Authors: Caroline Richards
The Deepest Sin (5 page)
“Rushford and Rowena did warn me about your irreverence, among other things,” she said, shaking her head, trying to look disapproving. “All the more reason why you don't want to hear me go on about ancient tablets carved in the Ptolemaic era.”
“I shall impress you with my surprising erudition, then,” he said, feigning affront, ready to squander half his fortune to see another radiant smile from Meredith Woolcott. “Where best to begin?”
“You are playing with me, Lord Archer. I know very well that you helped Rushford save the tablets from being stolen from the British Museum.”
“Ahh, but you see, I know much more.” He waggled his brows impressively. “I know that half a century ago Napoleon's scientists and scholars first discovered the stone on this very spot. Which brings you here today, does it not?”
“It does indeed. I needed to see the area where the stone was discovered, to ascertain for myself whether any other remnants remained. Not that I expected to uncover anything of importance,” she continued. “I'm well aware that both the French and the British, not to mention numerous scholars and archeologists, have since scoured the area.”
“But your investigations here give your paper a certain weight, I suspect.”
“That's quite perceptive of you, Lord Archer.”
“For a philistine, you mean.”
She laughed outright then, the sound uninhibited and free in the night air. “I don't think you are entirely indifferent to matters of intellect, sir. Although I must confess, I think you are more comfortable on your horse or
The Brigand
than in the hushed confines of a library.” Rushford and Rowena had, of course, told her of their journey on his yacht,
The Brigand
, and perhaps of his penchant for sailing. And his inability to stay in one place for more than a month.
The Brigand
than in the hushed confines of a library.” Rushford and Rowena had, of course, told her of their journey on his yacht,
The Brigand
, and perhaps of his penchant for sailing. And his inability to stay in one place for more than a month.
He bowed his head mockingly. “Thank you for that small crumb at least.” He reached for the leather bag and extracted a thin wool blanket. Without asking permission, he tossed it over her legs. “It gets cold in the desert at night.”
Her hands stopped in midair, ready to intercept the blanket. “But what about you? Here, it's big enough that we may share it. If you will come closer ...”
The invitation was all crisp efficiency and Archer swore silently, aware that she was not in the least discomfited by their proximity and that he was. The knowledge rankled.
“Let's not stand on ceremony.” She had moved closer to him and her hands briskly made short work of distributing the blanket across both their legs.
Archer cleared his throat. “Entirely unnecessary, Lady Woolcott.”
“Nonsense. I insist.”
“You were telling me about the stone and the implications of its inscriptions,” he pressed on. Anything to take his attention away from the slender length of her, the warmth burning beneath the blanket they now shared.
“You've seen it at the British Museum, of course.”
“I believe I was dragged there at some time by a tutor,” he said, suddenly inclined to let his mind wander back to the sour Mr. Athrop and his Latin declensions.
Meredith rested her hands on the top of the blanket. “You were a challenge, I don't doubt, and kept your tutors busy.”
“And you were quite the opposite, I take it.”
“My father was a scholar of ancient languages and it was he who first told me about the Rosetta stone. He in turn had studied philology at Cambridge and subsequently with the orientalist Jean-François Champollion, who was credited as the principal translator of the hieroglyphs.”
“Fascinating,” he said.
“I trust I'm not boring you,” she said, challenge in her voice.
“Not at all. And what did Champollion ultimately discover? I can't recall what my tutor had to say regarding the matter.”
“You were clearly not paying attention to your lessons, Archer.”
“I was not the most tractable pupil.”
“I can well imagine. The attention span of a flea, no doubt.”
“Give me a moment,” he said, putting his hands behind his head and looking up into the night sky, away from her. “Something about a tax amnesty, if I recall correctly.”
“Very good,” she said. “The text comprises twenty paragraphs and speaks of a tax amnesty given to the temple priests of the day, restoring the tax privileges that they had traditionally enjoyed in more ancient times.” She paused. “But more importantly, the translation served as the template that allowed us to see into the minds and the culture of the ancients. Once we knew their languages, a whole world was opened to us.”
For better or for worse, he wanted to say. “And your paper?”
She gave him only her profile before she continued. “Hieroglyphics remained a mystery for hundreds of years, even though many people tried to translate the language. In my paper I should like to elucidate Champollion's process, taking a closer look at the three sections of the stone with writing upon it. It is essentially one message written in three languages, hieroglyphics first, then Demotic and then Greek.”
“One thing I do recall in the recesses of my memory is that after the Roman Empire expanded into Egypt, the hieroglyphic language was abandoned completely in favor of Greek and Latin.”
Meredith looked impressed. “Sadly, yes.”
“Very interesting, Lady Woolcott.”
She turned to face him, her eyebrows arching. “I am too old to be mocked.”
“Mocking you? Surely not,” he said, angling his body toward her. “But you are hardly too old.” The desert was silent, too dry to support crickets or bullfrogs. A wiser man would do nothing. He would relinquish the blanket and sleep under the stars, moving away from temptation.
“I am six and thirty, far too old,” she said without a trace of vanity. “In any case, I shall desist. Enough talk of hieroglyphics.”
“Then I shall leave the choice of topic up to you, Lady Woolcott.”
She paused awkwardly, as though noticing for the first time the fact of the proximity of the lower halves of their bodies. “I don't suppose we have much in common. I don't sail. I don't gamble. And until recently, have not had much opportunity to travel outside the Continent.”
“My life, shallow as it is, appears an open book.”
She gave a small puff of derision. He closed his eyes for a moment, wishing to prolong the moment. A stretched silence followed, replete with unspoken thoughts. Experience had taught him that silence was oftentimes more effective than a battery of questions, albeit mightily uncomfortable. He was rewarded a moment later when she asked softly, perhaps more to herself than to him, “Are you concerned?”
“About what?” He opened his eyes to see her hand stealing into her pocket to extract her pistol. She laid it carefully on her lap, atop the blanket.
“That they may return.”
“I sincerely doubt it,” he said, his voice a low timbre. “They could not do much in the dark, and we have the advantage. This is the remnants of a fort, after all.” He deliberately lightened his tone, watching her eyes darken.
“I trust that you are right.”
“Why not sleep awhile, Lady Woolcott?”
“Meredith,” she countered. “We are acquainted after all.”
“Meredith,” he said, watching as she handed her pistol to him. He carefully laid it against the wall with his own, then reached across to her in what he told himself was a bid to comfort. It was an ill-judged gesture because something odd happened when his skin touched hers. Time slowed and his mind worked not at all, only his senses, as he very deliberately traced the contour of her palm.
It was difficult to ascertain how long the silence lasted. They stared at each other, Meredith's color spreading from her cheeks to her throat. Her eyes darted about, searching behind him, emotion skittering across her features. She was barely breathing, lush lashes lowering over her eyes. He expected her to pull away, but instead she brought one hand up to trace his cheek, her fingers disturbingly gentle, brushing away a streak of sand.
Archer froze as her finger traced the stubble that cut across his jawline. A shadow of a beard, slightly rough on either side of his mouth, pulled at the softness of her skin. Suddenly, any attempt at humor, at lightening the situation, was doomed. The scent of lavender and lemon verbena filled his nostrils, making him want to inhale more deeply.
She still had powder streaks on her face, dusting her right cheek, almost but not quite obscuring a spray of freckles across her nose. When her finger completed its journey, she let her hand drop to rest on her lap, fingers splayed out. He exhaled audibly and brought his lips down to cover hers.
Â
It was a simple kiss. Chaste even, their lips briefly meeting. They both broke away at the same instant, separated for a heartbeat, their breaths mingling while the sliver of the moon watched overhead. Then his mouth descended again and this time, his lips were slow and hot. And not at all what Meredith had expected. Her own desperation came over her like a clap of thunder. He tasted of the brandy they had consumed together, sweet and powerful. His hands closed about her waist and she went utterly still, savoring the moment, allowing her tongue to dart out to meet his. He teased the soft edge of the inside of her lips, the sleekness of her tongue.
She kept her mind deliberately blank, wondering what she was doing, succumbing to this urgency that was only a mask for her fear. She had loved this once, she knew. The feeling of a man's hands, the way he tasted, the hardness of his body, the heat of his mouth. But this was not real, far from real. She did not know Lord Richard Buckingham Archer, did not want to know him; didn't trust him with a fibre of her being. But at the moment, it didn't matter as long as sensation blotted out the past and the future and left her with only the present.
He caressed her throat, his lips sliding along the curve of her chin to nestle in the hollow of her collarbone. Her nipples budded, impatient against the stiff fabric of her stays and the ebony fastenings of her riding jacket. Heat pooled in her abdomen, a heavy ache that throbbed in time with her blood. She nipped at his lips, urging him on, wanting more. He slipped a hand beneath the blankets to cup her bottom, pulling her hips up hard against him, forcing her fists to tightly clutch the linen of his jacket. His arms beneath her palms were iron, as was the ridge of his erection riding against her stomach.
When they'd first been introduced at Montfort, she'd felt the thin veneer of control she'd cultivated for the last eighteen years of her life crack like a mirror. Her reflectionâher understanding of herselfâhad shattered in that instant. He was tall, imposing, with black hair, and eyes an incongruous cornflower blue over a bold nose and hard jaw. As he stood in the great hall of the house that had been in her family for generations, she'd wished she'd been the type to give him a practiced, flirtatious smile, welcoming him to her home, but easy feminine ways had never come readily to her. That she should find him compelling was incomprehensible, this man who smelled of the outdoors, of the sea, and whose forceful masculinity caused the bottom to drop out of her stomach whenever he entered a room.
This was madness. It had to be. Breathing in his scent, a part of her said that she was simply reacting to the shock. She had killed a man. Something primal had clawed its way through her, past the rational, logical self-possession that had kept her and her loved ones safe for so long. She certainly had not been looking for rescue. And certainly not by Lord Archer, who had left Montfort without a backward glance a day after the wedding of Rowena and Rushford. As though he couldn't get away fast enough.
And yet, she burned for him.
No, that was not right
. She burned for herself, lost for nearly twenty years and brought back to life at this moment. His hand went to the ebony fastenings of her jacket, slipping one button loose. She inhaled sharply, her whole body tightening, shaking. She rested her forehead against his, keeping her arms loosely around his neck. She felt his thumb trace slow circles over her throat, comforting and arousing at the same time.
No, that was not right
. She burned for herself, lost for nearly twenty years and brought back to life at this moment. His hand went to the ebony fastenings of her jacket, slipping one button loose. She inhaled sharply, her whole body tightening, shaking. She rested her forehead against his, keeping her arms loosely around his neck. She felt his thumb trace slow circles over her throat, comforting and arousing at the same time.
She shivered, desire flooding her limbs. With difficulty, she steadied the hands that stroked the stubble of his chin. It was too tempting to lose herself in such a moment, too easy to drown in sensation, too agonizing to resurface and contemplate her reality. A woman whose youth was well behind her and who had lived most of her years in the shadows should not be allowing this, the last sane corner of her mind, dictated. She told herself to break his hold, but her body would not comply. Her arms remained around his neck, one hand locked in the thickness of his hair, never wishing to let go.
Above their heads the moon had risen to its full height in the sky. The silence of the ancient land surrounding them was all-encompassing save for his deep breath as he raised his head from hers and moved back a fraction. Her eyes opened fully, her arms trailing reluctantly across his shoulders, down the hard wall of his chest. It was her turn to take a breath, pulling herself back under control.
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