Must Have Been The Moonlight (8 page)

“Perfect!” Her work forgotten, Brianna held the spray of flowers to her nose. “I’ll join you.”

Without a word to the uniformed guard who stood outside the consulate chambers, Michael stopped at the desk to retrieve his pith helmet. Sheikh Omar stood with his assemblage of bodyguards, talking to the undersecretary, his dark eyes triumphant as they slid over Michael.

His boots making a
clip-clip
sound on the polished wooden floor didn’t slow as Michael passed the flamboyant retinue.

He wasn’t surprised that Omar had filed the grievance against him. They’d danced these steps before. The sheikh could rot as far as he was concerned. His job didn’t rest on his popularity with the European consortium that seemed to have descended on Cairo in the last decade, especially since the opening of the Suez Canal last year. The British did not rule Egypt. Not yet, anyway.

Michael worked for the khedive in a diplomatic exchange, and ultimately the foreign secretary’s office in London. In mutual government cooperation between the two respective countries, and because the khedive was interested in securing British bank money, Michael’s job had come about as Egypt attempted to push out of the dark ages. Banishing
slavery and seeking to end the lucrative hashish trade had been the first sign of the khedive’s goodwill. The push, Michael soon realized, was more show than any serious desire to end either practice. He had become disillusioned with the fight. Slavery was too ingrained in the culture. Over the past year, his job had turned into one of eternal policeman as one caravan after another was plundered. His only goal now was to find those responsible for Captain Pritchards’s murder, for in doing that he knew he would also find the men responsible for the murders of countless others.

His white pith helmet tucked beneath his arm, Michael took the stairs. The consulate was crowded, as usual. He slowed and finally came to a halt. The current Public Works minister was awaiting his descent. Standing with his elbow on the newel post, Sir Christopher Donally wore a tailored white linen suit and a loosely knotted green tie.

Michael let no man fight his battles. But he recognized what Donally was doing for him by being here today.

“Sheikh Omar and his bodyguards went upstairs a few moments ago.” Donally’s gaze lifted to the landing. “But then, there were only four of them. So I thought I’d give the situation another five minutes.”

“You left your military calling too soon.”

“I heeded my calling,” Donally replied. “I’m finished.”

“The Crimean, Tangier, India. You were seriously wounded in ’fifty-eight.”

“You’ve investigated me.” Donally didn’t seem too pleased.

Michael’s mouth turned up at one corner. “I’ve done my best.”

“Would you care for a drink?”

They walked into a room off the parlor. In the corner, two men in uniform lounged over a game of chess. A cloud of cigarette smoke hovered in the room, and Michael regretted that he had not brought along his tin of peppermints.

Donally took coffee from the servant. Michael waited for brandy.

“You’ve investigated me. Why?” Donally asked.

“Prudence.”

The servant returned with a snifter of brandy.

“And what did your prudence unearth?”

Michael peered at Donally over the lip of his glass. Brianna’s brother had earned himself more than a reputation as a hard-nosed administrator. “You’re an excellent civil engineer. Egypt’s illustrious khedive practically created the Department of Public Works just to give you a place in his ministry.”

Michael hadn’t been surprised that someone with Donally’s aptitude for disagreeing with public policy had managed to antagonize most of his European neighbors, but he had been surprised to learn how revered he was among the local fellaheen. If Michael didn’t know anything else about the man, that alone gave him cause to respect the Irishman. As well as trust him.

“Your wife is an honorary professor in archeology and is currently authoring a book documenting the Coptic history in Egypt.”

Donally raised a brow and listened patiently as Michael detailed other aspects of his life.

“You came to Egypt to escape the clutches of your powerful father-in-law and the scandal that ensued after you married his daughter.”

“Aristocracy is overrated.”

Michael braced an elbow on the mantel. A gilded framed mirror hung above the fireplace. “A sentiment your sister shares.”

“My sister is a fervent devotee to social reform.”

“It must run in the family.”

Donally didn’t reply. After a moment, he drank his coffee. “I hope I’ve been removed from your list of suspects?”

Michael could see the adjoining parlor reflected in the mirror. From someplace in the low din of noise surrounding him, he registered a familiar voice. “You have been.” He turned toward the parlor.

Lady Bess was greeting a couple across the hall. As he watched, Michael was vaguely aware that Donally had struck up a conversation with the two men who’d been playing chess and had now joined him at the fireplace. But Michael wasn’t listening. Everything inside him had come to a standstill.

Brianna Donally stood with her back to him. He was so accustomed to her in voluminous robes, the shock to his system of seeing her in a form-fitting gown jolted him. Her dark upswept hair had been only half tamed beneath a pert hat with a feather that swept her chin. His gaze easing down the formidable length of pearl buttons at her spine, he knew in that moment why her name had become a topic among the men who gathered in salons over their brandy and cigars. Her cerulean skirts accentuating the deep curve of her waist flared at the hips, and he was aware of a keen sense of anticipation as she turned. The cup she’d raised to her lips froze as her gaze slammed into his—the contact so powerful it was like a physical force against him.

Her eyes dropped down the length of him. Khaki breeches and a tailored uniform jacket topped off his uniform, his leather knee boots giving him more height. Yet, for all of his civilized appearance, beneath his formal facade there was nothing civil inside him as his gaze went over her face, her breasts, her stomach, traveling lower as he remembered the itch of his fingers to touch the wet heat between her thighs. She radiated warmth and fairly vibrated with sexual appeal.

It was there in the feminine curves of her body, the animation that gave her garments life, the tilt of her full lips. Sipping from his glass, his mouth curved into an appreciative grin as she boldly let him look his fill, only the slight tremble in her hand hinting that it was no accident that she’d found him here.

He admired that about her. Her determination. Her willingness to pursue what she wanted. He’d been pleased by her recovery from the ordeal she’d suffered. Except, she was out of her element with him—even if she didn’t know it, he
did. She had no idea the hole she was digging for herself, and he wasn’t a saint who would deny himself forever.

Then her provocative gaze casually touched the man standing next to him, who Michael now realized was taking in more than her presence. And as if seeing her brother for the first time, she choked on the tea.

Nearly spewing into the cup, she whirled back to her companion, who had been talking to her about one of the oil paintings on the wall. A faint smile cornered Michael’s lips—until Donally turned to look at him, his blue eyes like chips of ice.

The two men who had joined him earlier were gone. He’d not only been oblivious to their departure, but had been caught flagrantly undressing this man’s sister. His mind contained carnal thoughts, and Donally had read it in his eyes, as well as the lack of apology in his stance. Brianna was a big girl. If she wanted to play with the big boys, who was he to play Saint Michael?

“If you will excuse me, Major Fallon,” Donally said.

With no change in his expression, Michael turned to the mirror, a quiet oath on his lips. Finishing off the brandy, he watched the Irishman make a straight line toward his sister.

“Would you care for more coffee?” Charles Cross asked.

Brianna automatically handed him her empty cup. Her shoulders had tensed. She turned to the watercolor he had been admiring, breathing evenly, knowing Christopher was on his way toward her.

How could she have been so blind as not to see her own brother standing next to Major Fallon? She gritted her teeth. “You know a lot about lighting and colors,” she commented inanely, observing the mist-shrouded spires that dotted the landscape as if it were a Monet. Leaning closer, she saw that she was looking at a temple, and realized why Mr. Cross was so intent on the watercolor.

“It’s a Coptic temple,” he said. “I wanted you to see it. As I told you, I’ve an interest in research myself. I would very
much like to go with you the next time you do a camera shoot.”

Brianna looked at him. Charles Cross had been considerate to her all morning. He’d not deserved her inattentiveness. She turned to tell him as much, but he was looking over her shoulder, a subtle shift of light in his eyes. Then a commotion on the stairway caught her attention.

The consul general had conveniently waylaid Christopher at the bottom of the stairway. The visiting dignitary, the khedive’s cousin, ablaze with jewels, stood beside them, sufficiently bored in a circle of men who seemed to vie for his attention. Yet, as if sensing her interest, he shifted his gaze and found her in the crowd. This man had filed the complaint against Major Fallon. A chill went down her spine.

Brianna promptly turned her back to him.

“I assume that you’ll be going home with your brother?” Mr. Cross handed her cup back to a footman.

She sensed Christopher nearby. Poor Mr. Cross wilted. Used to the reaction, she was annoyed that her whole family seemed intent on destroying her social life. “We’ll talk on Thursday,” she said to him. “I’m looking forward to reading the research books.”

“I will have them ready.” He bowed over her gloved hand. “Sir Christopher,” he said, nervously greeting her brother.

Together she and Christopher observed Charles Cross’s departure before turning to face each other. “I have a meeting to attend,” he said.

Her brother had never referred to the time she’d spent beneath the blanket with Major Fallon during the sandstorm. But she knew he’d seen it, and it was between them now. Brianna’s chin lifted. She was sick to death of being made to feel shame when she hadn’t even done anything.

Yet
.

“I won’t be long,” he said. “I’ll see you home afterward.”

With that edict, her mouth flattened. She watched him walk up the stairs, and waited until he was out of sight before crossing the corridor into the other room.

The place was empty.

Her hand went to her hip. Unlike the other rooms in the consulate, this one was darkly paneled and filled with oil paintings. The place smelled of tobacco. How could she have missed Major Fallon’s departure?

It didn’t help that she was acutely aware of her boorish behavior when it came to this man. “Bloody hell.”

“Such language for a lady.”

Brianna spun around toward the masculine voice. Major Fallon leaned with deceptive laziness, his strong arms crossed, almost behind the door. She’d passed him coming into the room. It was also clear that he’d been waiting for her.

“Miss Donally.” He inclined his head.

She straightened her shoulders, and felt the pull of her fitted jacket against her breasts. “Major.”

The air fairly crackled with electricity.

She couldn’t be near him without experiencing a whole range of agitated emotions. His eyes told her she was foolhardy for coming in here. They told her other things as well. Things no true gentleman would ever allow a lady to see.

A nervous laugh escaped her. “I wanted to see you. I mean, I’d heard that you’d tried to shoot a sheikh in the head and thought to lend you my support.” She set her hands on the back of a chair. “That kind of discussion probably occurs a lot in your line of business.”

The corners of his mouth lifted a fraction. “I usually don’t waste energy on discussion first. But sometimes I find it necessary to engage an opponent’s intentions.”

“You left without saying good-bye,” she said quietly.

“I thought the understanding we’d reached said more than enough.”

I never play for anything halfway, Miss Donally.

“Maybe you didn’t say enough,” she said.

She felt his attention on her. “Are you sure that you really want to go there, Brianna?”

She looked past his sensuous mouth to his silver eyes. Brianna knew she was dancing a perilous waltz, as if she’d
danced to this music all of her life. She was caught by the novelty that he wasn’t the least intimidated by her. His eyes still on her, he deliberately shut the door, his gaze instantly enclosing her in a familiar sense of intimacy. The challenge, though unspoken, was there as he approached. He was the only man she’d ever met who shared the same aptitude as her for social disobedience.

Confident that she had given him the opening he needed, she was conscious of the warm sense of being in his presence. He looked well. “How have you been, Major Fallon? Busy, I’m sure.”