Frovtunes’ Kiss (26 page)

Not for an instant did she fool herself into believing she could entice him to stay, to give up his adventurer's life in favor of a woman so firmly on the shelf as to have truly earned the title of spinster. Ah, no, a man like Graham Foster thrived on freedom and spontaneity and danger enough to make one's heart pound. He'd languish here, with her.

“I must stay for my mother,” she said, and was relieved to feel no regret for this, at least.

Bracing Isis on his thigh with a careful hand, he slipped an arm around Moira's shoulders. The passion that had almost sent them racing to the nearest empty bedchamber had faded, or, more accurately, settled into a calm and comfortable intimacy. Yet the promise of more remained; Moira felt it like a current just beneath the surface, coursing, biding its time, searching for even the tiniest gap in their resolve.

For now she relaxed against him, savoring the luxury of a masculine shoulder and the delicious warmth of the sun on her face. Perhaps lulled to sleep by the streaming sunshine absorbed into Graham's dark trousers, the spider didn't stir.

With a jerk of his chin, he gestured toward the meadows and the more distant hills. “Monteith Hall has made me feel—I don't know—English, I suppose, for the first time since my expulsion from Oxford. This place has made me remember all the good things about being English. For a moment I was tempted…truly tempted. But I can't, Moira. I cannot stay.”

Plucking at the turf beside her, she let out a breath of frustrated longing. “Is there no one else to dig up Egyptian treasure?”

“Yes. Hundreds of greedy men roam the deserts, raiding the tombs. That's precisely the point. Ever since Napoleon invaded Africa years ago, men have been whittling away at Egypt's treasures.”

Her hand went still against the small pile of grass she'd shredded. “I'm not sure I understand what you're saying.”

“Have you not seen the exhibit of my finds at the museum?” He chuckled, a sound resonant with irony. “Flashy, isn't it?”

She nodded, baffled.

He stupefied her with a single word. “Worthless.”

“How can that be? The artifacts are said to be priceless.”

“Rubbish. They're trinkets, nothing more.”

Taking this in, she stared off into the distance. Bars of sunlight streamed through lacy clouds and dappled the hillsides. “Trinkets of pure gold and gemstones. And what of the historical worth?”

“Ah.” His voice went soft, thoughtful. He wrapped a lock of her hair around his fingers. “Now you've hit upon it. What I've brought back to England are baubles with very little historical or cultural value at all. Think of a pair of your own earbobs, even your most valuable ones. In a thousand years they might be worth something in a sentimental sort of way, could even end up in some historian's private collection. But in comparison with, say, the crown jewels of England, they'll be of no significance whatsoever.”

“But…” Her mouth worked around gaping incredulity. “What about the jewels you presented at court? The pectoral pendant…the lapis scarabs…the burial mask… And the encrypted tablets.”

“All found in the tombs of wealthy merchants and craftsmen. I believe the tablets were an inventory of a family's holdings.”

“Graham…” His nonchalance sparked a burst of dismay. “You were
knighted
for your discoveries. What if someone should find out?”

“What of it? The knighthood's a moot point now that I've inherited the barony, and they can't strip me of that. I suppose I'd be tossed out of civilized society—again. I'll simply have lived up to my legacy as a cheat and a fraud.”

“You are not a cheat or a fraud. At least not the way people think.” She brushed the hair from his brow with a familiarity she felt she had every right to claim, for something extraordinary was happening here. She suspected that in the entire world, there were precious few people privileged enough to be granted a glimpse of the real Graham Foster. “What are you doing in Egypt that you don't want your fellow Englishmen knowing about?”

“Fellow Europeans, actually.” He continued playing with the ends of her hair while gazing down at the slumbering Isis. “Ever since Napoleon attempted to occupy Egypt, Europeans have been sifting through the sands under the guise of scientific research, without so much as a by-your-leave to the people whose heritage they're stealing. And because Egypt is currently ruled by a Turk, the government is doing precious little to stop the pillage. With the exception of John Wilkinson and very few others, most Egyptologists are a disgrace. No more than plunderers.”

“Where do you fit in?”

“Don't misunderstand.” His voice took on an edge, became almost defensive. “I went to Egypt with the same delusions of grandeur as everyone else. Discover the secrets of the pyramids, find riches, and return to England in a blaze of nose-thumbing glory.”

“And haven't you?”

He pushed a sardonic chuckle through his teeth. “In a manner of speaking, I suppose.”

“What changed?”

“A sheik and his dagger convinced me of the folly of my ways.” A self-conscious smile pulled at his lips. “It was early in my career. I'd stumbled upon hallowed ground, the site of a shrine the Bedouins had been guarding for centuries. And like the arrogant, ignorant European I was, I'd have dismantled the place without a second thought.

“Luckily I was caught, and a man named Hakim al Faruq taught me that Egypt's heritage belongs in Egypt, and Egyptologists, for the most part, do not. Shaun and I have been working these past years to help hide anything of true value by erasing all trails leading to it. Ever hear of a boy king called Tutankhamen?”

“No.”

“And you won't, not if Shaun and I continue to have our way. He and I have been perpetrating one of the greatest ongoing hoaxes ever pulled off. But make no mistake, Moira. Through my so-called philanthropy, I've profited nicely. So stop looking at me like that and don't call me sweet.”

She had, indeed, been about to make that very pronouncement. Dear man, didn't he understand the more cavalier and roguish he tried to appear, the more honorable he became in her eyes? Yet everything he'd just told her convinced her more than ever that he didn't belong here, didn't belong with her. The truth of it squeezed her throat and pricked the backs of her eyes.

She reached for Isis. Awakening before her finger made contact, the spider scurried away over Graham's knee. Then she stopped, turned, and ventured back. Moira opened her palm.

Graham watched her intently. “What on earth? Moira Hughes, you never cease to astonish me.”

“Nor you me.” She shrugged as she conveyed Isis to her lap. “But I suppose it's all a matter of accepting the truth and trusting it. She's harmless. She can't hurt me.”

And neither could Graham Foster remain in her life.

She hadn't realized until now how much she wanted him to stay. All along, without even quite knowing why, she had been searching for signs of honor in this man. Not until this moment had she understood. Honor would be the very thing that drove him away.

And once again, she would be alone…

Graham stared into snapping flames, pensively sipping brandy. At the card table, Moira and her mother sat with their heads together, quietly conferring.

Earlier, while sorting through some of her stepfather's effects stored in the attic, she had come upon a box of letters, an assortment of correspondence from friends, relations, and business associates. Some predated the man's death by mere days.

Estella had warmed to the prospect of settling down at the leather-topped game table to revisit the travels and daily lives of old acquaintances, but even from across the dimly lit distance, Graham caught the quiver in Moira's fingertips as she unfolded each missive. Occasionally her gaze glittered in his direction, her unspoken question plain: would they discover any clue as to Michael Oliphant's role in her stepfather's life?

He lifted his brandy snifter and sipped. The puzzle of Everett Foster's will no longer concerned Moira and her mother alone, nor was it merely about money. Who was this Michael Oliphant, and what hold had he had on Everett Foster that the latter would neglect to secure the future of his own family? Had Smythe known the answer and paid for it with his life? And what of Nigel Foster's death—accidental or intentional?

Then there was Pierson, Smythe's missing secretary. What part did the bespectacled clerk play in this drama? Had he been involved? Of course, his disappearance alone did not signify guilt. He might have run off out of simple fear. Or perhaps he harbored some personal, completely unrelated reason for avoiding a murder investigation.

To ensure the safety of the women, Graham had earlier met with his steward to establish a more rigorous schedule for the footmen. As of this afternoon, the Hall could no longer be taken unawares from any direction. At every possible approach, there would be a man on guard, night and day. Windows and doors heretofore kept blithely unlatched would be secured, with only the terrace and rear garden doors unlocked during the day. He'd been pleased to discover his gamekeeper and under-butler had served in the infantry during the war. Older men of seeming good sense, they'd been well trained in the use of firearms.

Having set the estate in order, he should have set off for London earlier this evening. Yet he'd put off his departure until the morning despite his certainty that returning to the city was not only the logical course, but the wisest.

Wisest for Moira. And for him. Setting his snifter on the oval table beside him, he gained his feet, beginning a restless circuit of the room.

When he had first arrived back in England, he couldn't wait to return to brilliant desert skies and searing adventures. That notion paled now in comparison to feisty admonishments and cheeky observations conveyed with the thrust of a stubborn chin. He smiled. The way Moira took him to task for the smallest trifles stirred his blood as vigorously as setting foot into the booby-trapped catacombs of a cursed tomb.

More so, if the truth be told. And he could lose himself just as easily and irrevocably in the dark mystery of those midnight eyes.

But he'd made a vow, damn it, even if it was virtually at knifepoint. Hakim al Faruq had presented him with a simple choice: make reparations for yourself and your swinish countrymen's transgressions, or die. Even without the blade drawing a thin trickle of blood beside his Adam's apple, Graham agreed the former choice was the nobler, not to mention the more sensible, of the two.

At the time, his future in England had lain in waste. A lie about which student had copied the other's work, and the cowardice that prevented others from taking sides against a powerful duke's son, had destroyed any prospects Graham had had.

But neither had he envisioned, in those few choked seconds beneath Hakim's dagger, the serenity of evenings spent in the spacious drawing room of a country manor, in the presence of two charming ladies, the elder of whom had captured his heart in the space of an afternoon. Her daughter meanwhile…

He retrieved his brandy and welcomed the liquid burn in his mouth. As he drank, he studied Moira's profile, his gaze tracing the curve of her nape as she poured over the contents of a letter. Suddenly her head turned. She caught his eye and gave an infinitesimal shake of the head that summed up tonight's search thus far: nothing.

He strode to a window, not from any interest in the view outside, but because he couldn't risk letting her read his expression. He was glad she'd found nothing. He wanted her out of this. Out of danger. His biggest fear now was she would insist on returning to London with him. He could already hear her arguments: a woman possessed no less integrity, courage, ability, and whatever else, than a man. All well and good in theory, he supposed. But not when people were dying.

He pressed a fist to the windowpane. Blazing hell, every notion about himself, every plan—shot to hell by that woman. He wasn't supposed to care this much. He was a blackguard. A rogue. Not sweet at all, really.

Moira, Moira. She'd sent his world spinning on end that morning, grabbing him, kissing him, and starting him rethinking the only truly admirable commitment he'd ever made in his life.

Not that a woman like Moira wouldn't be worth a host of broken promises. If only he could be sure he would measure up to the kind of man she deserved. Yes, he'd undergone changes since she had entered his life, but were those changes enough to undo a decade of rash living and a staunch belief in no one but himself?

Enough to settle him into the sort of a family man she so desperately wanted? A man, for instance, like the one she was supposed to have married?

Those notions hounded his dreams later that night, until a tap at his bedroom door startled him from sleep. As he sat up, the door opened, spilling the flickering candlelight across the floor.

“Has there been a disturbance?” he demanded of the faceless figure behind the glare. By the abruptness of the intrusion, he feared one of his footmen had spied something or someone suspicious on the grounds. He reached for his dressing gown at the foot of the bed.