Mr Impossible (50 page)

But he wasn’t
a lesser man, and a strong woman was exactly what he wanted. A
strong, wondrously curved woman who fit perfectly in his arms. He
dipped his head and drew his tongue down the opening of her
kamees
and along the fragrant path between her breasts. She sighed and
dragged her fingers through his hair.

He slid his hand
over the beautiful swell of her bottom. She moved under his touch,
shifting closer. He grasped that magnificent derriere and brought her
sex firmly against his. And stifled a groan.

“
You’ll
hurt yourself,” she murmured against his mouth.

“
That wasn’t
a groan of pain,” he said.

He was aware of the
wound. Every movement caused a twinge. He didn’t care. She was
all soft woman and in his arms, and in his mouth and his nostrils and
he was drunk with the taste and scent of her… and she’d
said she couldn’t live properly without him. She’d said
yes.

“
We mustn’t
tear the stitches,” she said.

“
Then we’d
better not move very much.”

“
Is that
possible?”

“
Yes.”
He stroked down her belly, over the thin fabric. He loosened the
waist string of her trousers and pushed them down. He stroked over
the feathery curls and the soft flesh, so warm and wet, so ready and
willing. She sighed and moved against his hand. She pushed his shirt
up to his waist. His rod sprang up in cheerful welcome, as usual.
With a soft laugh, she grasped it and drew her slim fingers down its
length. Then she shifted herself, bringing her leg up high on his
thigh, and guided him in, and the jolt of pleasure in that joining
took his breath away.

They scarcely moved
at all. Awareness became all the more intense. He was aware each time
her muscles tensed about him and eased, and of the very slight motion
of her hip that sent waves of pleasure coursing through him. He was
aware of her hands, gliding over him, and making long trails of
sparks over his skin.

He opened his eyes
and looked at her, and they smiled at each other in silent, wicked
amusement, the devil in him recognizing the devil in her. And so they
lay, watching each other, making secret love, while from outside came
the familiar sounds of footsteps on the deck, voices calling out as
they prepared to land.

A long sweet while
of rippling pleasure ensued, like the Nile rippling beneath them, and
then he was caught in a rushing current. She grasped him tightly,
holding him still, while she moved upon him. The world went dark and
wild, and he fell into it, into her, and all he knew was feeling
beyond any words, a vast, mad happiness.

Then came her voice
in his ear: “I give myself to thee. I give myself to thee. I
give myself to thee.”

And at last she
sank onto him, and he wrapped his arms about her and savored the
delicious peace. The stray, funny thought came:
we’re married
, and he laughed out loud.

Epilogue

Contents
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IN LATE JULY,
FOLLOWING A LONG AND STORM-tossed voyage from Egypt, two
representatives of Muhammad Ali arrived at Hargate House and
presented his lordship with the news of his fourth son’s
untimely demise, along with a handsome chest containing the skull of
his killer.

The rest of the
family being in the country at the time, Lord Hargate was obliged to
bear the news with silent and exceedingly lonely dignity.

Not wishing all the
world to know before his wife did, his lordship mentioned the matter
to nobody. He simply set out a few hours later for Derbyshire, to
break the news in person.

He stopped only to
allow the horses to be changed. He never slept. He had taken the
chest containing the skull with him. He did not know why. This was
one of the rare occasions of the earl’s life when he was lost,
quite lost.

He arrived at the
house at the moment Benedict was leaving. The eldest son took one
look at his parent’s face and turned around and went back in
with him.

Lord Hargate led
his wife out into the garden and told her in a few broken words.

She said only,
“No,” and folded her hands tightly at her waist, and
turned away and stared dry-eyed into the distance.

Benedict asked to
see the letter. His father gave it to him, then put his arm about his
wife’s shoulders.

Benedict left them
and went inside to read the letter. The house was strangely quiet, as
though the servants, who’d not yet been informed, sensed a
catastrophe.

It reminded him of
the oppressive silence in his own house after his wife’s death
two years ago. He’d felt numb, then, too.

Hearing carriage
wheels and hoofbeats coming up the drive—at a gallop by the
sounds of it—Benedict went to the window. It was a handsome
traveling chariot.

Waving the servants
aside, he went out to intercept it. His parents were not in a state
to receive visitors. Still, Lord Hargate might be wanted on urgent
government business—and anyway Benedict needed something to do.

He arrived at the
front of the house a moment after the carriage clattered to a stop.

Before he could
start toward it, the door flung open, and a man leapt out… and
grinned at him.

His brother.

His dead brother.

Rupert.

Benedict blinked
once. This, from him, was a sign of overpowering emotion.

“
You’re
not dead,” he said as Rupert strode toward him.

“
Certainly
not,” Rupert said, giving him one of his enthusiastic brotherly
hugs.

Benedict, still in
the grip of strong feeling, patted him on the shoulder.

“
Whatever
gave you the idea I was dead?” Rupert said when these first
transports were over.

Benedict explained
about the two emissaries from Muhammad Ali and the condolence letter
from the English consul general and the chest with the head in it.

Rupert brushed this
aside. “They are ridiculously slow about everything. I daresay
the emissaries came to London after visiting all the brothels between
Alexandria and Portsmouth. My letter to Father is probably coming by
way of Patagonia. But never mind. His lordship will cheer up
wonderfully when he sees what I’ve brought him.”

“
No exotic
animals, I hope,” said Benedict. “He will tell you his
family is menagerie enough.”

“
It isn’t
an exotic animal,” Rupert said.

“
No mummies,”
said Benedict. “Mother dislikes the smell.”

“
As do I,”
Rupert said. “It isn’t a mummy.”

“
I refuse to
play guessing games,” Benedict said. “You may tell me or
not at your leisure. I, meanwhile, had better go in ahead and prepare
our parents for your resurrection.” He turned away.

“
It’s a
wife,” Rupert said.

Benedict turned
back. “Whose wife?” he said.

Rupert had never,
to his knowledge, made off with anyone’s wife before, but there
was no predicting what Rupert would do, especially in a foreign
country where wives usually came in the plural rather than the
singular. Rupert might think this sheik or that bey could spare one.

“
She’s
mine,” Rupert said. Dropping his voice, he added, “I’ve
got her in the carriage.”

Benedict had
forgotten everything else in his astonishment at seeing his
supposedly dead brother. Now, directing his attention to the
carriage, he observed an occupant. A woman, bent over a book.

He turned back to
Rupert. “She’s reading,” Benedict said. “A
book.”

“
Yes, she
reads heaps of them,” Rupert said. “Most aren’t
even in English. She’s a brilliant scholar.”

“
A
what
?”

“
Her brain is
simply enormous,” Rupert confided. “But Father won’t
care about her intelligence.”

“
Beyond being
amazed that any woman who had any would marry you,” Benedict
said.

“
Yes, it is
amazing,” Rupert said. “But that isn’t the funniest
part.” He lowered his voice to a whisper. “She’s
an
heiress
.”

Once more, Benedict
blinked. He was aware that his father had told Alistair, his third
son, and Darius, the fifth, to find well-dowered brides, because he
refused to keep them forever. But Rupert, who came between them, was
excused, on grounds that no rational person would give a fortune into
his keeping.

“
An heiress,”
Benedict said. “Well, I am very glad for you.”

“
Oh, I don’t
care about it,” Rupert said. “You know I’ve no
notion of money. But I can’t wait to see Father’s face
when I tell him.”

Postscript

SOME HOURS LATER,
after the bride and groom had retired to their assigned apartments,
their eldest son joined Lord and Lady Hargate once more in the
garden.

“
Well, well,”
said his lordship. “It appears some unfortunate assassin got
his head cut off for nothing.”

“
And the
prodigal son returns triumphant,” said Benedict. “Married.
To Cousin Tryphena’s brilliant and handsome young widow friend.
The one with the handsome fortune.” He smiled a very little.
Smiles had never come as easily to him as to Rupert, and less easily
still in the last two years.

“
Tryphena
will be delighted,” said her ladyship.

“
I had
wondered why you sent him toEgypt, of all places,” Benedict
said.

His father merely
rifted an eyebrow.

“
Well, I am
happy for him,” Benedict said. “They suit each other very
well, and naturally, the end justifies the means. At any rate, he’s
settled at last. Now you may give your full attention to Darius.”

With that he took
his usual distant leave.

His parents stood
looking after him.

“
Not Darius,
I think,” said Lady Hargate.

“
No,”
said his lordship. “Not Darius.”

In August,
Jean-Claude Duval boarded a ship bound forFrance. He took with him
seventy-five cases of antiquities he’d collected in recent
years. Since he failed to include the troublesome papyrus (and
certain other objects) on the list provided to the customs officials
atAlexandria, no one could be sure whether in fact he had finally
obtained it. It was known only that the papyrus did not find a home
in the Louvre, and the ship carrying him and his collection was lost
in a storm off the coast ofMalta.