Desire Me (4 page)

“Madigan, why have you not taken some of your elixir to clear your lungs?” Sabine asked. “Or allowed Agnes to assist you;
she’s a wonderful healer.”

“I told you, it is far too late for me.” He shook his head and was quiet for a moment before he spoke again. “I couldn’t stop
him. He hit me over the head, knocked me out. He took it.”

“The elixir?” Lydia said.

Madigan simply nodded.

“How long have you been without it?” Agnes asked.

“More than a day,” he said. Then shook his head. “I don’t know how long I was out, so I’m really not certain how long. I was
so careful.” He gripped Agnes’s hand. “I’m so sorry.”

“It has begun then,” Calliope said.

That was why Madigan looked so ill. If a guardian lost his elixir and did not recover it within two days’ time, he would perish.
She had seen it happen before with her own mother. It was a mystical connection that even Sabine did not understand, but there
were some facts that you simply did not question.

“Give him some of your elixir,” Sabine suggested.

He shook his head. “Elixir won’t work for me now, at least none but my own. Besides, she needs her own.” He met Sabine’s eyes.
“She’s the important one.” His breathing was labored and raspy. “I used my time getting here to warn you. Phinneas can look
after himself. Though I did send him a message to warn him.”

“What do we need to do?” Sabine asked. Whatever it took, she would do it to ensure Agnes and the rest of her aunts were safe.
She would not lose anyone else. Madigan had used precious time to come and warn them instead of pursuing his own elixir. She
owed him her gratitude.

“You need the entire prophecy,” Madigan said. “You must have it to have any hope of destroying the Chosen One.”

“The map,” Sabine said. “You said you located it.”

He coughed again, took another sip of the whiskey, then released a weary breath. “A man, an Englishman, found it many years
ago. He still has it now.”

“Phinneas’s vision was right,” Agnes said. “He said a great one would find the map and lead the way to our salvation.”

Madigan reached into his coat and withdrew a folded piece of parchment. “I’ve given you his name and address. Unfortunately
that is all the information I have on him.” He placed his hand over Sabine’s. “It is imperative that you get that prophecy.
Without the map, you have no hope of surviving the Chosen One.”

Sabine made no move to unfold the paper once he’d placed it in her hand. He’d given her this task. He was trusting her to
retrieve the one thing her people had sought for years. She kept her eyes on the man in front of her. He was a few breaths
away from dying.

“How long have you known about this?” she asked. “About the man who has possession of our map?”

“Not long. Initially I only knew it was an Englishman. It took me awhile to uncover his identity,” Madigan said.

“Will he sell it to us?” she asked.

“No. I already tried that a couple of months ago,” Madigan said. He grabbed her hand. “You can do this. We must have the prophecy.”

Sabine swallowed.

He eyed her aunts. “We have no other choice.”

Madigan had died that night in their storeroom, a most painful and terrible death. As a girl, Sabine had watched her mother
die and now another guardian had perished. She would do whatever was necessary to keep Agnes safe.

So she did what any lady in need would do. She hid in a darkened carriage outside the gentleman’s home and waited for him
to go out for the evening. She knew he planned to go out, as he’d readied a carriage for himself an hour earlier.

Madigan’s note had not given her much information about the Englishman in question, one Maxwell Barrett, Marquess of Lindberg.
She knew where he lived and she knew that he had in his possession the legendary map of Atlantis. Madigan had been studying
Mr. Barrett for a couple of months, but as it turned out the man was rather mysterious.

Madigan had said the man would not entertain bids to purchase the map, which left her with two choices—she could break into
the man’s home and, in effect, steal the map. Technically she could make an argument that
the map belonged to her and her
people, yet she doubted that she would make much headway with the authorities should she get pinched.

Or she could try to persuade him to allow her a peek. The latter seemed infinitely preferable to a small prison cell. One
could not protect the world from a prophesied disaster if one were trapped in prison. But if tonight’s efforts proved to be
a complete failure, then she would certainly reconsider the theft. A woman had to do what a woman had to do.

He was a member of London’s illustrious Society; certainly that meant he was a reasonable fellow. She simply needed to make
the gentleman’s acquaintance. Tonight seemed as good a night as any, plus she didn’t appear to have the luxury of time on
her hands. If the ancient prophecy had already begun, then the hourglass had been turned, and the grains of sand were swiftly
falling around her. Without the prophecy in its entirety, Madigan was right, they were basically fighting blindfolded.

If she were to persuade a man to do her bidding, she knew there were certain distractions she could use to her advantage.
One was beauty. Though she had never been particularly comfortable playing the role of seductress, she had done her best to
dress the part tonight. She’d donned a gown the English would deem appropriately attractive, an ivory gown sewn of the most
luxurious of silks. It fit her perfectly, which in itself was remarkable considering she’d purchased it from the display in
the shop’s window. The cap sleeves edged with delicate lace revealed her upper arms. Then from fingertip to elbow, she wore
matching satin gloves. The gown’s plunging neckline lifted and squeezed her breasts until they were practically bursting through
the material.

She’d also had Calliope do her hair up in light wispy curls that barely brushed her shoulders, just hinting at their softness.
She very much looked the part of a proper English lady. She fidgeted with the necklace hanging around her neck. To others,
it would appear to be a simple gold chain, but hanging from the necklace, and hidden beneath the bodice of her gown, was a
crystal vial with a small amount of elixir. Agnes had given it to her months ago and instructed her to keep it with her always.

From her vantage point, she saw a man in a greatcoat, the black wool stretched across his broad shoulders. He put on a top
hat as he stepped off the last stair and into the waiting coach. Then it rolled out of the driveway. She instructed her driver
to follow.

She hadn’t yet figured out how she would sneak into the ball or soiree, or wherever he was going, without a proper invitation.
Perhaps her lovely dress and a well-placed smile would grant her admission. She kept her eye on the carriage so she did not
lose her man. But her driver stayed close. She wished she’d seen his face, though, as it seemed unlikely she would recognize
him in a crowd. All men of wealth wore similar coats and hats.

It took less than twenty minutes for them to pull up outside a three-story redbrick building. The man walked up to the black
door and entered. Sabine noted there were no identifying markers indicating the type of establishment, though she assumed
from the neighborhood that this was a business and not a residence.

The street was quiet as she stepped down from her rig. Nerves fluttered wildly in her abdomen, and she pressed a gloved hand
against her stomach to calm herself. Now was not the time for her to feel anxious.

She had a job to do; it was plain and simple. With a
pinch of her cheeks and a tight nibble at her lips to pinken them, she
made her way to the door. She would mill about, watch for a while, then find the gentleman in question. The heavy door opened,
and Sabine found herself standing in a smoke-filled gaming establishment.

She nearly scoffed. The most prized artifact of Atlantis was in the hands of a gambler. She had half a mind to be utterly
incensed, but perhaps this could work to her favor. With that thought, she went in search of the marquess.

M
ax picked up his hand and glanced at the cards, a lousy combination that on its own would win nothing. It was why he loved
this American game—for the bluffing. Even with a mediocre hand of cards, he could win.

His table mates were a motley crew, and he had very little difficulty deciphering when they held good hands or when they knew
they would lose. Two of the older gentlemen had made excuses and left the table when the betting had increased. Now only four
remained. A grizzled man with a full shock of white hair and a voice deep and cracked. A young man, perhaps one could even
consider him still a boy, as not even a hint of whiskers appeared on his chin. And the Earl of Chilton sat across from Max,
a fine opponent when he wasn’t drinking. Tonight, though, the man had had one too many sips.

The fourth player was, by far, the most interesting. A woman, dressed in a cream-colored confection with a plunging neckline
that left very little to his well-developed imagination. She was the kind of woman one expected
to see across a candlelit
ballroom surrounded by suitors, not in a smoke-filled gaming hell surrounded by drunken fools. With her lustrous, mahogany-colored
hair and her warm caramel eyes, she was nothing short of stunning. Though her darker complexion led him to believe she wasn’t
originally from England, she had no accent to give him a hint of her homeland.

Though he’d never seen her before, she certainly looked like a refined lady, but he wasn’t completely convinced. While she
had the mannerisms down and the look just right, something was different about her. And he knew he had never seen her before,
as she was not the sort of woman a man forgot.

Initially Max had found her distracting, but after losing to her two hands in a row, he’d straightened his seat and kept his
eyes off her tempting cleavage.

Though she had won more hands than most of the men at the table that night, she was not an accomplished player. However, she
proved, at times, difficult to read, almost as if she were an actress slipping into a role, and while in character, she became
charming, flirtatious, and daring. But every now and then a veil would slip over her eyes, and Max would catch a glimpse of
insecurity. He had yet to decide whether that was from the cards she held or something else.

“I raise,” she said, her voice a warm, fluid honey. She arched a perfect eyebrow in his direction. “My lord,” she said.

Max glanced around the table. He knew from Chilton’s smug expression that the man had a good hand. The old man had already
laid down his hand, as had the young one. But what cards did the pretty miss hold?

“Such a temptress,” Max said, never taking his eyes
off her as he dropped his coins into the betting pool. “I’ll call your
wager.”

Chilton’s brow furrowed, and he grumbled something incoherent, then backed out of the game. Evidently his hand, as good as
it may have been, did not give the inebriated man enough confidence.

They had another quick round of betting before the dealer called for their hands, and Max flipped over his cards. Two pair
to her three of a kind.

“The lady wins,” the man said.

With delicate gloved fingers, she scooped the coins in her direction, then stacked them neatly.

Chilton stood. “Enough of this foolish game for me.” He eyed the lady at the table, then looked at Max. “You’ve got a lovely
playmate tonight, Lindberg. I believe I’ll retire for the evening,” he said as he slipped away, though Max spotted him finding
a new chair at a different game four tables over.

Max collected his new hand and eyed the cards. As if they had been dealt by a deity, Max looked down on four kings.

Again the other two gentlemen folded, leaving the hand down to Max and the lady, the mysterious and lovely woman with the
caramel-colored eyes. This time, though, he could not lose. He had a brilliant hand.

She picked up a few coins, then paused over the center pot, glancing at her cards before slowly raising her gaze to his. “A
different wager, perhaps.”

Intrigued, Max nodded. “What did you have in mind?” Immediately his mind conjured images of all the sinful acts he could do
to her body upon this very table. It would take hours for him to explore every delectable curve. He’d start at that sweet
spot directly below her ear
along the column of her neck. Then he’d work his way down.

“Your map, Maxwell Barrett. I only want the map.” Her words came out slow and deliberate.

Ah, she knew who he was, and she knew about his map.

It was no great secret that he hid away. Still, he’d never broadcast it across Society. What would have been the point? It
was popular to go in hunt of treasure or artifacts, but there was no scientific proof of the existence of Atlantis.

He’d once thought the map would be the ultimate proof, but no one except the men of Solomon’s had paid much attention to his
discovery. So now the relic simply hung on his wall. Why the interest now? And how had she known?