allowed to set up their own tents and supplies. Nathan made sure Kelley and the men were taken care of, then went about making a modest tent space as comfortable as possible for Elizabeth. Lack of privacy from the constant guard was the most difficult. He welcomed time simply to hold his new wife.

Nathan did not think Moreau could keep them much longer under any civilized arrangement—which meant things could turn ugly at any moment. Since it seemed they were making progress in the tomb, he thought they might be safe for a bit longer … at least through the night.

He entered the tent with another bucket of water. “Here, Elizabeth—to bathe the dust off.”

Elizabeth thanked him with a long smile, her eyes softening in appreciation. She was easy to please. Too easy. She deserved so much more, and soon she would have it. He had enough money to settle harborside and run Alex’s fledgling Emporium. His house was in need of care, but it would do until they could build a new one with rooms enough for half a dozen children. He’d grown up alone after his family was killed in the war with the English, and had always appreciated the noise of the Stafford household.

Elizabeth gave him her back to unbutton her dress and slowly folded it down off her arms and over her hips. She dipped a cloth in the water then pressed it gently up her arms, across her chest, over her breasts. Nathan took the wet fabric from her and finished the job himself, his hands stroking over her silky, dampened skin, his head bending down to suck moisture from the taut pink nipples teasing him to attention.

“Not yet, love.” Elizabeth raked a hand through his hair and pulled him back for a kiss. “Your turn.” She unbuttoned his linen shirt, careful of the scar that had healed, but was still tender. “Let me wash some of the day off you.”

She took the cloth, wrung it over the dirty water, then soaked it in the fresh before soothing it over his face, neck, chest, back, and arms, then eventually over his fingertips. Finally she put the rag down, lifted his hands, and kissed them lovingly.

Nathan didn’t waste any time. He scooped her in his arms and laid her on the cushioned area of the floor. On his knees he worshipped her head to toe, then slowly made love to her until her body screamed for release and he had to capture her cries of pleasure with kisses.

In the aftermath, she stretched catlike against his body, her cheek resting on his chest. “I don’t want to go to sleep,” she whispered.

“Neither do I!” he whispered back loudly, wanting to make her laugh.

She giggled against him.

Success.

He understood. Whenever she was in his arms he dreaded the moment when he would fall asleep. He wanted to spend every precious moment with her—talking, laughing, making love. Sleep was a hindrance.

“You need your sleep, love.” He brushed back her long wavy hair with his fingers, loving the way it looked untamed after they made love. “We don’t know what tomorrow brings.”

She turned and pushed him on his back, sliding over him, her hair creating a curtain of privacy, blocking out the world and tomorrow. “Then love me again. Now. Until we are too tired to care what tomorrow brings.”

“I will always love you, Elizabeth. Always.” He spread her knees over his hips and did as she requested. Loved her until it didn’t matter what tomorrow brought.

When they were through and she slept in his arms, he stayed awake watching over her, thanking God for making him the luckiest man in the world.

Olivia had her journal next to the lamp, reading it and contemplating what to do. It was well past midnight, and still she had no solution. Perhaps they would not be able to visit the tomb tomorrow. Or she could tell everyone the truth: that there was no treasure, and she didn’t know where the secret astrolabe disc could be.

The truth was her only recourse.

She sighed. As if that would go over well.

Just as she decided to pursue a course of truth, Samuel’s sister entered the tent, closing it carefully behind her. “Don’t want to let any asps in,” she said.

Olivia checked the tent floor instinctively. Now she would never sleep.

“What is it?” Olivia asked.

“Do not go back to the tomb, Olivia. There is nothing left to find. And if you did find something, Moreau would kill you before you could make it public.”

Olivia frowned. “He has no objection to our taking the scrolls. I don’t think it’s as dire as you think.”

“Olivia, it is much more serious than you think. Moreau is a follower of the prophecy. I don’t believe he is working alone either.”

“I know.” Olivia leaned against the desk, dismal.

“Once they have your interpretation, your life is … I’m sorry, but it’s expendable.”

“That’s indeed a blow to my self-worth,” Olivia said.

“The legend of Lilith and the prophecy need to disappear,” Alex said.

“Is that why you corresponded with my father? Why you came here? To destroy historical information?” Olivia’s voice was angry and accusatory. She was frustrated by everyone’s motives.

Alex sighed, tired. “Actually, no. I came to see if any of it was real. If my life had been changed because of someone’s fantasy. If my mother had been murdered on a whim because she happened to inherit a disc that was part of a prophecy to predict the end of days.”

Olivia gasped. She hadn’t known about Samuel’s mother. He’d never hinted or explained. And the duchess knew about the prophecy prediction—a transformation of the world.

“You wondered about my clothes. And my jewelry. I don’t follow fashion because I like to be able to button my clothes without a maid. Because I cannot stand for anyone to see this.” Olivia stared while the duchess turned her back and pulled aside her hair. Then she revealed what her shirt hid.

Olivia gasped in horror, knocking her ink to the floor—and nearly her lamp, when she backed into the desk. “What … what happened? Who … why? Why would anyone do that?” Olivia could not stop her tears. She could not understand or comprehend the magnitude of pain that could create the vision in front of her. The duchess’s entire back was covered with ugly scars, long welts crisscrossing so deep she was certain the woman had been cut to the bone. Other parts were puckered and uneven, her skin a mishmash of uneven colors. And then she saw something else—something primitive and barbaric. And she understood why Stafford had designed the necklace as he had.

On the back of his sister’s neck was … No. Not possible. Olivia could not believe such a thing would be on the skin of a gentlewoman. She stepped closer, lifting the heavy red hair, and bit her lip hard to hide her innate revulsion. A tattoo. No wonder his sister covered it.

“It’s the symbol of Lilith,” Olivia said. Her voice rasped, and she released the woman’s hair, turning away to find a handkerchief. She scrubbed her face fiercely while Alex buttoned her shirt. Olivia tried to compose herself, to prevent her face and eyes from revealing pity and shock … and the blazing anger she felt toward whomever could do such a thing.

“I take it you did not request the tattoo,” Olivia said. She guessed something else as well. “You have part of the astrolabe.”

The duchess’s silence answered for her.

“Who did this? And why?”

“People chasing the prophecy. The tattoo, for money. The whip”—Alex’s jaw clenched, her green eyes turned fierce—“because he could.”

The duchess clearly knew something about survival Olivia hoped never to learn.

“I showed you, Olivia, because you don’t realize that Moreau is one of these people. He hasn’t killed yet because he has control. Because he has you doing what he needs. When that’s gone anything can happen.”

“My father and Lampley won’t allow that. This is not Moreau’s expedition.”

“According to Nathan, Lampley is out of money. Moreau has paid all the soldiers today—personally—so they know whom to be loyal to, Olivia. And he brought fifty more soldiers with him. If there is a battle, we will be seriously outnumbered.”

Olivia didn’t want to believe it. “What can I do?”

“Destroy it. Destroy the evidence, and don’t get trapped in the tomb doing it.”

The duchess flipped back the tent flap and left Olivia with even more to think about. The sun would be rising soon, and still she had no answers that anyone wanted to hear.

Samuel sat around a fire with some of the men. Merryvale continued to work into the night, logging and securing documents as they were brought from the tomb. The man was clearly in his element, oblivious to his daughter and completely unaware of the growing hostilities of Lampley and Moreau. Samuel decided it was time for a little chat.

Merryvale didn’t look up when he approached.

“I like you, Stafford. That might surprise you, considering you don’t think much of me, but I think you’re good for my daughter.”

“If you are so concerned with the best interests of your daughter, why have you allowed her to be put in such a position?”

Merryvale stopped his work and looked at Samuel. “It is you who have done this. Never in my life would I have thought my daughter would find her way to Egypt on her own.”

“She had no one else to turn to, and she thought you were in danger. She risked much to come help you.”

Merryvale sighed. “And I’m undeserving of her concern in your mind.”

“Yes.” Samuel didn’t mince words. “You’re a father in name only, using her when you need her talents and skills. Selfish with your time and praise and encouragement unless it furthers your agenda. You needn’t worry that she knows better. She thinks you’re wonderful. Because she has no concept of what wonderful might be. No clue what it is to be part of a family, and though the smartest woman I have ever met, no idea that a thing such as love exists, because she never got it from the one person who mattered.”

“You overstep yourself, Stafford,” Merryvale said. “You know nothing of the relationship between my daughter and me. And you would do well to stay out it.”

Samuel had indeed overstepped—Merryvale was fuming. But he had no intention of retreating. “She needs to know you love her. Do you? You’ve had barely a word of welcome or gesture of affection at her arrival. Her life was in imminent danger every day of the journey, and she came regardless, determined to make sure you were safe. How do you think she felt when she saw you were happier to see the librarian’s cone than her?”

“That’s not true.”

“I love her. Can you say the same? You have forsaken her for sand, stone, and dust.” Samuel grabbed the man’s arm to make sure he was clear. “Where are your priorities, sir?”

“Samuel!” Olivia shouted from her tent and ran over to them. “What are you doing?” She looked at his grip on her father, and he released. “How dare you.” She went around the table and inserted herself between them. “Are you unharmed, Father? What’s going on?”

“Nothing,” Samuel said. “Just having a chat.” Her eyes were red rimmed and puffy. She’d been crying. “Are you unwell?”

“Of course I’m unwell. I’ve had a stressful day. And it refuses to end! And everyone around me is at odds, and it’s up to me to be the calm and logical one. Have you tried that lately? It’s exhausting,” she shouted.

Samuel fought a smile and took her by the arm. “I’ll walk you to bed.”

“I don’t need to be walked.”

“Yes, you do,” he said. “I promise to kiss you good night too. You need it.”

“I can survive without your kisses.”

“But why suffer when you don’t have to?”

“You’re obscenely arrogant tonight,” she said as he led her away. “I thought my father liked you. What happened?”

“He does like me. He thinks I’m good for you. We just disagree over a certain matter.”

“Do you think Moreau is going to kill me?”

Samuel froze. He didn’t have a reassuring answer, but he wouldn’t insult Olivia’s intelligence with platitudes. “I don’t know.”

“I don’t think so,” she reassured herself after he didn’t. “I’m useful. And he has been incredibly tolerable all day.”

“One day makes all the difference,” Samuel said.

“You need to be more optimistic, Stafford. It’s not healthy going around thinking people want to kill you. I’ve decided it’s very unrestful.”

Which explained why she wasn’t resting. He stopped at her tent and pulled her into his arms before she could make any more ridiculous assumptions.

“You may kiss me now. I thought I should give you permission, since you were going to anyway and that would be rude. It seems I have to teach you manners on top of everything else.”

“Thank you, that was most instructive,” he said. “Now hush.” Samuel lowered his lips to hers, grazing them back and forth teasingly until she clung to the lapels of his shirt for balance. She liked it. That was instructive.

Once she was adequately focused on the matter at hand, he slid his hands up the side of her waist and over her rib cage, his thumbs stopping to make a tantalizing detour around the curve of her breasts, discovering her peaks and eliciting a welcome gasp of surprise.

He growled with satisfaction as his mouth plundered the curve between her neck and shoulder. He lifted his head, observing the clean lines of her face in the moonlight, slumberous eyes fluttering open to meet his. Then she arched shamelessly against him.

He gasped. And did the only thing he could. He reached both hands over the soft curve of her bottom and yanked her hard against him, giving her no doubt of what he wanted and the trouble she’d started. All right—he’d sort of started it. But she squirmed. God, she felt good. He pulled back for air.

“No,” she whispered, desperate and aching.

“Ummh.” Samuel took her hands and stepped away. “We have an audience.”

“I don’t care.”

“I do,” her father said.

Samuel scowled. Now he decided to take over his fatherly duties?

Samuel slipped his hands through her hair, cradling the back of her head, and stole a long kiss.

She sighed on release.

That would give her something useful to think about for a change.

“My daughter needs her rest, Stafford. She’s had enough for one day,” Merryvale said. “And I don’t think I like you taking liberties quite so far.”

Before Samuel could react, the man’s fist was in his jaw. He opened his mouth and shook it off.

Damn. Should’ve seen that one coming.

“Father! It’s not what you think,” Olivia said.

“Yes, it is,” Samuel contradicted.

“It’s … It’s …” She couldn’t come up with anything to say.

Samuel and her father said it for her—together. “Good night, Olivia.”

“Humph.” She spun into the tent, slapping the loose door shut behind her.

Samuel rubbed his jaw. “Good one, sir. Was it sincere?”

“Good night, Stafford.”

Having provided enough entertainment for the night guards, Samuel went back to the fire and got some sleep.

With the odds stacked against them, he was going to need it.

Moreau finished the last page of the letter. It was an account of the entire journey thus far. His mistress would be pleased. He was in possession of the funerary cone and had indeed used it to unlock the chambers of the librarian. Tomorrow they would complete the task. He was certain to succeed in finding the disc and putting them one step closer to finding the ancient realm of Lilith. It was what they had all worked for and sacrificed for these many years.

He sealed the envelope and called a trusted messenger. He’d brought three such messengers who were responsible for delivering the correspondence personally. While hopeful of success to report in the near future, he also knew he could not risk waiting any longer to send news. If something were to happen to him and there was no record, the loss would be significant.

The messenger would leave at first light.

Moreau sat back and relished the moment.

Soon he and his mistress mastermind would be another step closer to claiming the elusive treasure of the seas and harnessing untold power of the ages.

Chapter Twenty-Six

The next morning came despite Olivia’s prayers. She decided to stay in her tent with the flap closed, hoping to be left alone. She was hiding. Knowing she was hiding made her extremely thirsty. And hungry. Her tent suddenly became a stifling prison. But she felt certain that if she didn’t leave her tent, nothing bad would happen.

She would tell them she still needed to study the translation. It might take a few days.

Olivia nearly believed in her strategy, when Moreau interrupted her. She thought it a bit rude that he didn’t warn her before entering her father’s tent.

“Sir Jason,” she said. “How are you this morning?”

“Discouraged, my dear. Very discouraged.”

“I’m so sorry.” She noticed some guards outside the tent. It made her uneasy. Were they guarding him or her?

“I just know the missing piece to the astrolabe is here in the tomb.”

Olivia didn’t say anything.

“Any success with the interpretation, dear?”

“I wrote out what I understood. I’m afraid it won’t be of much help. It’s largely generic information about the family, lineage, children, et cetera. The text from the astrolabe room is more interesting, but also nothing that is not already known.”

She stopped. He nodded, listening. He seemed to be taking it well.

“I’m sorry,” she said.

He patted her hand. “So am I, my dear. I thought you were smarter.”

Olivia snapped back insulted. “Sir Jason, there is just nothing there to explain any further. I believe the secret was that the astrolabe was sent to the ends of the earth. And the treasure is a metaphor … or I have misinterpreted it.” Olivia thought. “That’s very possible. I could be wrong about that meaning.”

“I see. Very well.” He stepped from the tent. “Why don’t you join us down in the tomb? Maybe that will stimulate ideas.”

“I’m going to keep working on the translation today, thank you. I’m still exhausted. Some sunlight will do the trick.”

Moreau stopped in the entrance. “Nonsense. Gather your things.”

Olivia begged off, but he sent two guards in to wait for her. She didn’t move. One of them spoke some English, so she told them she was staying there to work. They insisted, and she told them to leave. Then they poked her with the bayonets on their muskets to get her to move. She knocked their guns away, infuriated, and shouted for them leave, calling to her father. Her father came and told her to gather her stuff—immediately.

The guards stepped outside and waited.

Olivia took her time. She was wearing her professor clothes and put on her long jacket to cover her body. She packed her leather carryall with her journal, inking pen, and fresh ink. Then she finished her water and put her poison pouch over her other shoulder. It was half full. She prayed she would not need it.

When she stepped outside, a guard pushed her. She kicked him in the groin, furious with the manhandling. “What is the meaning of this? Get your barbarians off me, Moreau.”

“They are merely being cautious, my lady,” Moreau said, intervening and taking her arm to guide her. “There’s still a missing treasure to discover. We don’t want anyone to leave the site with information before we can secure it.”

“There is no treasure,” she said. “Only what we found yesterday.” She yanked her arm free of his hold, intending to find Stafford, but froze instead.

Her companions, the crew, and their local servants were in the center of the camp surrounded by several rows of guards. The men looked ready to fight their way out bare-fisted.

She ran to their aid. “Father. Explain this please.”

He looked at his partners, then at her. “I can’t. I’m sorry, dear. It seems my partnership with Lampley has reached the ultimate parting of ways.”

Olivia moved to stand with her friends, but Moreau grabbed her, his grip digging into the muscles of her shoulder. She stepped sideways and backward, breaking his grip, fury building inside her. She tried to give Elizabeth an encouraging look. Her friend nodded, leaning into her husband for safety.

“You had to know this would happen if you did not cooperate, Lady Olivia,” Moreau said.

“I have cooperated. I’ve helped you get into the tomb at great risk to myself and my friends. I’ve told you all I know. There is no treasure of material value. The librarian’s greatest treasure was love.”

Moreau laughed. “Love?” He shook his head. “I don’t think so, my dear.”

They didn’t believe her.

Gads. What now?

“The damned librarian was a fool for love and fooled everybody else!” She tried to explain further, but they did not want to hear it.

“I’ve lost my patience, Lady Olivia. Enough.” Moreau motioned one of his men behind her friends.

Moreau waved a hand to one of the guards.

The soldier behind Nathan ran his bayonet through Elizabeth’s husband, piercing his chest.

Olivia screamed.

Elizabeth had awakened that morning optimistic and happy. With Nathan next to her anything seemed possible. Then they were rudely interrupted. Nathan had expected it and made sure they were already up, securing Lampley’s gun at her ankle. He too was hopeful, telling her that Riad would likely get their message today and come help. The worst part would be the wait.

He’d been wrong.

Olivia screamed.

Elizabeth saw the direction of her friend’s horror and turned. Nothing in her life mattered after that.

Her arm flew around the back of her husband.

Nathan looked down, stunned. Then at her. His face showed his understanding. And his sorrow. He did not want to leave her. His eyes would not leave her.

Elizabeth didn’t scream.

Nathan needed her.

She caught his back just as the long knife twisted and the soldier yanked it from her beloved’s strong, vibrant body. Somehow Stafford was there. Helping her.

They laid Nathan on the ground. She knew he would not last long. The injury was near his heart. She would not waste their precious seconds.

“My love,” she said. “Nathan. I love you.”

He tried to speak. His hand reached for Stafford and squeezed, the panic clear when he rasped the one word to his friend. “Elizabeth.”

“She will want for nothing. I swear it, Nathan. I will take care of her, give all that was due to you. She will become our family. She will be loved,” Stafford vowed, clutching his friend’s hand.

Elizabeth saw that his words comforted Nathan. Now all he had was regret. She would not allow that.

“Look at me, Nathan.” She swallowed the fierce lump in her throat. “I love you. The days we had were everything to me. They were everything. You … are everything.” She stroked his face. “You made every single minute perfect, and I would not give up a second with you, not for the world. You are the greatest adventure, greatest happiness, greatest gift”—she could not stop the tears—“greatest love I have ever had. I love you. And I want you … I want you to go to sleep, knowing I will be fine. Because of you. Because of the love you gave me in the time we had. Do not leave me with regret, my love. You have nothing to regret.” She kissed his lips. “You were a miracle in my life.”

Elizabeth cradled his head in her hands, kneeling over him, unable to take her eyes from his, desperate to keep him as long as possible. Wanting their connection, knowing it would soon be forever lost.

“I love you,” she whispered. “I love you.”

He reached to touch her and she grasped his hand, pulling it to her cheek.

His body struggled as he gasped and fought for his last words. They were a mere breath, but she heard them.

“I love you.”

Elizabeth’s body shuddered with his. Then silence.

“Nathan?”

His body was still.

His clear blue eyes were open, but he was not there. She searched, but he was not there. Someone closed them. Stafford, she guessed.

She wrapped her arms around her husband and her head fell to his, bereft. She would not leave him, no matter the threat.

Somewhere around her, there was movement. A woman cried out in fury. And then Elizabeth remembered the small pistol in her boot. She huddled closer to Nathan, reaching the gun and pulling it free under her skirts. No one could see it. She looked up to the guard nearest.

Blood dripped on the end of his long musket.

She looked into his eyes, and he stared back. His mouth curled up with a half smile, arrogant because he was the one with the gun. Then he looked her over insultingly and spit on the ground before saying something to his friend, laughing at them.

She shot him in the chest before anyone knew she was armed.

Olivia saw the look on Elizabeth’s face. It was stark, bleak, and unrepentant. Her friend had killed the soldier before anyone could wonder where she’d obtained the gun. Moreau lifted his own weapon and aimed at Elizabeth.

“No!” Olivia leaped. She covered Elizabeth and Nathan with her body. “Don’t shoot. Please, leave her. I’ll help you. Moreau, I’ll help you. Please. Don’t hurt her.”

Moreau sheathed his gun. “Very well. When you put it that way.”

Olivia tried to help Elizabeth, but her friend pushed her away, caring little for her own life, it seemed.

Moreau twisted his mustache, eager to be off. He indicated the hostages. “Hold them for now. We’ll take my men, Lampley,” he said, motioning to their commander. “Twelve guards should be plenty.”

Lampley ordered some guards to join them. “I’ll stay here,” he said. “The men need direction.”

Olivia saw Lampley’s face. She’d thought him handsome. Now she thought him hard and insensitive. He’d not done a thing to help. She berated herself for misjudging him.

Samuel brushed the hair back from Nathan’s face. He couldn’t stop the rush of memories that assaulted him—the years he had shared with his friend, as a boy and an adult. He thought, too, of the years Nathan would never have with Elizabeth. It felt as if his chest had been cut open with a blunt knife and his heart tossed onto the burning Egyptian sand. He wanted to sit and weep with Elizabeth.

He knew he couldn’t.

He wouldn’t leave Olivia. Not now. Not when the threat on her life was imminent.

He stood up and joined Olivia. “Wait. I need to go as well.”

“No!” Alex gasped, grabbing his arm.

He turned to Moreau. “I help her work out the puzzles, and I’m the only one who can keep her calm. You’re going to need me after what you just put her through.”

Moreau hesitated, then consented.

“Samuel.” His sister begged him, her eyes pooling. “We have lost Nathan. It is enough.”

“Allie, I have to.”

She shook her head, dismayed. “She doesn’t even believe in love.”

“But I do,” he said.

She threw herself at him and squeezed. “I love you, brother. But if you die, I’m not naming my child after you.”

Samuel released his sister. “You know what to do without me, Allie girl.”

“But that won’t be necessary,” Worthington reminded him.

Alex gathered herself. “I know what to do, Samuel.” She dropped her gaze to Elizabeth and Nathan. “I’ll take care of everyone.”

Samuel smiled, grateful, then turned to follow Olivia.

“Olivia, wait,” her father said.

Olivia stopped dutifully in front of her father, who was detained with the others.

Samuel waited for the man to say something from his heart.

“I—I beg you, be careful,” Merryvale said.

“I will,” Olivia said. “You too, Father.”

Samuel caught her confused and disappointed expression. He nodded to Merryvale as they passed, but the man looked away.

He prayed the man had not just lost his last opportunity to tell his daughter he loved her.

Olivia would not have made it down the flight of stairs into the catacombs without Stafford. She couldn’t see, for one thing. The tears would not stop, nor would the trembling. She could not comprehend that Nathan was gone forever. Nor could she bear to think of Elizabeth’s agony and the loss her friend would suffer the rest of her life. The injustice of it burned her insides.

The fever of outrage blazed with every step until it dried her tears and straightened her spine. She would not go weakly to her grave.

The guards had marked with builder’s chalk on the maze floor, identifying the safe path for workers. They walked through without incident, then down the wooden steps the servants had erected where the floor had dropped in the next chamber. Olivia was gratified there was a path that did not require swushing of asps.

Moreau directed the servants to take their last loads from the tomb chamber and leave for now. The workers gladly exited, and the guards took their posts.

Olivia and Stafford made a quick study of the looted area. All the astrolabes had been removed, the elaborate room reduced to stone turntable and walls. The pieces of the wall art the duchess had destroyed were in a corner for export. Moreau would no doubt want to study that in more detail.

The scroll room was only half dismantled. There were not enough crates yet to hold all the objects in the room.

“Where is the cone?” Olivia asked.

Moreau waved for a guard to bring it.

Olivia took the cone and sat, thinking. Samuel’s sister had done this very same thing when she’d first held the stone. And then had told Olivia not to lose it.

What you seek, you already have.

A priceless treasure, a secret to die for, knowledge of the ages. Was it a metaphor or literal truth?

“How big is this astrolabe disc that you seek, Moreau?” she questioned.

“I’m told about two inches in diameter,” he said.

Olivia went to the sarcophagus and studied the medallion around the woman’s neck. “This size?”

“Yes,” he said. “You don’t think it’s on the body, do you? Mummified?”

“It’s possible,” she said. “But no. I don’t think that.”

“In any case, I already had my men open it and check,” Moreau said.

Olivia looked at him in horror … and a little curiosity. “The words in this room are a riddle,” she told them, pointing to the hieroglyphics. “ ‘Use your knowledge to discover the secret, and there will your treasure be.’ ”

Moreau became annoyed. “Enough of puzzles, Lady Olivia. Where is the disc?”

Olivia walked confidently to the wall with the three circular inserts. Each had a symbol above it: a triangle, a star, and a circle. “The disc is the treasure. It’s in one of these compartments. You have only to pull it out.”

The men brought their torches to the compartments. At the far end of each was a small object—a box of some kind. Overall, they looked harmless. But nothing in this tomb was harmless.

“What about that?” A guard pointed out the heavy blade Stafford had triggered the day before. Within a foot of each option was a lever on the wall. It activated the large blade from above.

Olivia swallowed hard. “I would guess that is to give you two chances to get it right.”

“Your call, then, Lady Olivia.”

“Well, um … a triangle represents knowledge, and the librarian was a keeper of knowledge. The star, for the stars in the sky, could be part of your astrolabe story.” She paused. “The circle could represent the sun. That might be good too, since the sun is life-giving.”

“You said to use your knowledge to get the secret to find the treasure?” Moreau asked.

“Yes.”

“And you’ve no idea which of these might be the right one?”

Olivia thought for a moment, staring at the funerary cone, turning it around in her hands.

Finally, she took a deep breath and walked in front of the first symbol, the cone’s magnet facing out. She stood and waited. Then she did the same in front of the next two symbols. Finally she shrugged. “I thought perhaps there would be a magnetic pull near the correct option.”

Moreau snatched the artifact from her and did the same thing. Olivia waited to see if he noticed anything unique.

Moreau motioned a guard to the triangle insert. The man looked inside suspiciously, then slowly reached in nearly to his shoulder. When he touched the box, he nodded and started to draw back.

And then he screamed.

The other guards went on alert as the man babbled hysterically. They pushed him aside to hold a light to the problem. His arm was in a spiked vise. The spikes pierced his arm in one side and out the other. The arm was not coming out.

“Fascinating,” Moreau said. He stepped back and pulled the first lever next to the triangle symbol.

The guillotine-like blade slammed to the ground, severing the guard’s arm before her eyes.

She and the guard screamed with equal horror.

She screamed again when the man turned, released from his arm. A limb stuck in the wall, bone and flesh cut clean.

Blood spurted against the wall and splattered on their clothes. The guard lurched sideways, and his comrades ran to help him, trying to stop the blood and wrapping the stub of arm that remained.

Olivia began to choke. Stafford caught her and turned her away.

Two guards led the bleeding man out, but Olivia thought he would be dead before he saw daylight.

Stafford rubbed her icy hands until she could breathe again. She adjusted her leather bag and pouch, focusing on driving air in and out her nose. Losing consciousness would not be advisable in their present company.

The remaining guards shuffled nervously, staying near the small doorway, clearly ready to make a quick exit should they be volunteered.

“Which one next, my lady?” Moreau asked.

Olivia swallowed. “Please. Don’t make me do this.”

“Stafford. Your turn.”

Olivia nearly fainted. What if she was wrong? “No, please.”

“Which will it be, Lady Olivia?” Moreau insisted.

“I’m not sure. I think the third, but I could be wrong.”

“Why do you think it?”

“Instinct,” she answered.

Stafford froze. “Seriously?” He stared as if he didn’t believe her. “You don’t have some logical conclusion and evidence for why you picked this one?”

She shook her head. “It wouldn’t make sense if I tried to explain.”

“Do you need more time to think? Because we can wait. Can’t we, Moreau?” he said. “Because, maybe since we’re in the middle room, it’s the middle one?” he offered. “Or go with the hole that is most like a star shape. We’ve been having luck with that.”

A guard pushed him.

“Can I at least have a kiss before I risk my arm and can never touch her again with two hands?”

“Oh, Samuel!” Olivia threw herself at him and squeezed with all her might before lifting her face for his kiss. He touched her lips only briefly, while his hands—his big, beautiful hands—cradled her cheeks and he bent again to brush her lips and take one last taste before regretfully stepping away. Olivia opened her eyes as he released her.

“I believe in you, Olivia. No matter what happens, don’t ever doubt that,” Stafford said.

A guard grabbed Olivia’s arm and pulled her away.

Stafford was taller than the wall insert and had to bend to reach in. He took a final look at his fingers, flexed his arm, and went in nearly to his shoulder, as the other man had done. Her heart pounding, Olivia couldn’t take her eyes from him. He put his other hand against the wall, as if ready to fight if necessary.

“I feel it,” he said. “A box. Not too big.”

“Get it free, Stafford, and you’ll walk away from all this,” Moreau said.

“Right,” Stafford said. He took a deep breath.

Then he gasped and breathed in sharply before a cry broke free. His face colored red with panic as a string of curses flooded from his lips.

Tears and confusion hit her simultaneously. She’d been wrong.

And she’d just made the most prodigious mistake of her life.

Chapter Twenty-Seven

“Stafford! Oh, Stafford!” Olivia grabbed his body to hold him up. “No.” She began to cry. “No. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.” She sobbed violently, her horror and failure complete.

“It seems, Stafford,” Moreau commented, “that since you activated this lever yesterday, you’ll have to gnaw your way free.”

“Go to hell, Moreau.” He tried to pull his arm free and thundered from the pain and impossibility of it.

Olivia touched him, trying to comfort, but he pushed her away.

“Leave me.”

“Stafford, I thought for sure I was right. The story made sense, and—”

She turned to the middle slot, about to reach in, but Moreau pushed her away.

“Process of elimination, my dear. As good a solution as any.” He motioned to a guard, who hesitated before reaching in. The man touched the object, but instead of freeing it he was paralyzed by a gripping force that made him howl in panic and fury.

Olivia and Moreau stepped back in shock.

“Gads! It was all a trick! There is no treasure!” Olivia said.

Moreau slapped her in fury, causing Olivia to stumble backward into the sarcophagus. “You lying bitch. I’ve had it.” He took the cone and seized her. “Let’s go.”

“No! We can’t leave them!”

Moreau showed the guard his options. “The lever is right here.” The guard froze, horrified, then shuddered against the wall.

“I’m staying!” Olivia cried. “I won’t leave you, Stafford. We’ll find a way out of this. I promise. I’m not leaving you!” She clung to him, her nails digging into his clothes to hold firm against the hands pulling her away.

“Olivia, go,” Samuel said. “Get away from here. Enjoy your life, I only hope—” His voice struggled. “I only hope your life will be better for knowing me.” With his free hand he pulled her head to him and ravished her lips.

It was a hungry, desperate kiss that plundered every part of her being, right through to her soul. When he released her she cried again.

“I’m sorry I failed you, Olivia.”

She wept harder, soaking his shirt. “You didn’t. It was me. I failed you. And Elizabeth. Nathan is gone because of me. I’m the one who deserves to die.” She clung to him. “Not you.”

“Stop, my love.” Stafford’s voice was soft. He was losing his strength. With his free hand he touched her cheek. “I love you, Olivia.”

“Oh, Samuel.” Olivia felt fresh tears begin. How could he possibly love her now?

“Promise me you will believe in yourself no matter what,” Stafford said.

“How can I?”

“Promise me,” he insisted. “Most especially now.” He pressed her face into his chest, and squeezed her arm hard.

Olivia stood back, uncertain. Then Moreau took the cone and called to some guards. “I’ll check on you two later. In the meantime,” he said, his voice cold, “let’s see if those snakes are interested in company. I’m certain I can get that door open again.”

Two guards grabbed her arms, and Olivia struggled furiously. “They’re asps! And they’d be bloody better company than you!”

Olivia fought as she was forced through the small entrance to the lock room.

With a final glance back, she saw Stafford fall against the wall in a bloodless faint.

Samuel opened his eyes and adjusted his body into a more comfortable position. The last guard had just scrambled out of the main chamber.

He loved Olivia. And he trusted her. He wished she could say the same.

Carefully he turned his head to the exit. The guards had taken all the torches except two installed nearest the doorway.

Granted he was a little disappointed Olivia hadn’t proclaimed her love, but she really had no experience with these things. It would take a bit more work. Jewelry, perhaps.

The unfortunate guard near him still squirmed, attempting to free himself, sweat on his face as he struggled. None of the guards had seemed sympathetic to their plight … still, he pitied the man.

Samuel watched the man in the dimming light, waiting, making sure no one else remained.

Finally, Samuel straightened, pulling his arm free.

The guard was dumbfounded. His eyes widened, and he started to shout in Arabic.

Samuel drilled his left fist through the man’s face, and he bounced into the wall, his arm stretching back, his feet staggering until he fell unconscious.

Samuel would not risk Olivia’s life with cries of warning.

In his hand he held an ancient wood and metal box. “I sure as hell hope this is worth it.” He opened it, taking the objects out for study. “All right. This makes no sense to me.” Likely only a woman would understand.

He secured the small box in his pocket and went to rescue his love.

The last of the guards were climbing the explorers’ makeshift steps to the door of the maze room. He hid behind the giant turn wheel and made a light howling sound. The men startled. One of them said something about evil spirits and hurried up the steps. The last one looked around. Samuel caught him unawares and snapped his neck, snatching his weapon. The next guard came to investigate. Samuel drove the other man’s bayonet through his throat.

Leaping up the stairs, he saw the group halfway across the maze floor carefully following the marked path to avoid the shooting spears from above. A guard led the procession, followed by Moreau, then Olivia, then several more guards behind her. She turned instinctively and stopped in her tracks, spotting him the same time as the guard next to her did.

The guard raised his gun and Olivia pushed him off the path, then distracted the group with her most bloodcurdling scream.

“A mummy! A mummy! We’ve awakened the dead! Run! Run!” Another scream.

Samuel startled as much as the other men, looking over his shoulder—just in case. The woman was either crazy or brilliant.

Guards scrambled to get across the maze. Gunshots hit the walls near him. One guard stumbled to his death.

Even Moreau tripped, caught in the rush.

Samuel watched, momentarily bemused.

Brilliant.

Then he spotted Olivia crouched into a ball, men jumping over her. One made it. She started to stand and Samuel shouted in dread until she adeptly knocked another guard off balance.

Definitely brilliant.

Four guards remained with Moreau. Using the musket he’d acquired, Samuel aimed at the guard near the door and shot. The man fell. There would be no escape. He took the other gun and aimed for Moreau.

Just as he fired, Moreau ducked into the dart chamber.

Damn.

He turned to Olivia. Still curled in a ball, she inched around on her safe square and stood. He didn’t like the looks of things. The remaining three guards scrambled to escape and were getting closer to her.

Olivia assessed her options.

She would fight. Remembering Alex’s maneuver, she pressed her foot quickly to her left and activated a spear.

She reached and pulled.

Then pulled again.

The guard drawing near laughed. She swore, yanking more urgently with two hands. No luck. The spear was stuck.

She stepped carefully backward while opening her poison pouch. Grounding herself, she waited … and waited. Then, squirt!

The guard flailed in pain, yelping, making her feel like an expert marksman.

The injured guard blindly turned toward his comrade, taking cover as she advanced, spraying until empty.

Samuel watched, alarmed. Hell. He was trying to save her, and she’d become a one-woman army. Granted, she gave him easy targets. “Olivia! Get down.”

She didn’t.

One man swung and knocked her sideways. “Olivia!” Terror engulfed him as she fell off her tile, twisted, and reached for another safe square.

She missed.

He thundered an oath that reverberated about the chamber. The guards knew they were in danger. They were right. Samuel activated spears and skewered the bastards.

Olivia didn’t move.

Thank God.

A wooden spear grazed the tip of her nose, its arrow lodged against her hand.

“Moreau!” Olivia shouted from her twisted position. “We have the disc!”

Moreau called off the guards.

“You do have it, don’t you?” she whispered to him.

He held up the box. Moreau gave him time to get across to Olivia. He hurried to the center of the maze, leapt over squirming bodies, and grasped her free hand. “I’ve got you.” He helped her straighten into a standing position, while she touched her nose repeatedly as if to make sure it was still there. The she grabbed him around the waist and squeezed.

“The treasure, Moreau. Come and get it,” Samuel said.

“Open it and show me.”

Damn. It’s already empty.

“Sorry.” Samuel shook his head, holding the box.

“Very well,” Moreau said. “I think you’ll be more amenable after a few days in the dark with no food. Or better … a few weeks.” He held up the funerary cone and waved good-bye as several guards pushed the large stone door back into place, leaving them utterly alone in the tomb—save for deadly asps and a soon-to-be one-armed guard.

Olivia didn’t say a word. He had to give her credit for that. She just stared at their only way out as the light dimmed around them.

“Indeed. A grave end.” Then she turned and slugged him in the gut. Not hard. Just enough. “That’s for torturing me the way you did.”

“Aren’t you happy now?”

“At being trapped with you for eternity?”

“Hardly that long.”

“You’re right. The lights will be out in a few hours, and the smell of dead flesh will put a damper on my appetite. Probably the asps will find their way to us.” She laughed.

“Are you all right, Olivia?”

She nodded. “Just glad you’re not really going to die or have to walk around with one arm. The image would have plagued me terribly.” She grabbed the hand in question and brought it to her lips. “You were very brave, Stafford. Thank you for trusting me.”

She released his hand before he could appreciate the moment.

“But really, Stafford. ‘I only hope your life will be better for knowing me’?” She tilted her head. “That was a bit much. True,” she admitted. “But overly sentimental.”

She jumped into the lock room. “Come on. There has to be another way out.” He took a torch from the maze room and followed.

“I don’t suppose that part about loving me was true either,” she said.

She had her back to him. Samuel stopped. She was giving him an out. It hurt.

“I don’t suppose,” he said.

She paused almost imperceptibly, then continued, scrambling out the passage. He followed.

“Will you show me the treasure?” she asked.

“Me too,” a faint voice said.

They turned to see the guard staring at them, eyes eager.

“How did you know the circle was the right choice?” he asked her.

“I didn’t. I made up the part about the circle representing the sun. I have no idea what it represents.”

“You’re kidding.” Samuel’s stomach turned.

“No,” she quickly explained. “I mean, I thought I was right, but because I had an odd feeling—”

“A feeling? I thought you had to think logically. ‘Perlustrate the evidence.’ ”

“Actually it was more like a vibration.” Olivia contemplated.

“Even stranger.”

“Stafford, strange is talking to fish.”

“I don’t talk to fish.”

“Very well, you eavesdrop—which is both strange and rude. The vibration is real, empirical evidence. Only it seems no one else can feel it. For some reason my body is attuned to the magnetic forces in the tomb. It is the only thing that can explain the peculiar sensation I get sometimes. As if I’m being pulled off balance.” She paused in thought. “I thought perhaps if I held the artifact in front of each insert, I would feel a pull at the correct one. But I was wrong.”

“You were?”

“Yes. The first two both had a pulling sensation. It was the last one that made me wobbly. Not what I expected. Additionally, I noticed, as you also may have, that the couple on the sarcophagus wore rings. Since that was the only circular item I could think of, and the librarian’s treasure, according to her writings, is love, I thought a personal item might represent love. Therefore, based on my magnetic testing and logical deductions, I concluded that the circle, or ring in this case, was the most likely choice.

“Most likely?”

“I had two other theories, but the odds were lower.”

“Right.”

“Will you show me the treasure now?”

Samuel obeyed, opening the box and pulling out a smooth round magnetic stone that fit in his palm. On top he placed two finger rings.

“Another magnet—not the astrolabe disc,” she said. “Iron, not precious metals.” She picked up the rings. “Iron rings were worn by slaves. As a sign that someone was owned by another. How odd.” She walked to the sarcophagus and showed him the engraving where the couple’s hands touched.

“These were theirs. A symbol that each was owned by the other?” he asked.

“The magnet must have a purpose.”

“To hold the rings,” Samuel said. He demonstrated.

“No.” She took the magnet and started sliding it over the surface of the sarcophagus. “Nothing.”

She stared at Samuel confused. “There must be something else. There are always at least two ways out of anything. No architect or engineer builds himself into a corner. And we’re in the corner, so there has to be something else …” She got on her knees and explored the floor. “Another fake wall, or stairs, or something.”

“Well, that’s a wall.” Samuel pointed toward the trapped guard, who nodded agreement. “And we’re on the middle level. So I’m going to guess either up or down.”

Olivia felt a magnetic pull near the edge of the room. She brushed off dust from the floor and placed the magnet over a complementary shape. It clicked.

She waited. A loud vibration began in the room, and the sarcophagus began to move.

“Down,” she said, grinning.

He kissed her and jumped on board. “Brilliant. Definitely brilliant.”

She frowned. “Wait.”

Olivia pulled the magnet free.

“What is it?”

“I have to do something else.”

She ran to the astrolabe room. It was a beautiful room, and the story on the walls could be transported and kept in a museum for all to see. Even the splintered art stacked on the floor could be saved.

Olivia grabbed a fading torch near the entrance and brought it to the room. “I can’t believe I’m doing this.”

“Are you sure?” Samuel asked, when she handed him a heavy tool left by the workers.

Olivia closed her eyes, knowing that with this act she would be a destroyer of knowledge, instead of a proclaimer of knowledge. Everything she had ever wanted was in front of her. About to be obliterated by her own hand.

“Yes. The location to the pieces, at least where they were sent, is here. And the story warns that when they’re assembled, a time of great change will overcome the world.” She memorized the images before her. “I don’t know if it’s true, but enough people have died for this secret. Let it end.”

Samuel gave her one last look, then swung. And then again. He demolished the engraved limestone until it was unreadable.

When he was done, Olivia set the torch to the pile on the floor, the ancient wood catching flame with ease. A mystery forever lost.

Destroyed.

By her.

Tears came again, despite her resolve, not just from the heat and smoke.

She turned from the past. “Now we can go.”

Samuel offered his hand. “Nice work, Lady Olivia.”

Olivia clicked the magnet in place and they lay on the sarcophagus in each other’s arms.

“Here,” Samuel put on the large ring and slid the small ring onto her finger. “You hold on to this one.”

“Wait!” The guard implored them in English and Arabic.

“If we make it, we’ll send a doctor,” Olivia said.

She closed her eyes and huddled against Stafford. To their amazement the tomb was lowered via a great pulley system into a room below. Darkness enveloped them.

“I hope there aren’t any asps,” Olivia said.

“Me too.” Stafford adjusted the torch and pulled her closer.

“This is nice.”

“Being lowered deeper into the ground on top of a stone casket?” he asked.

She snuggled closer to him, one arm around his waist, the other holding the sarcophagus. “No, Stafford.” She leaned up and kissed his chin before closing her eyes, exhausted. “This.”

Olivia didn’t move until they landed with a splash. Her father had mentioned the lowest levels were flooded. Samuel raised the torch. The room seemed empty.

“I have to admit,” Olivia said. “I hoped this would be a treasure room.”

Samuel nodded. “Me too.”

They laughed.

Samuel held the torch out at arm’s length and circled it around the space. “There’s a bit of water. Hold this.” Olivia accepted the torch while he picked her up from the sarcophagus and carried her several yards to higher ground. Then he pointed her in the direction of the giant pulley system. “I think we are under the librarian’s tomb. You can see all the magnificent devices he dreamed up to torture you with.”

“She.”

“She?”

“Of course, Stafford. What did you think? A man’s treasure would be love?”

“Actually …”

She’d already walked away, enthralled with the giant-sized mechanics around her. “It could take years to study this,” she said, holding the torch out in awe. She turned to him. “We’re going to be famous, Stafford!”

He grabbed the torch from her. “We’re not out yet. Let’s go.”

They found stairs against the wall of the strange workroom.

“These must exit near the surface.” Olivia sucked in air, from the exertion of so many steps. At the top, they reached a small landing. The exit was stuck. She held the torch while Samuel put his shoulder into it. Nothing.

“Maybe there’s a magnet or something.”

He pushed again. “We’re out of …”

Olivia’s hand reached under his arm and pressed something into the wall. “I think that’s the lock.”

The door budged. Then flew off. Thousands of years of dirt and dust around the door assaulted them.

“Careful,” Samuel choked, his voice lowering. “It’s still dark. Let me see where we are.”

He squeezed her hand for encouragement, and no sooner had he stepped into the next tunnel when a bullet struck him.

Then a second.

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Samuel dropped the torch as bullets hit his arm and shoulder.

He breathed in, a surge of strength building after the shock of bullets. He pushed Olivia out of the way.

Moreau. And his men. They’ve intercepted us.

The noise of the door had no doubt alerted Moreau.

“We found the treasure, Moreau,” Olivia taunted. “But I will never give it to you if something happens to Stafford. Let us go and you’ll have it all.”

Moreau took a gun from a guard and aimed. “I don’t negotiate, my lady.”

Samuel slammed Olivia against a wall, covering her, as another shot grazed his leg. He steadied himself. “Olivia,” he whispered, agonized, into her ear. “I’m going to attack.” His breath came hard. “I want you to run. Hide. Someplace safe until I can get help.”

“No,” she said, her voice hushed and angry.

Moreau and his men were getting closer.

“Olivia, my love, please. I’m weak with you here. You must get away.” He didn’t wait for her response. He turned around, his back to her, still protecting when the guards rushed them.

He charged back.

Samuel relieved the first victim of his weapon, running him through with his own bayonet. Next he fired the musket, eliminating another guard. He felt the pain in his shoulder and arm, but ignored it. The third man realized he could run or die. He ran. Then he died.

Moreau still had a gun trained on Olivia. Several more guards, alerted to the danger, swarmed them—not a single friendly face to be found.

“Come with me, Olivia,” Moreau said, motioning to her. “Or your hero dies.”

Olivia reached into her leather bag, and walked toward the nearest wall torch, holding something out. It made Samuel nervous. She was too trusting.

“Olivia,” he said. “No.”

“I have the disc, Moreau. I put it in my journal and wrote all the translations. It was the key to open the treasure room. The sarcophagus moves. Can you believe that? An astounding mechanism moves it, opening the entrance to all that you seek.” She kept talking, her voice getting a little softer, but with increasing excitement, drawing the men into her tale.

“The secrets of the lost realm are here. We’ve found it. And a treasure beyond imagining fills the great chamber below us. Moreau …” She glowed with excitement. “The treasure is here. Wealth and power beyond what you can imagine.” She held up the book to the light on the wall, opening to a written page and turning to the guards. “It says here, ‘The man who owns the key, owns the world.’ ”

Samuel moved closer, slowly. There were four guards, but how many more awaited? He’d worry about that later. He just needed to get Moreau. Two men stood between them, mesmerized with the others by Olivia’s temptations. The moment allowed him a chance to reposition and strategize.

Olivia turned a page, getting closer to the light to show them the future that could be theirs. Only, she was too close to the flame and didn’t realize it. Or did she?

The pages caught fire.

Olivia continued to talk. “I wrote all the secrets, Moreau …”

A guard yelled, reaching for the journal. Olivia reacted, screeching, then shoving the burning book at the man and grabbing the torch off the wall to attack another.

Damn the woman. She was brilliant!

He used the empty musket to attack. His target fought with equal vigor.

“Olivia, run! Run!”

Olivia did run. But not before taunting Moreau and the others with a tap on her bag. “You think I’m going to give the power of the world to you? Come and get it—if you can.”

Then she spun and darted like a streak of lightning down the tunnel.

Samuel felt a dangerous jab cut through his side, but it was nothing compared to the horror of Moreau’s enraged scream.

“Get her!”

Olivia knew she had to distract the guards from Stafford. Gads. How many bullets could one man survive? The thought made her breathless. She skidded on the claylike surface and grabbed for a wall, spinning into a turn and entering an unlit area. A sound caught her attention, and she saw Moreau behind her, cast eerily in the light.

He must have seen her. He guessed correctly, coming her way.

Olivia felt with fingertips and made another turn into darkness. She went a few feet. Dead end. Literally.

She inched back toward the corner, panting, struggling for air while trying not to make noise. The light flickered closer … and closer. Nowhere to turn and no weapons, except—

Olivia reached by feel for the remaining items in her carryall. There!

Moreau’s steps became cautious, ready to attack.

Stafford, please be alive. I can manage this, if only I know you are alive.

She pressed against the wall, preparing herself. With any luck he would look right first, and she could strike from the left.

Another step. She could see the torch held out in front. Closer.

Closer.

He turned.

No luck.

A small pistol aimed at her chest. He smiled.

“Moreau!” A deep voice rumbled behind him, like a feral animal ready to strike.

Stafford! Alive!

Moreau spun, alert to danger. She knew it would only be a split second. A split second when she could get close enough to …

Olivia leapt. Her body hit his, his gun went off, and they both fell to ground, the torch rolling to a stop against a wall.

She cried out in both horror and pain.

Moreau gasped. Olivia pulled her weapon out of his throat and the air hissed free. She rolled over on her side, stiff, her fist cramping from the tight grip around the weapon in her hand.

Samuel landed next to her somehow. Sliding or falling, she wasn’t sure. He was bloody and pale.

“Olivia, my God. You are well?” He pushed her coat aside, checking for blood or injuries, she supposed. His left arm did not function well. He became clumsy.

I’m losing him.

Moreau gurgled next to her. Samuel saw the blood seeping from his throat, then spotted the weapon.

“I stabbed him.” Her voice was faint. “With my inking pen.” She reached to stop his tumble forward. “You were right, Stafford. It does indeed make a useful weapon.”

He smiled. And closed his eyes.

“Stafford! Stafford?” she called.

He nearly knocked her back onto Moreau. She caught him and laid him on the chilly floor. He bled from the side, so she took off her coat and pressed it into the wound. “Please, Stafford. Don’t die.” Tears flooded her eyes. “You don’t want to die in a tomb, do you?”

It worked. His lids fluttered open and he looked up, his golden brown eyes glowing with tenderness. “Olivia …” His voice was filled with sorrow. “I’m sorry.” He touched her cheek. “My love.” Then his hand fell and his eyes closed.

“No! No! You’re invincible, Stafford!” She shook him. Grabbed his lapels. Screamed. “Get up! Get up, damn you!

I will not allow this. You bastard! I will not allow this. Now get up!“ She slapped him. Hard. Her palm stung. She slapped him again.

When he didn’t respond she pulled on his good arm, succeeding in getting his upper body in sitting position. She pulled. His weight was impossible. He didn’t budge.

She started crying in earnest, losing strength. “I hate you.” She hissed, angry. “Do you hear me? I hate you.” She wrapped an arm under his shoulder and another around his neck, holding him to her, her sobs choking her, burning her eyes as tears mixed with layers of dust. “I hate you. You bloody stupid … American!”

He moved. A hand touched her lower back.

Olivia lifted her face.

He opened his eyes, staring in pain. “Not exactly … the response … I was looking for,” he gasped.

“Stafford!” She planted a hard kiss on his mouth. “We’re getting out of here. Help me.”

They managed to get him up. Olivia tucked Moreau’s pistol in her belt, threw his bag with the funerary cone over one arm, and kept her body under Stafford’s shoulder. They limped along at a painstaking rate, Olivia all the while praying he would not fall unconscious again. His breathing was labored.

“Just a little more, Stafford. You’re doing well. Keep it up.”

“Reward?” His voice was soft, getting faint.

“Of course there’s a reward. A soft bed, good rum, a view of the harbor.”

“You?”

Olivia smiled. “Only if you live.”

“Very well.”

They reached the main rest chamber. And stopped.

There were at least fifty guards with weapons turning on them. Olivia counted her weapons.

One. And empty.

She pulled the gun anyway.

Lampley stepped forward. “Where’s Moreau?”

“Dead,” Olivia stated loudly aiming the pistol at Lampley. “And if you and your men don’t put your weapons down now … I’ll kill you too.” She held the gun unwavering.

Lampley waved a hand down and all lowered their weapons—much to Olivia’s astonishment.

Lampley’s smile turned up on one side. Then Worthington and the duchess ran forward, sheathing their own weapons. Elizabeth and Olivia’s father were right behind.

Worthington caught Stafford, and Kelley ran forward to assist them.

“How?” Olivia asked, looking around, confused.

“Nathan’s plan to contact Riad succeeded,” Elizabeth said quietly.

“And Lampley turned out not to be such an ass,” Alex added.

“Did you hear that, Stafford? Not everyone wants to kill you.”

He closed his eyes, mumbling about some kind of a reward.

Olivia quickly told Lampley about the guard still trapped in the tomb chamber, then turned and confronted the hard face of the duchess. She viciously wiped her tears, sliding the bag from her shoulder, facing Alex. “You can take this. I’ve no need for it anymore.” She handed over the funerary cone of the Librarian of Alexandria. “What I seek, I already have,” Olivia said.

Olivia took Stafford’s hand and led the men upward, instructing them every step of the way. “Careful! He’s been shot at least three times.”

His eyes were already closed, but knowing he was conscious, she was reassured. “Don’t worry, Stafford. I won’t let them periclitate you. I promise.”

Chapter Twenty-Nine

The wounds healed quickly. The heartaches would take a little longer.

They buried Nathan at the other end of Alexandria in a spot with a view of the sea. Samuel promised Elizabeth he would visit every time he came into port.

He spent his convalescence at the hotel, wooing Olivia at every possible moment—once he was conscious. She made wooing easy, taking delight in each day, sharing the latest discoveries from the site and trying desperately to beat him in chess. And his wounds were not so bad that he did not find any number of ways to lure her to his lap, especially with her father being so preoccupied with running the site and transporting the finds to England.

He loved her. And he told her. He was certain she loved him too, but as the days progressed and she did not return the sentiment, he began to doubt.

“Olivia, I can’t stay here forever. It’s time for me to leave soon.” He turned to the window, away from her suddenly worried expression. She liked having him around for security, but perhaps that was all. “I would like you to come with me.”

“Stafford—” she started, then stopped. “My father and I are just reunited, and he needs me.”

“Do you love me?” There. He’d put it out in the open. It was either going to be the best or worst moment of his life.

She stuttered.

Worst.

“You know how I feel about you,” she said, uncomfortable.

“Not exactly. But you’re an articulate woman. Please tell me in your own words.”

“Stafford, you’re putting me on the spot. You are everything to me. But I cannot abandon my father. It will be months before he is able to return to London, and then we will have so much to do. I just need more time. Please understand.”

He pulled her into his arms and kissed her, a long and lingering kiss, memorizing her scent and feel as his hands roamed freely over her. She clung to him, her response equally passionate. Then he let go. “Take all the time you need.”

He left Alexandria the next day.

Dressed in her professor gear, Olivia spent the next morning in the market purchasing necessities to send to the site. When she returned to the hotel it was oddly quiet. She checked her messages.

“Yes, sir. One letter.”

“Thank you,” Olivia said. “I’ll take them to Lady Olivia.” She rubbed her mustache, smiling at the man.

The letter was from Elizabeth. Olivia froze. Elizabeth should be upstairs, not leaving her letters. Finding a private corner to huddle in, she ripped open the letter.

Dearest Olivia,

Forgive me for not saying farewell in person. I did not feel I could bear another good-bye. I’m going to America to see the land Nathan told me about. I want to find a piece of him, even if it is just a small one. I know you will find this hard to understand, but I feel I will be happier there, and the Staffords have welcomed me into their home until I determine what comes next.

Please know I don’t blame you for anything. In fact, I’m grateful to you. Had I not been on this wonderful adventure, I would never have found Nathan nor had our short time together. The truth is that I have changed too much ever to go back to what I was, now that I know the possibilities that the world might offer. I don’t know what my next adventure will be, but I will embrace it, knowing that time is too short for anything else.

Mr. Stafford has offered me passage, and I have accepted. Be safe, Olivia. I hope that your explorations prove to be all you dreamed.

Last, my dearest Olivia, if you are reading this letter you are the biggest fool on earth and have learned nothing from me.

With loving regard always,

Elizabeth

Olivia swayed.

Stafford is gone.

She crushed the letter in her trembling hand. She’d thought Elizabeth would come home with her. But she understood her friend’s desire to see Nathan’s homeland. It made perfect sense. It hadn’t required months or years to know it. They met, they loved, and they lost.

Elizabeth would not be coming home with her.

Stafford is gone.

She walked out of the hotel. It couldn’t be. He would not leave without a note or farewell. She stumbled onto the street, walking toward the harbor. Then running.

She ran until she was breathless, certain she would see the sleek lines of the Avenger at any moment. She pushed around people and knocked into carts, looking toward the water to wait for the ship with the tall masts to get her attention, or to run into a sailor she knew.

She made it all the way without seeing any of that.

She stopped, breathless, disbelieving. Neither in the bay nor on the horizon were any sails she could identify as his. “Samuel,” she gasped, tears filling her eyes. “Samuel. My love.”

As tears rolled down her cheeks and the sounds of the small harbor buzzed around her, Olivia realized how much she had changed. She did not feel empty or alone or even lonely.

She felt like the stupidest woman on earth.

Her father found her in her room when he returned to the hotel. She sat still at her window, not speaking. Only thinking. Usually she did too much thinking, but now was not one of those times.

“Stafford and Elizabeth have left,” she said.

“I know. Elizabeth left me a letter. Stafford did not, but I suppose you two spoke.”

“No.” It was all she said as she continued to stare out the window.

Her father seemed to think that strange. He came and knelt in front of her. “Olivia? Did he not ask you to go with him?”

Olivia woke from her reverie, surprised by the question. “Did you think he would?”

“I thought he loved you.” He rephrased, “I’m pretty certain he loves you.”

“Do you love me?” The question popped out, surprising her. And him.

“Of course, my dear.” Merryvale stammered, then laughed. “I don’t know why it’s so hard to say.” He laughed again. “I must be sorely out of practice. I love you, daughter. Forgive me for not loving you well enough or saying it so infrequently that it caused you doubt.”

Olivia didn’t know what to say. She struggled to understand.

My father loves me.

She would need time to get used to that concept. “How do you know? How do you know you love someone?”

Clearly the worst question she could possibly ask. Her father stared dumbfounded. “I don’t know,” he said. There was a long silence before he added, “I think you choose to do it.”

“Choose? Who would choose love, when love is such a mess?

Her father laughed.

She twisted the iron ring on her finger. Stafford had kept his ring on as well. They’d never said anything about it.

“I’m afraid I have not loved you very well, Olivia. I guess I always thought you would be happy in London, chatting about literature and politics, enjoying the theater and resources of home. Never did I think you would choose dusty tents, or logging notes about old objects, or weeks with no entertainment and conversation in some desolate location.”

“It always sounded much more exciting when you came home and described it.”

“I didn’t want you to feel too sorry for me. I missed your mother, originally. Then I think I just became used to isolation. I don’t want that to happen to you. Unless it really is your dream. You know you can stay and be my partner,” he said. “I would greatly enjoy your company. I just didn’t think that was what you wanted.”

“What would you do without me?”

He smiled. “It will be a trial, but I will survive. Lampley has tolerable conversation. I’ve written to the museum. They will send a team, I’m certain. And back in London I will have many cronies to share my adventures with. You will have to attend any presentations, of course, and share your experiences.”

“It’s just …” She felt guilty and sad. “We have only now come to know each other, it seems.”

“Olivia, if this is what you want, I welcome you wholeheartedly.” He looked toward the harbor. “But if you have a taste for adventure and want to see the world”—he squeezed her hand—“and make a certain American man very happy, then I would love to visit you in Boston, or have my grandchildren come to England or whatever outpost we find ourselves at. We will still find a way to be together. I won’t let so much time pass again. We can make sure of that. I don’t want to be the man who forsakes his daughter for sand and dust. Stafford had that right about me. It was a hard truth to hear.”

“You always wrote and made sure I was in good hands, Father. And Elizabeth was a true friend. In some ways a mother to me when I needed it.” She tentatively reached for his arm and he patted her hand. “And I loved our time together when you were home. You made discovery so exciting.”

She twisted the iron ring on her finger again. She’d not taken it off. She’d been choosing not to.

“It’s strange, with my extensive vocabulary and language skills, that not once did I ever come across a definition of love proclaiming it to be a choice. And yet, if it is a choice, what is this feeling? My chest aches. My body is weak. My head throbs and my eyes will not stop burning.”

“Sounds like love,” the duchess said. She stood by the door. “It was open.”

“This is love? This is horrible! Love is horrible?”

Alex entered and put a sympathetic hand on her arm. “Only when you lose it.”

Merryvale got up and kissed his daughter on top of her head. “I’ll leave you two. I’m down the hall, Olivia, should you need me.” He closed the door behind him.

Alex held an object in her hands—the funerary cone of the Librarian of Alexandria. “I came to return this.”

“My father knows … That is, he knows I wanted you to have it, not what it is—the disc.”

“You figured it out.” Alex smiled at her, approving.

“ ‘What you seek, you already have.’ It was a game of sorts, wasn’t it. The disc was in our hands all along, hidden behind the ancient plaster.” She studied the round side of the cone where the inscription was etched. “But to gain the knowledge, and learn what it meant we had to risk all.” She looked up at her new friend. “We do choose our destiny. To the librarian the astrolabe was her life’s work, her secret to share and protect. But it was also nothing compared to her life, her love, her family. She knew what the real treasures were. Whatever mystery she protected, this prophecy”—her eyes met Alex’s—“it did not rule her life.”

The duchess ran her fingers over the etched plaster on the cone hiding the ancient disc beneath it, contemplating. Finally she spoke. “You have a fondness for words and meanings, do you not, Olivia?”

Olivia nodded.

“Your surname is Yates. Isn’t that from the Old English geat, meaning gate?”

“Yes. Yateses were known as the gatekeepers. Why?”

Alex handed her the cone back. “I think that means, Olivia, that this disc is yours to guard.”

Olivia stared at the duchess, worried and astonished. “But … what should I do with it?”

The duchess put a hand over the artifact and the other firmly on Olivia’s shoulder, her gaze direct, her voice solemn. “Hide it someplace no one will ever find it.”

While Olivia absorbed that, Alex pulled a small box from her pocket and handed it to her. “Samuel said he bought this for you. He wanted you to have it.”

Blinking with surprise, Olivia opened the small box, then pressed a hand to her stomach. Inside was the flawless diamond Samuel had purchased weeks ago. He’d known even then. He’d loved her, protected her, waited for her. And she’d failed him.

“What have I done?” Olivia whispered, agonized.

“It matters not what you have done, Olivia. But what will you do now?”

Olivia dared to hope. “Can you catch him?”

Alex huffed. “Am I not Captain Alex Stafford?”

Olivia pressed her lips, worried. “Actually, you are Her Grace Alexandra, Duchess of Worthington—”

She waved that away. “Once a Stafford, always a Stafford. And I know the wind better than any of my brothers. We could catch him today”—Alex paused—“if you’re sure.”

“Yes!” Olivia suddenly felt strong again. “Oh, yes!”

The duchess was true to her word. They spotted the Avenger in what the duke and crew noted as record time. Alex directed a sailor to sound the bell, and from the distance the same bell pattern was repeated back. The Avenger would wait for them.

In their rush, Olivia hurried to the ship in her professor gear, then cursed her stupidity. She needed every womanly wile available to win back Stafford. Fortunately, Alex had a dress she could borrow. She’d have to wear her professor shoes under it for now, but with any luck Stafford’s gaze wouldn’t get beyond her bosom.

As the Avenger came closer, Olivia’s stomach flipped and her heart pounded until she stood clinging to the rail somewhere between giddy and woozy.

“How do I look?” Olivia asked when Alex came over.

Alex raised a finger thoughtfully, then lowered it. “Beautiful and unique,” she said, grinning widely before returning to the helm.

Olivia spotted Stafford across the water. He raised a hand to his sister and the duke. He hadn’t spotted her yet. She ran toward the couple and waved as well, calling out.

He put his hand down and didn’t move.

Her mouth went dry.

Stafford? She swallowed hard, doubt filling her. What if he will not understand?

She grabbed the duke’s arm, worried. “Is he going to come here?”

The duke turned, then startled, raised a finger to tell her something. His wife grabbed it.

“She looks lovely, does she not, husband?”

The duke raised an eyebrow. “Indeed.”

The duchess changed the subject. “He does not seem to be lowering a boat, Olivia. I’m sorry. We’ll send one over to him instead.”

Olivia grasped the rail, injured. “He does not want to see me.” She whirled away. Well, either he was a complete mome, or he wanted her to come to him. He loved her! How dare he treat her like this? She straightened her shoulders. She would bombard him with words until he did understand. And kisses. Definitely. Stafford liked kisses.

She saw some crew members adjusting lines to control the sails. Is it long enough? she wondered. She hurried to the man and seized the rope. If Stafford wasn’t coming to her, she would go to him.

“Olivia!” Alex ran to her. “What are you thinking? Stop!”

“I know what I’m doing. It’s math. I believe I have the trajectory correct.” She pushed away a sailor who looked ready to stop her.

“Olivia—”

Olivia jumped. And swung—feet out, stomach clenched.

After the initial exhilarating rush, her skirts caught the wind and flew up blindingly. Only then did she realize the danger of the rope slipping between her burning palms, the possibility of drowning in icy depths, and the disadvantages of swinging in a dress.

Fortunately, her math was perfect.

“Good lord, she’s insane.” The duke watched from the side. “Poor bastard.”

Alex whacked her husband. “She’s brilliant! And he’s lucky.”

“Are you sure this is what he wants?”

Alex nodded, confident. “I didn’t tell Olivia, but my brother was sailing very slow.”

Across the water on the other ship, Samuel waited. Hopeful at the sight of Olivia. Relieved. Then she took matters into her own hands—again.

“What the hell!” He hurried to the next deck. “All hands!”

Olivia swung with perfect ease across the water. Perfect ease and a decent amount of speed aimed directly at him. Thunderstruck, he stared at the legs revealed by the skirts flying backward from the energy of her jump.

“I’ve got you!” At least he thought he did … until her feet crushed into his gut. He stumbled back, grabbed her bottom, and nearly managed to stay on his feet. Nearly.

Samuel tripped backward over a coil of rope and landed on his buttocks. Again. It was dark. And fluffy. Ruffles tickled his face. He couldn’t move.

Finally there was light. He looked up into a concerned liquid silver gaze—dazzled.

“Eyes like two stars.” He closed his eyes, content.

“Samuel! Samuel!” She slapped him lightly. No response.

Olivia scrambled to move her skirts and give him room to breathe. She had not meant to swing directly into him, but he’d moved! Now he was babbling and having trouble remaining conscious. This would not do. She’d practiced her speech, worked through the logic of all her arguments, prepared a list of her qualities and accomplishments as a reminder, should she need to sway his opinion.

None of that mattered. He lay unconscious.

Her heart welled up and her eyes followed, until a tear plopped on his cheek. She wiped it off him, gently, uncaring that the crew stood around them quietly waiting to see if she had finally killed their captain.

Olivia blinked, and a wave of tears gushed onto his face, into his brown curling lashes, over the sun-kissed skin. She bent sorrowfully and kissed his beautiful lips, pressing her cheek against his. “I’ll take care of you, Samuel. I promise.” She wrapped a hand under his head to cushion it from the hard deck. “I promise.”

“By drowning me?”

The words were whispered so softly that Olivia almost didn’t hear them. Then he moaned and his eyes fluttered open again.

“Oh, Samuel! Why did you walk right into me? You must stop that. You’re injured now, and I must stay and make sure you don’t have a trauma to your head. I read about it in Andersen’s books.” She looked up to find Andersen there, and Kelley, Cook, and all the crew. Behind them Elizabeth waited, a gentle smile on her face.

“It’s not my brain you have injured, love.”

She smiled tremulously, relieved he would live.

He tried to move and she quickly helped him sit up, kneeling next to him, ordering Kelley to get him some water … and maybe something stronger. She would have done it, but she didn’t want to leave him. It seemed a lifetime since she had seen his face—the harsh angles, the stubborn square jaw her hands could not keep from caressing.

“What brings you here, Professor?” Samuel asked.

“I had to come, Samuel.” She took the hand where he still wore the iron ring. “I am yours. I love you.”

He scrutinized her, but she didn’t flinch.

“You’re certain?”

“Yes. Oh yes! I love you. I love you, Samuel. Most intensely.” It was much easier after she said it the first time.

“What about your dreams of academic fame?” He still hesitated. “You finally have everything you ever wanted.”

“Everything is nothing without you, Samuel. I want to explore the world with you, not just read about it. With you I can be who I truly am—both Professor and Lady Olivia.”

She leaned in to kiss him, but a large, firm hand stopped her. A flash of panic seared her stomach. He shook his head.

Olivia’s heart pounded. She was too late.

Then he reached up toward her nose and—ripped!

She shrieked, touching her lip in horror.

“How about Lady Professor”—he tossed the mustache overboard—“and Mrs. Stafford.”

“Ohhh.” Her eyes lit up and she jumped him, knocking him back onto the deck. “Yes, Mr. Stafford. That is a perfect solution. You are the most brilliant man in the world.” She smacked kisses all over his face. “I love you, I love you, I love you.”

“I love you too,” he said, wrapping her in his arms possessively and silencing her with a long passionate kiss until both of them were oblivious to the loud approving cheers of the crew.

Epilogue

Eight months later …

The woman finished writing out her orders and handed them to a waiting messenger. Her entourage and several carriages of trunks where ready for the long voyage.

“You’ll return to America?” the man waiting on her asked.

“Yes. For now. Moreau failed us, but I know Lady Olivia has the disc somewhere. I’m certain of it. When it’s time, I will force her hand.” She touched the medallion above her breast, caressing the metal. “Hers and all the others.”

“What next then?”

“We continue,” she said. “There are many leads yet. Clues and stories we must follow up. South America, China … there is no place my arm cannot reach.” She was determined. This was her life’s purpose. “We are close to gathering all we need, my friend. Do not lose faith. It is within our grasp. And soon.”

He nodded and took her hand, holding it reverently a moment before releasing. “I don’t doubt it. Not with you leading us.” He stepped away. “Safe journeys.”

“Safe journeys,” she repeated, more from habit than sentiment.

She knew better than most, that safe was not part of the equation when you were devoted to discovering the secrets of Lilith.

The rising sun peeked through the trees as Olivia completed her task.

She patted the ground over the grave site of her family manor outside Ashford and carefully laid some flowers over the freshly turned earth. “And that, my dear pet, is some place no one will ever find you!”

She brushed the dirt off her hands, still kneeling over the grave, when her husband startled her.

“Hipparchus. Loyal and beloved hound,” he read aloud. “When did we get a pet?”

“Yesterday.”

“And you killed him already?”

Olivia looked up at him innocently. “He had it coming.”

Samuel laughed and helped her to stand. “Why’s that?”

“The stars just were not aligned, Samuel.” She redirected him. “More important, when are we to sail for Boston?”

“I thought we’d wait. You’ll miss your opportunity to speak with your father.”

“He can manage without me,” she said. “I heard rumor of an island haunted by lost colonists. I thought we should investigate.”

Samuel wasn’t listening. He returned to the topic of their dead pet. “Wasn’t Hipparchus the one who invented the astrolabe?”

“Why yes, some do credit him with designing the first astrolabe.”

“Uh-huh.” Thoughtful silence. “Anything you want to tell me, Professor?”

“There will be plenty of time to talk, Stafford. Now is a time for action!” She leaned into his chest, tempting. “Let’s hurry back to bed before my father awakes, or a servant comes knocking, or your crew needs feeding, or someone in your family needs saving.”

“I love you too, Olivia Katharine Hastings Yates Stafford.” He kissed her shoulder. “Adventuress.” He trailed lips up her throat. “Killer of venomous asps.” He pecked her chin. “Translator of ancient glyphs.” He nibbled her ear. “Puzzle master extraordinaire. And”—he ran his hand over the curve of her belly—“mother of future warrior professors.”

Olivia wrapped her arms around her husband and kissed him thoroughly in the golden morning glow before closing the garden gate and leading him back inside. She decided not to tell him he’d missed one honor …

Gatekeeper of ancient prophesies.

Siren’s Secret
© 2009 Patricia A. Cerrone
ISBN: 9780843960877
LEISURE BOOKS
Ed♥n