Call Back Yesterday

***

J. A. Ferguson



Until recently, she’d never met him, so why did

everything about him, even his touch, seem so familiar?

Darcy was not sure whether to shiver at the brush of

Simon’s breath or melt into the heat that rushed through

her. Beneath his mustache, the hint of a smile urged her to

lower even more the wall of propriety he had breached.

His full lips would certainly be as fiery as his touch. Even

as she watched, the coolness in his eyes warmed to the

heat pulsating from his fingers. His other hand rose to cup

her cheek, setting her skin alight, as if the sun had suddenly

risen and sent its rays through the garden. Slowly her hand

rose to cover his.

“There is so much to say. I—” Simon jerked his hand

away from her face. Blinking, he abruptly looked down at

his fingers on her sleeve. He lifted them away, first one,

then another. Almost as if he could not bear to release her.

“Good evening, Miss Kincaid.”

She eased back from him, frightened of how the very

brush of his skin against her had undone every lesson she

had ever been taught. Alone with a man—her employer—

she should have been on her guard against any untoward

behavior. Rather, she had let him snare her in his seductive

trap with what should have been a chaste touch, albeit one

that overstepped the bounds of propriety.

But his indecorous actions were not the real reason

she was so unsteady she had to grasp the back of a nearby

chair to keep herself on her feet. It was the very knowing

how wondrous his fingers would be upon her . . .



For Jaclyn DiBona

Because you’ve loved the others

Other books

by J. A. Ferguson

Dream Chronicles Series:

Dreamsinger

Dreamshaper

DreamMaster

Dream Traveler

(Coming in 2003)

Timeless Shadows

My Lord Viking

Daughter of the Fox



Call Back Yesterday

***

J. A. Ferguson



CALL BACK YESTERDAY

Published by ImaJinn Books, a division of ImaJinn

Copyright ©2002 by Jo Ann Ferguson

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form

or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or

otherwise) without prior written permission of both the copyright holder

and the above publisher of this book, except by a reviewer, who may

quote brief passages in a review. For information, address: ImaJinn

Books, a division of ImaJinn, P.O. Box 545, Canon City CO 812150545;

or call toll free 1-877-625-3592.

Trade Size Paperback ISBN: 1-893896-75-7

Adobe PDF Format: No ISBN Assigned

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PUBLISHER’S NOTE:

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents

are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any

resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is

entirely coincidental.

Books are available at quantity discounts when used to promote products

or services. For information please write to: Marketing Division, ImaJinn

Books, P.O. Box 545, Canon City CO 81215-0545, or call toll free 1-

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Cover design by Patricia Lazarus

ImaJinn Books, a division of ImaJinn

P.O. Box 545, Canon City CO 81215-0545

Toll Free: 1-877-625-3592

http://www.imajinnbooks.com



One

O! Call back yesterday, bid time return

William Shakespeare—Richard II

~~~ Meskhenet lived within a lotus-scented palace.

Only the sweetest oils touched her face, and her bodyslaves

entertained her with dance and song. The eye of Ra

reflected back from the pool in her private garden while

she listened to the river’s whisper, telling of its long journey

from the center of darkness.

She watched the sailboats slip past, coming and going.

Once, a barge filled with exotic animals from beyond the

farthest falls had stopped at the palace. Her father, who

had been Pharaoh before taking his place on the right hand

of Ra, had let the wild cats roam their own garden where

the household could admire them from the walls.

The reeds rattled beside the water. Meskhenet tensed,

hoping it was not a crocodile, although there had been

none seen here since one dared to swallow a cat alive. The

curse invoked by the priests who held the mîw sacred had

been carried out by the palace’s guards. For weeks, the

aroma of crocodile flesh filled the temples within the palace

and in the Valley of Thoth across the river.

Meskhenet’s eyes widened when a man emerged from

the reeds. Across his bare chest, sweat gleamed as brightly

as the jeweled belt holding his kirtle. A bead collar accented

his muscular chest. He was no priest, for his ebony hair

dropped to his shoulders. Never had Meskhenet seen such

a handsome man. Never had her heart beat within her breast

with such fervor. Yet she did not know this man’s name.

He glanced toward her and . . . ~~~

***

Darcy Kincaid grimaced. Her pen had skittered across

the page as the coach splashed through another puddle.

She should know better than to try to write on a road pocked



with chuckholes. While she had taken the train from

London and then the public coach to the inn where she

had been met by this elegant carriage, she had made no

attempt to write the story Jaddeh had told her so often.

She had not seen her beloved grandmother in over fifteen

years, but, if all went well, Darcy soon would visit the

village where Jaddeh had spun her tales, including the

story of Meskhenet, the Pharaoh’s daughter. Of all the

stories Darcy remembered, that story was her favorite,

which was why she struggled for each detail.

She put her hand on her bodice. Beneath the sedate

lace of her cream blouse, which peeked over the collar of

her simple, dark red jacket, was the necklace she kept

hidden. Her fingers rubbed the small rectangle pendant

which would not be considered de rigueur in 1873. The

vow she had made the day she left Egypt would come true

when she returned to the hot, vibrant land where she had

been born. No one, especially her maternal grandmother,

Lady Kincaid, would halt her.

She closed the nearly empty ink bottle and put it back

into the lap desk. Shutting the desk, she set it in the smaller

bag she was bringing to Rosewood Hall. Grandmother

Kincaid would be shocked to see her only grandchild now.

Her pledge to disown Darcy would resound throughout

her home in Regency Park. Darcy did not want her

grandmother’s family heirlooms or her money. The cost

was denying half of her heritage.

Who would have guessed Jaddeh’s tales of ancient

Egypt would provide Darcy with a way to go home to

where she had been born? The publisher Darcy had talked

to last month had agreed to consider the book for

publication if she let him review a manuscript. She had

not been sure if she could write a book of Egyptian tales

for children and still find a position that would support

her until she could leave England.

Then, Dr. Simon Garnett’s need for a secretary had



offered the answer. She could help Dr. Garnett with his

work during the day and pen her own work in the evening.

When she received a letter offering her the position, she

had not hesitated to use the ticket to the railway station

closest to Rosewood Hall. The estate was set on the moors

leading up from the River Dart. It was, she believed, the

perfect solution.

When the carriage slowed, Darcy saw tall stone pillars

flanking the driveway to what must be Rosewood Hall.

The fieldstone wall dropped away to no more than a man’s

height, but was at least a foot thick. This was the first

fence of any sort she had seen once the carriage climbed

up onto the moors. Since they had left the small village

below, she had seen nothing but sheep and stone circles

and a single stone cross set in a bare field.

Large, full-branched trees lined the long driveway

curling up the hill. Beneath each tree, roses of every hue

drooped in the autumn shower.

“Rosewood Hall has roses,” she breathed. She had not

been certain anything as domesticated as roses would be

found on the raw expanse of Dartmoor. “How lovely!”

As the carriage reached the crest of the hill, she stared

at the house. Nothing about it was as welcoming as the

rosebushes had been. The massive house must have been

built during the Tudor era, because thick timbers

crisscrossed the front walls. Although the windows on the

ground floor were at least twelve feet tall, the ones on the

upper floors were far shorter. Even that glass could not

ease the house’s barren façade. It stood in defiance of the

wind that swirled across the moor, an odd oasis of

civilization amid the wilderness.

As the carriage rolled to a stop beneath a portico, the

already sparse light of the lowering day vanished. Darcy

waited for her eyes to adjust and saw double doors set

above a flight of stairs. In the other direction, under gray

clouds, the gardens were deserted. She could almost believe



she and the coachman were the only people alive here.

“Thank you,” she said when the coachman handed her

out of the elegant carriage.

“Yes, miss.” He avoided her eyes, as he had when he

met her at the railway station.

“Is something wrong?”

“No, miss.” He walked to the back of the carriage. “I

shall have your things brought in . . . later.”

She wanted to ask him again what was amiss, but said

only, “My wooden box shouldn’t be left out in this damp

weather any longer than absolutely necessary.”

“Shouldn’t take long for—” He looked away again.

“What shouldn’t take long?”

She was unsure if he would answer. Then he shrugged.

“I’ll have the box brought in directly, miss.”

A cold raindrop fell from the carriage door down

Darcy’s turned-up collar. She shivered and hurried up the

steps.

When a footman in spotless black livery opened the

door, she stepped into a dusky hallway. The scent of

cleaning fluid permeated every breath she took, bringing

cloying memories of the boarding school Grandmother

Kincaid had loved and Darcy had hated. Not that the arched

foyer resembled Miss Mumsey’s School for Young Ladies,

just the odor. Beneath her feet, a Persian carpet led toward

the staircase that divided into two to reach beyond the high

ceiling. No paintings or lamps, save for a single gaslight

whispering by the stairs, lessened the austerity of the walls

that were paneled in a dark wood, perhaps even rosewood.

When the door was shut behind her, the walls seemed to

close around her.

“Welcome to Rosewood Hall,” a footman said as he

held out his hand for her black cloak. “Whom may I tell

Dr. Garnett is calling?”

“Darcy Kincaid,” she replied, pushing loose strands

of her black hair under her bonnet. She must look a sight



after her long trip.

“Darcy—?” The footman’s eyes widened as he stepped

back without taking her cloak. “Please wait here, miss.”

He started toward the stairs, then paused. “Maybe you

should come with me, miss.”

Shifting her bag to her other hand, she winced when it

banged into the pierced oak balustrade. She should have

left her lap desk in the carriage for the coachman to bring

in, but she did not want to lose the few precious pages she

had written.

The upper hallway was flushed in a rosy dusk. Darcy

could not figure out why until she saw pink glass arched

at the top of each window. This bit of whimsy was

unexpected in this austere house.

When the footman paused before a wide arch, he

motioned for her to enter. “If you will wait in the parlor,

Dr. Garnett will be with you as soon as possible, Miss—”

“Kincaid,” she supplied again, wondering if he might

be a bit deaf. In her grandmother’s house, the footmen

and the housekeeper had vied with the butler to press their

ear to any keyhole. They garnered Lady Kincaid’s favor

by reporting everything Darcy did or said.

The footman nodded, fired another curious glance at

her, and rushed away into the hall’s thin shadows.

Darcy smiled. What a peculiar man! Loosening the

burgundy ribbons of her black velvet bonnet, she drew it

off and set it atop her bag on the floor. She looked around

the room. Opulent black walnut furniture filled the parlor.

The settees and chairs upholstered in gold and rose brocade

were arranged in a way that would make conversation

difficult. It was a room meant for reading or quiet

contemplation, something that had been impossible at

Kincaid Fells, her grandmother’s country house.

Turning, she ran her hand along the top of the closest

of a trio of glass cases. It was too shadowed in the room to

see what might be inside. How wonderful it would be to



curl up on the window seat with her lap desk and write.

The upper sections of pink glass would wash rose light

over her.

At the sound of footsteps, Darcy squared her shoulders.

This first face-to-face meeting with Dr. Garnett was

important. She hoped he would not ask why she had applied

for the job.

A tall man paused in the doorway and stared. His thick,

silver hair caught the dim light. His distinguished good

looks were marred when his gray brows dipped as he asked,

“Who are you, young lady?”

“Good afternoon, sir. I am Darcy Kincaid.”

“And what are you doing here, Miss Kincaid?” he

asked, continuing to stare.

She forced her smile not to waver. “I was told to wait

here for Dr. Garnett.”

He scowled, deepening the wrinkles age had imprinted

in his face. Stuffing one hand into the pocket of his dark

green satin smoking jacket, he said in an imperious tone

which suggested she should already know, “I am Dr.

Garnett, young lady.”

“How do you do, sir?” She offered her hand, then

lowered it when he ignored it.

He continued to regard her with condescension. “What

are you doing here?”

“Excuse me?”

He pulled a briarwood pipe out of his pocket. “I have

no recollection of expecting a young woman to call today.”

Darcy gasped, unable to silence her dismay. “Dr.

Garnett, I’m here at your request.” As his pale blue eyes

narrowed, she hurried to add, “I would be happy to show

you the letter you sent asking me to come to Rosewood

Hall to handle secretarial tasks for you.”

“No need,” said a second male voice.

She turned. Another man stood behind her. She was

about to ask how he been able to sneak up on her, then



saw a door ajar in the corner. His auburn hair was littered

with silver which picked up wisps of light. It curled

forward on his forehead and matched his mustache.

Straight lips announced his displeasure, but could not

detract from his face’s strong angles. No lines cut into his

face, so she guessed, despite the silver in his hair, he was

less than a decade her senior. His eyes, which were the

same deep green as the rosebush leaves, were as cold as

his voice.

Her smile wavered. Who was he? Had she met him

before? Something about him was so familiar, but she could

not recall meeting him at Kincaid Fells. She blurted, “Do

I know you?”

Looking past her, he said, “Father, I’m sorry you’ve

been involved in this unfortunate muddle.”

“Father?” Darcy asked.

Dr. Garnett lit his pipe and took a puff, leaving a bluegray

cloud around his head. “I thought there had been a

mistake.”

“Mistake?” Darcy echoed.

The younger man acted as if he had not heard her

questions. “I’ll handle it without disturbing you further.”

“That would be appreciated.” He walked to one of the

glass cases. As he passed Darcy, she saw his gray pallor

even the rose glass could not lessen. Was he ill? “I’d prefer

to keep my afternoon quiet after the long, restless night I

had.”

“I understand, Father.”

“But I don’t.” Darcy glowered at both men. “I’m here

as requested.” She turned to the older man. “Dr. Garnett,

you sent me a letter hiring me as your secretary, correct?”

“Wrong,” said the younger man.

Baffled, she looked at him. She wished she could shake

off the odd feeling she knew him. “Wrong?”

“Yes.” He smiled, but his expression was so icy she

wished he had not. “And, no, Miss Kincaid, we have not



met previously. I am Simon Garnett, and I beg your pardon

for wrongly bringing you to Rosewood Hall.”

“But I thought Dr. Garnett—”

“I am Dr. Garnett.” He chuckled. Her dismay deepened

as she noted how little mirth there was in it. “Dr. Simon

Garnett.” Motioning to the older man who was locking

the case, he added, “My father is Dr. Hastings Garnett.”

“If you’re Dr. Simon Garnett, then you are—”

“I hired you.” A smile forced its way across his taut

lips but did not reach his eyes which were as hard as faceted

emeralds. “Quite by mistake, I’m afraid.”

“Mistake?”

“My dear Miss Kincaid,” the elder Dr. Garnett said,

“I trust you will cease that unfortunate habit of repeating

our words like a parrot.”

Darcy stiffened. His voice brought an echo of

Grandmother Kincaid’s scold. Taking a deep, steadying

breath, she said, “I apologize, but I’m confused.”

“Will you sit?” asked the younger Dr. Garnett. He

motioned toward a settee.

“Thank you.” She perched on the very edge, for she

feared this discussion would be short. A mistake? Had the

coachman and footman known her arrival was a mistake?

“Father, you’re welcome to join us,” the younger Dr.

Garnett added.

“I think not.” His vein-lined hand clasped the pipe as

he stared at her again. “I was on my way to rest. Maybe

sleep will come more easily this afternoon than it did last

night. After all I’ve endured, I don’t wish to succumb to

exhaustion.” He bowed his head toward her. “Miss

Kincaid, who knows? We may meet again under more

agreeable circumstances. Good day.”

Darcy sighed as he left the parlor. She did not need

Dr. Simon Garnett to say anything else, for his father’s

farewell revealed the truth. For whatever reason, and she

could not guess what it might be, she was about to be



discharged.

Her first pulse of dismay vanished into the

determination that had gotten her this far away from

Kincaid Fells and from under her grandmother’s unending

scrutiny. She had found this position. She could find

another, so she would not have to crawl back to her

grandmother and beg her forgiveness. She would not

surrender her dream of returning to Egypt.

Egypt . . . She frowned, baffled, as the younger Dr.

Garnett drew a chair to a polite distance from the settee.

There should be nothing about Egypt that brought him to

mind, but somehow Egypt and this composed man seemed

connected. She wondered if it was because his tan frock

coat resembled a lion’s sleek pelt. He moved with the

beast’s grace, but his eyes may have lured her into making

the bizarre association. They were the green of a mîw, one

of the sacred cats of ancient Egypt. Mysterious and hinting

at secrets a human would be wise not to pursue.

“Miss Kincaid,” he said, jarring her from her thoughts.

“I fear you’re here mistakenly.”

“I am—”

“Allow me to finish, Miss Kincaid, for the whole of

this is my fault.”

“It might help if you explain what the whole of this

is.”

“The silly idea I’d hire you to serve as my secretary

when you are here under false pretenses.”

She reached for her purse which was the same black

velveteen as the ruching on her burgundy skirt. “Dr.

Garnett, I have your letter offering me the position right

here.”

“But that position was offered to Darcy Kincaid.”

“I am Darcy Kincaid.” She drew off her kid gloves

and opened her purse. “If you disbelieve me, I can—”

“No need.” He put out his hand to halt her.

When his fingers brushed hers, it was as if she had



swallowed a sip of fragrant wine which opened every sense

to its sweetness. Something flashed within his eyes–

something as potent as wine, something as dangerously

intoxicating. Something that vanished before she could

guess what it might be. Abruptly a pulse of unexplainable

grief threatened to leave her in weak tears. Both emotions

were so strong, so intimate, so . . . familiar.

No wonder Dr. Garnett wished to show her the door.

First she had asked brazen questions as if she never had

learned any manners, now this. Grandmother Kincaid

would chide her for being caught up in such fanciful

thoughts. Jaddeh would whisper of fate. Unfortunately, it

was becoming clear Fate intended Darcy to spend very

little time in Rosewood Hall.

Dr. Garnett did not meet her eyes. “This isn’t easy for

me to say, Miss Kincaid.”

“Quickly said is quickly done.”

“Very well. I was expecting the Darcy Kincaid who

applied for the position of my secretary to be a man.”

“I realize my name is not common for a woman, but it

is my name. Everything I wrote to you in my letter of

application is true.” She did not add she had left many

facts out, such as her relationship to her grandmother who

was well-known throughout England for being a woman

who would not be overlooked in any setting.

He frowned. “I’m afraid, Miss Kincaid, I must retract

my offer of employment. You are welcome to remain at

Rosewood Hall tonight. Tomorrow I shall have our

coachman, Nash, take you to where you can obtain passage

to London. I will, of course, pay for your trip.”

“Dr. Garnett, I can assure you I’m more than capable

of doing the job for which you hired me.”

“I believe a man would be better suited for the hours

and work.”

“Don’t be ridiculous!” Darcy flushed. Knowing she

had nothing to lose, she added, “I see no reason why a



woman can’t serve as your secretary. I’m no frail flower

to shirk my duties. You have seen my credentials, Dr.

Garnett. If you had entertained any doubts about my

capabilities, you should have made them known before I

traveled all the way here.”

“Miss Kincaid, do you always exhibit this proclivity

to lecturing?” As more heat climbed her face, he said, “If

so, I trust you will curb it. I am the one who hired you, so

therefore I’m the one to determine if your work meets my

expectations.”

“I understand,” she answered, although she wanted to

retort angrily. “But I ask if you will, in turn, allow me to

prove to you that my work can meet your expectations.”

“Miss Kincaid—”

“Dr. Garnett,” she said in the same vexed tone, “I shall

be here tonight. Why not allow me to show you my work?

It shall cost you nothing.”

“I wouldn’t expect you to work without

compensation.”

“Dinner would be nice.” She smiled.

She was not sure if he would smile in return. When he

did, it was with obvious reluctance. “I can see how useless

it is to parry words with you. If you wish, we can go into

my private study right now.”

Standing, she said, “I shall need my typewriter.”

“Typewriter?” he asked, setting himself on his feet.

Darcy wondered if he had read anything other than

her name in the letter she had written when she applied

for the position. “It’s a machine that enables a person to

make a page look as if it has been set with type.”

“That is possible?”

“I assure you, Dr. Garnett, I learned to use one earlier

this year. You shall be amazed, as was I.”

Dr. Garnett raised a single, auburn brow. “I trust you’ll

allow me to judge for myself.”

“You’re intrigued, then?”



“Unquestionably.” Again his gaze slipped along her,

slowly from the top of her head down to the travel-stained

hem of her gown, but without the swift dismissal he had

given her when he had first come into the room. He gestured

toward the door. “If you will pull that bellpull, our

housekeeper Mrs. Pollock will take you to where you might

rest while I arrange for your machine . . .”

“Typewriter.”

“While I arrange for your typewriter to be brought

into my study. Ask Mrs. Pollock to have a tray sent to

your room. Father and I shall be done with dinner at nine.

Return then.” As he turned to walk toward the corner door,

he said, “Tardiness is something I find intolerable.”

“I shan’t be late.”

“Good.” Suddenly he came back to her. Taking her

hand, he bowed over it with the same refinement she had

seen in his every motion. “A belated welcome to Rosewood

Hall, Miss Kincaid. I hope your stay, however short it

proves to be, shall be pleasant and memorable.”

As he released her hand and walked into his study,

closing the door, she cradled her fingers in her hand. She

did not move as that warmth which was so sweetly familiar

surged through her again. Other men had bowed over her

fingers. Some other men had kissed her fingers. But never

had this lush fire consumed her.

She was not sure how the rest of her stay at Rosewood

Hall would be, but she was certain pleasant would never

be the word she used to describe it.



Two

Darcy heard the clock chiming the hour at the same

moment she opened the door to Dr. Garnett’s office. Her

breath caught while she stared at the disaster within. Pages

of handwritten manuscript were arranged on every flat

surface, including the floor. Books were leaning in towers

against the wall beneath the windows. The gas lamps hissed

as light sifted through the frosted globes and glared on the

papers scattered across the Persian rug.

Under the clutter, the room was as elegant as the ones

she had already seen. The box holding her typewriter was

set on a desk in front of a black marble hearth. Open

bookshelves lined the walls, and the books on those shelves

were neatly arranged. She wondered if they were more

valuable than the ones on the floor. A settee and a pair of

chairs were arranged in a bay window. One of the windows

on the side was actually a door. When she looked outside,

she guessed the stones reflecting back the moonlight were

part of a terrace.

When the door to the hall opened, she whirled to see

Dr. Garnett entering. He had changed into a black evening

coat, surprising her. Even at Kincaid Fells, her grandmother

had not insisted on such formal clothing for a dinner en

famille.

“Good evening, Dr. Garnett,” she said, wishing she

had left her jacket on. Her lacy blouse and the wisps of

hair which had escaped to flutter about her cheeks seemed

too casual. She was glad her skirt, whose train was caught

up with a bow at the back, had been brushed free of dust.

He looked about the room, then locked his fingers

behind his back and said, “Good evening, Miss Kincaid.

You are early, I see.”

“You said punctuality was important.”

“As important as the fact I don’t need you feeling

compelled to tidy up my office.”



“Everything is just where you left it.”

“So I see.” He pointed to the box. “I trust that is your

typewriter.”

“Yes.”

Walking to the desk, he frowned. “The box is pressing

through the leather top of my desk. That damned machine

will ruin it.”

“There’s no need for such language.”

He faced her. “Allow me first to apologize, Miss

Kincaid. With two men in this household, I may have

forgotten how to act in a lady’s company. Having said that,

I must inform you I shall not change my habits simply

because you have insisted on this demonstration.”

Darcy tensed at Dr. Garnett’s cool tone, which made

it clear he had not changed his mind about asking her to

leave. Quietly, she asked, “Would you mind moving aside

so I might set up my typewriter?”

Squatting so his dark coat brushed the floor, he asked,

“How does one operate this thing?”

“First one takes it out of its crate.” She swallowed her

laugh when he scowled at her. Humor would not work

with him, she realized.

She undid the clasps and pulled away the sides of the

box. The black typewriter was nearly a foot high. It had a

roller on the top and four lines of buttons with numbers

and letters stamped on them.

“This is a typewriter?” he asked.

“Yes.”

“Show me how you work it.”

Did he have to order her about so? She bit back her

exasperation. “It uses the type set on bars inside to create

letters on a page.”

Dr. Garnett tapped at the weights which hung off the

left side and acted as a counterbalance for the platen. “I

expect a certain level of speed and neatness you may not

be able to achieve with a machine.”



“Speed I can guarantee you.” She glanced around the

cluttered room. “And I think, because of what you’re

accustomed to, you’ll be more than pleased with the neat

pages.”

He did not answer, and she realized she had

overstepped herself again by insulting his messy study.

Dash it! She hated this. He expected her to grovel as her

Grandmother Kincaid did. She must never allow herself

to forget this position was her best opportunity to return

to Egypt. Even when Dr. Garnett acted arrogant and

demeaning, she must not retort with anger.

“I assure you, Dr. Garnett, the work coming from this

machine will surpass anything you’ve seen. I had my

doubts the claims could prove to be true. I admit I was

wrong.”

“So you now endeavor to convince everyone else of

your wondrous discovery?”

“No.” Meeting his eyes steadily, she kept her voice

even. “I have no interest in convincing you of its merits,

just the merits of my work.”

He leaned on the desk and regarded her with as much

distaste as if she had been pulled from the bottom of a

scummy pond. “I doubt if anyone has ever accused you of

being reluctant to offer your opinions.”

“You asked.”

“So I did, and you had no reticence about answering

me.”

Darcy lowered her gaze. If he saw her fury, he might

change his mind about letting her show her skills with the

typewriter. She must never let herself forget—not even

for a heartbeat—how important this demonstration was.

“I know from your correspondence you’re writing a

book, Dr. Garnett,” she said as she stacked clean paper

beside the typewriter. “What type of book is it?”

“I’m an etymologist,” he said as he plucked a mound

of books from the edge of the desk and set them on the



floor.

“Insects?” She fought not to shudder.

Straightening, he rested his hand against a book shelf.

“Etymology, Miss Kincaid, not entomology. Etymology is

the study of word origins and the history of our language.”

“Oh. I never thought of language as having a history.”

“No? Words are being invented and evolving every

day. You took the railway down from London, didn’t you?”

“Yes, but what does that have to do with—?”

“Patience, Miss Kincaid. Think back to the days when

England was born. William the Conqueror came to a land

where people already spoke what they considered English.

Yet William brought with him many Norman terms which

are now part of English.”

“I still don’t understand.”

“Did William use the word ‘railway’?” He leaned

toward her, his eyes sparkling with a unsettling fervor. He

had been so aloof, but talking about his work brought forth

an intense passion. Too intense, and she had learned

obsession could blind someone to everything else, even

common sense.

“What need did the Normans have for such a word

when there was no such thing as a railway?” he asked.

She stepped back. “I see.”

“But nobody keeps track of how the words developed.

The words simply were created and repeated until they

became part of our language.” He bent toward her and

murmured, “Railway.”

She drew back again, amazed by his bold whisper and

her most peculiar reaction to it. Was he trying to overwhelm

her in hopes she would skitter away like a frightened

squirrel?

“Repeat it back to me, Miss Kincaid,” he ordered.

“Repeat railway?”

“Exactly, and then use it in your everyday speech.”

His green eyes twinkled like the gem on her pendant.



“That’s the way words grow.”

“Have you traced all the words in English back to their

origins?”

“Not all, for such a task will require the work of many

etymologists. My book will include details for other

scholars to study. The development of our language has

become a convoluted mystery which must be solved like a

constable prying into every detail of a murder.”

In spite of her attempt to halt it, a quiver of horror

flitted along her spine. She could not guess why.

“Are you unwell, Miss Kincaid?” he asked.

“I’m fine. May I?” She pointed to the chair by the

desk.

“Please.” He drew out the chair and offered his hand.

She put her fingers on his as she sat. The coldness

vanished into a pulse that seared her from her head to the

tips of her toes.

His forehead wrinkled his tawny brows. “Miss

Kincaid?”

“Yes?”

He cleared his throat roughly. “Please don’t think this

question silly, but have we met before? I know I told you

upon your arrival we had not, but . . .”

“I can’t guess where we might have met unless at Miss

Mumsey’s School for Young Ladies.”

“Did you work at that exclusive school, Miss

Kincaid?”

“No, I was a student there.” Before he could ask

another question, which might force her to admit more

about her past, Darcy hurried to say, “I’d be glad to show

you how the typewriter works.”

“Typewriter.” He clasped his hands behind his coat.

“That word will be easy to trace to its origins.” He gathered

a handful of pages from an overstuffed chair. “Here is the

opening of my book. You may start with this. I have some

research to do in the library. When I come back later, I



shall evaluate your work.”

“How long will you be in the library?”

“An hour, maybe a bit more.”

She smiled. “Then I suggest you give me more pages,

Dr. Garnett. Otherwise, I’ll be done long before you are.”

“There must be five pages here.”

“I realize that.” She folded her hands on the desk. “If

you wish to give me a fair chance, challenge me and the

typewriter.”

“A challenge you may not win.”

“I shall.”

“You seem most sure of yourself, Miss Kincaid.”

“I don’t question your research skills. You shouldn’t

question my skills.”

“Very well, Miss Kincaid.” He lifted a dozen more

pages and set them beside the typewriter. “Is this too much

of a challenge?”

She shook her head, hoping she was not being too

optimistic when she was bone-tired from the journey here.

Rolling a piece of paper into the typewriter, she said, “I

shall see you at the end of one hour, Dr. Garnett.”

The door closed, and Darcy doubted if he had heard

her answer. She sighed. Maybe she should have asked a

few more questions before coming to Rosewood Hall.

When Mr. Hornsby at the publishing house had shown

her the advertisement for this position, she had been so

grateful she had not inquired what sort of studies Dr.

Garnett did at Rosewood Hall.

Etymology. What could be more boring?

She picked up the top sheet. Scanning it, she quickly

realized Simon Garnett was not just a wealthy man who

eased his boredom by pretending to do research. Although

his handwriting resembled hieroglyphics almost as much

as it did English, she could puzzle it out. The words he

had chosen matched his intensity. His writing style was

precise and conveyed an authority she had to admire.



Darcy began her work. At the top of the first page, she

typed Etymological History of the Modern English

Language by Dr. Simon Garnett. She had to pause again

and again to puzzle out his handwriting. Maybe five pages

would have been a fair test. No, she had to prove to him

she was up to the task and her work was beyond his

expectations.

Then, maybe he would let her stay long enough to earn

what she needed to go to Egypt. She would endure any

amount of Dr. Garnett’s contempt if he would give her

this chance.

***

“Incredible.”

Darcy recoiled at Dr. Garnett’s voice so close to her.

Her fingers struck a cacophony of keys, leaving a blurred

mess on the page. Loosening the tangled keys, she asked,

“Do you always tiptoe about to startle years off of one’s

life?”

“Perhaps I should have my presence announced from

this point forward. I’m unaccustomed to being made to

feel like an outsider in my own study.”

Except when he spoke of his work, did this man ever

wear an expression other than a frown? “You startled me.”

“And you startled me with this.” He pointed to the

page in the typewriter. “I recognized my own words, but

the page looks as if it has been torn from a book. How

much have you finished?”

She picked up the completed pages, not holding back

her triumphant smile. By focusing on her task, she had

finished all but the last page. She looked up at the brass

clock on the mantel. He had returned fifteen minutes early.

If he had not, she would have been sitting here with all the

work he had given her completed.

Dr. Garnett took only the top sheet and studied it. She

put the others on the desk and turned back to her work,

not wanting to sit in silence to await Dr. Garnett’s decision.



“This is extraordinary,” he said. When she glanced

over her shoulder, he urged, “Please continue. I want to

watch this device work.”

“Would you like to try it?”

“I’m afraid I do not have the time to learn—”

She rolled out the ruined page and inserted a clean

sheet. Maybe if he tried it, he would realize how skilled

she was and how lucky he had been to hire her . . . even if

her name was a feminine version of D’Arcy. Rising, she

said, “It’s so simple, a child can learn to use it in minutes.”

He sat in the chair. “And you suspect I have at least as

much intelligence as a child?”

“I meant no insult.” For a man who had heaped

aspersions on her from the moment he first spoke to her,

he was thin-skinned.

“I would appreciate some instruction.”

She fought not to bristle. That would gain her nothing

but a quick dismissal. “To begin,” she said, “put your

fingers on the keys in the middle.”

“Like this?”

She stood on tiptoe to reach past his shoulders and

realign his fingers. When he shifted, his arm grazed her

breasts, sending another surge of heat through her. She

pulled back sharply.

“Is something amiss?” he asked.

“No,” she managed to answer. How many times had

Grandmother Kincaid decried her as a romantic fool who

believed absurd stories about Egypt? She was silly tonight

to react to the fascinating flame that fled through her at

his every touch, no matter how inadvertent.

“What do I do next?” Dr. Garnett asked, his voice

unchanged. Maybe he had not noticed her response to the

unintentional contact.

“Try your name.” She moved to stand by his left elbow,

so there would not be another chance for him to touch her.

“One letter at a time.”



“That seems like a slow process.”

“Speed comes with practice.”

He grumbled something, and she guessed she would

be wise not to ask him to repeat it. When he struck the

wrong key, he glowered at the page as if it had caused the

error. He said nothing as she rolled the paper up one line

and motioned for him to try again. On his second attempt,

he was successful. Without pausing, he continued with a

line from his handwritten notes.

He drew the sheet out. Standing, he gestured for her

to resume her seat. Taking the page he had typed, he

scanned it as she turned another piece of paper into the

typewriter. “The speed you achieve with this clumsy

contraption is amazing.”

“I’m considered only a moderately fast typist.”

“Typist.” He reached for a pen. Scribbling on the page,

he mused, “Another word with a new meaning.” He pointed

at the keys. “What does this one do?”

From him came a faint fragrance which was decidedly

masculine and hinted at shaving soap and hair tonic. She

kept her gaze on the keyboard and took a deep breath before

she answered his question. He asked another and another.

She explained what she knew and had to admit more than

once she did not know what each part of the machine did.

“Why didn’t you type your letter of application for

this position on your phenomenal machine?” he asked.

She paused, astounded that he now seemed vexed she

had not used the typewriter. Honesty was the best response.

“Many people share your distrust of modern inventions

like the typewriter, Dr. Garnett.”

“I admittedly was impressed with your excellent hand,

but I did not expect this. Your machine creates an

outstanding page. This is sure to impress my publisher

most favorably.”

Darcy slowly rose. Clasping her hands in front of her,

she asked, “Can I take your enthusiasm to mean, Dr.



Garnett, that you wish me to continue in this position?”

“I had intended to come back here and thank you and

offer you a reference for your next position.”

“But?”

He tapped his fingers against the page. “This is

extraordinary. I’d be a fool to turn away a secretary with

your skills.”

“So the position is mine again?”

“For at least a week.”

“A week?” She clutched the chair. A week’s wages

would not pay for her journey to Egypt. Nor would it give

her time to finish her own work.

“A week. There are many considerations in this

decision, Miss Kincaid, and I think a week will allow me

a chance to ponder each of them.”

Dampening her lips, she asked, “May I ask what

considerations?”

“I’d rather you did not, for then I will not have to delve

into private matters.”

“I don’t understand.”

Dr. Garnett set the page by the typewriter. “Miss

Kincaid, I shall be frank. Your arrival has caused upset in

this household.”

“I still don’t understand.”

“You don’t need to, for the decision to continue your

work here will be mine.”

“But if you’re pleased with my work . . .”

He bowed his head. “I bid you good evening, Miss

Kincaid. I begin work at precisely eight tomorrow morning.

I trust that won’t be an inconvenience to you.”

“No,” she replied, hoping she could arrange for

someone to wake her. As fatigued as she was from her trip

here, she might oversleep.

“Thank you for the lesson at your typewriter, Miss

Kincaid.”

“You’re welcome.” Again she found she was speaking



to his back. As Darcy watched him disappear through the

door, she sighed. This was going to be even more difficult

than she had feared.

Taking a cloth from the box, Darcy draped it over her

typewriter. She stacked the finished pages neatly on the

table beside it before turning off all the gaslights but one.

That one she kept burning with a low flame, leaving the

room in an enveloping dusk. As she walked to the door,

she tried to take care not to step on any pages or books,

but heard a few pages crinkle beneath her feet and sent

one book skidding across the rug to crash into another

one.

Half of the lights in the hallway were off, and the others

were turned down very low. As she walked toward the

stairs at the front of the house, she heard whispers and

saw motions down other corridors. Guessing the sounds

came from servants who were readying the house for the

night, she was amazed by how many different voices she

heard. She had not guessed Rosewood Hall had so many

servants, for she had seen only a few.

The flash of soft light caught her eye, and she looked

to the left. Nothing. She rubbed her eyes. Working so late

after traveling from London must be playing tricks on her.

A good night’s sleep would be the best cure.

Climbing the stairs, she entered silence. Now it seemed

as if she were the only one in the house. It was an eerie

sensation. When she felt a gaze aimed at her, she looked

back down the stairs. She saw nobody.

Darcy laughed uneasily. She was letting her distress

about Dr. Garnett’s reluctant offer of a week’s employment

unsettle her too much. When she had walked through

Kincaid Fell’s passages, she often had heard no one or

only distorted voices. She should not be so easily frightened

by the commonplace.

As she walked along the upper corridor to her rooms,

she counted the doors. Hers was the fifth on the right. Her



steps faltered when she heard an easily identifiable voice

through the third door on the right. She had not guessed

her rooms were so close to Dr. Garnett’s. This house was

so massive she had assumed the family had their private

rooms in another wing. Then she realized it might be

simpler for the staff to have her staying near Dr. Garnett

and his father.

Opening her own door, Darcy was again astonished

as she had been when the housekeeper had brought her

here earlier. These rooms were far grander than a secretary

should be offered. A sitting room opened onto a large

bedroom. The rooms were papered with a design that was

both intricate and deceptively simple, drawing the eyes to

the intertwining green vines and pink and gold flowers.

The furniture was rosewood, and the windows were topped

by the same pink glass as elsewhere in the house. The

touch of fancy was oddly comforting. A bathroom was

hidden behind the door to what must have once been a

small storage room.

She paused in the sitting room only long enough to

turn off the lamp. Hurrying across the dark room, she

fought not to run. There was nothing here in the darkness

to smother her, but she had never liked being in an unlit

room. Her grandmother had chided her for such silliness

for as long as she could remember. It had not changed

Darcy’s uneasiness one bit.

Entering the bedroom, she released the breath she had

been holding. When she stood in the brightly lit room, it

was easy to agree with Grandmother Kincaid such fear

was absurd.

Darcy was pleased to see her clothes had been

unpacked and put away. On the bed with its rococo

headboard that reached nearly to the ceiling, her nightgown

and wrapper were waiting for her. She yawned, recalling

how fitfully she had slept on the hard railway seat last

night.



She changed quickly, for that first yawn was followed

by more. Tossing her wrapper onto the chair where her

notebook had been placed, she decided she would tend to

her writing in the morning. She went to one of the windows

in the bay and slipped past the heavy draperies. She raised

the window a hand’s breadth.

This was another matter that vexed her grandmother.

Lady Kincaid believed night air was not healthy for anyone,

for it was damp and chilled. Darcy had never been able to

give up her habit of sleeping with a window partially open.

Or she had not wanted to, for one of her fondest memories

of Egypt was when Jaddeh had tucked her in for the night

and thrown open a window near Darcy’s bed that had been

draped in netting so the stars took on an extra twinkle.

Darcy started to turn from the window, then paused

when she saw stars. Not in the sky, for clouds still

concealed those stars and the moon. These stars were close

to the ground, flickering in the gentle breeze. They moved

slowly toward a dark mass she guessed was a wood. One

by one, they vanished.

What was that? Was someone poaching on the

Rosewood Hall property? No, for poachers would not carry

torches to alert someone to their presence. Who would be

out on such a dreary night when the grass must be soaked

from the rain?

Maybe it was nothing more than bog gas lighting up

the sky. There must be bogs on the moors beyond

Rosewood Hall, and the darkness was misleading her eyes.

Pushing back from the glass, she laughed quietly as

she said aloud, “You aren’t going to get any answers by

conjecture, especially when you’re exhausted.”

She drew aside the covers and climbed onto the high

bed. She realized she had not arranged for anyone to

awaken her. She started to slip out of bed to ring for the

housekeeper, then paused. At this hour, Mrs. Pollock might

be asleep, and surely the sunlight coming through the



windows would rouse her in time. Or should she ring for

the housekeeper? She was too tired to make even that

simple a decision.

After braiding her hair, she plumped the pillows and

then reached up to turn the gaslight down until the flame

was not much longer than her fingernail. She nestled down

into the pillows and waited for sleep.

It did not come, although yawns did until her eyes

watered. Every word spoken since she arrived at Rosewood

Hall played through her head.

She closed her eyes. She might have been a surprise

for Dr. Garnett, but the truth was Dr. Simon Garnett was

not what she had expected. When he spoke of his work,

he was as excited as a child with a new toy. Otherwise, he

acted like a dictator, assuming she would obey his orders

without questioning them. And when he touched her, he

set off an explosion of sensations she should not be feeling

along with thoughts she should not have.

Slowly she opened her eyes. She smiled when she saw

a warm light within her room. She had not been certain it

would follow her from London, although it had been her

companion since before she left Egypt.

What it was, Darcy had given up trying to guess. As

she gazed up at the small ball of light hanging—as

always—at the point where the wall and ceiling met, she

relaxed into the pillows. She once had thought that gentle

glow was just her imagination saving her from the darkness

she feared. Each night, when she was somewhere between

waking and sleeping, her light appeared. A comfort and a

reminder of what had been when she was a child in Egypt

and what she hoped would be again. It reminded her of

Jaddeh and the tales that had been told before her

grandmother bid her good night.

She had made the mistake of mentioning the light to

someone she had believed was a friend at school. The girl

had run to Miss Mumsey, who punished Darcy for lying.



That one lesson had warned her never to speak of it. Maybe

someday she would solve the puzzle of the lights—both

in the garden and the special one here.

As she finally surrendered to sleep, she was certain of

only one thing. She must figure out how to deal with Dr.

Garnett so he would not send her from Rosewood Hall.



Three

~~~ Meskhenet rose as she was caught by the

stranger’s mysterious eyes. His height was no illusion she

discovered when she stood. He was at least a full head

taller than her brother the Pharaoh, he who before whom

all the world must bow in awe.

“Do you seek someone?” she asked.

The breeze off the river rustled the trees and bushes,

but he did not speak. He might have been one of the silent

statues raised in Ra’s temple.

“Tell me what you wish, stranger,” Meskhenet said.

She was curious to discover if his voice was as deep and

lush as the secrets hidden behind his stern eyes.

He raised a hand toward her, palm up. She took a single

step in his direction, then stopped. She was the daughter

of a Pharaoh and a Pharaoh’s beloved sister. Although she

would not be the wife of a Pharaoh, for that honor went to

her beloved oldest sister, the blood of gods flowed through

her. Only the man her brother selected for her should be

here offering his hand to her.

Who was this man? Man, or was he one of the gods

incarnate? Foolish was the mortal who did not offer

welcome to a god who came to walk among those whose

lives were weighed upon the scale of Thoth before they

could enter the eternal life of the underworld.

He did not move as he continued to hold up his hand,

but his eyes warmed. They did not slip along her, as other

men’s had, appraising her curves and the wealth of the

fabric covering them, but sought deep within her. When

his lips tilted in a hint of a smile, she wondered how she

could know he was the one she had been waiting for. It

was a way of knowing that had nothing to do with thought,

but with a feeling older than the ancient pyramids far to

the north.

Even the birds were silent as Meskhenet lifted her hand



toward the stranger. His fingers closed around hers in a

trap of flesh, warm and vibrant flesh. He brought her hand

toward his lips. She wanted him to kiss it, to discover if

the heat of a mortal was upon his lips or the cold caress of

a god.

When he pressed her hand to his forehead and bowed,

astonishing disappointment coursed through her. She never

had known a man’s mouth upon hers. Musicians and poets

spoke of the physical union of a man and a woman. They

called it a gift from Khensu-Nefer-hetep, who bestowed

mortals with love and children. Their songs hinted at

sensations she could only imagine. She wanted to

experience those pleasures herself.

Had she been only deluding herself when she looked

upon him and had this sense of knowing that could not be

explained? For a moment, she had believed he shared it.

Now . . . the moment was as commonplace as the one

before it and the one to follow.

“Speak your name, stranger,” Meskhenet whispered,

fearing her voice would betray the thoughts that should

not come into the head of the Pharaoh’s sister.

“I am no stranger to you, Beloved of Thoth,” he

answered, his voice as full and powerful as the Nile during

its flood.

“Beloved of Thoth?” No one had ever called her that.

The god, who decided if a soul would ascend to heaven to

spend eternity among Ra and his court, sent his light to

splash across her bed each moonlit night. But this man

was a stranger, wasn’t he? Maybe she had been mistaken.

Maybe he was asking the same questions she was,

questions that had no answer a mortal would understand.

“You speak of things I do not understand.”

“Do you understand this?” His broad hands, which

were as coarse as the sand beneath her sandals, framed

her face. He tilted her mouth toward his and . . . ~~~

***



“Good morning, Miss Kincaid,” came a cheery voice.

Darcy yelped as she was jerked out of the world she

was recreating from her memories.

“Did I startle you, Miss Kincaid?” asked Mrs. Pollock.

The bulky woman’s hair was as black as her unadorned

dress. A hint of white at the cuffs ruined her austere

appearance, but seemed to fit in with her kindness.

Yesterday, when she had escorted Darcy here, the

housekeeper had been anxious for Darcy to make herself

comfortable in this suite of rooms.

“No, no,” Darcy said.

“If you are busy writing a letter . . .”

“I can finish this later.” If it was discovered she was

writing a story based on the tales Jaddeh had told her, she

might be asked to leave posthaste. This was no longer

exactly the story her grandmother had told her.

Darcy looked down at the book. She had not

anticipated it would take this sensual turn when she began

writing it. Maybe she should tear up these pages and begin

anew. She stroked the notebook. How could she destroy

the captivating story of this meeting between Meskhenet

and the stranger who had come into her garden?

“Did you sleep well?”

Darcy stood, placing her book on the marble-topped

table by the French doors. The doors led to a balcony

overlooking part of the expansive gardens surrounding the

house. She had not found the balcony until this morning.

“I can’t imagine not sleeping well when the perfume of

roses fills the room.”

“Eddie, who oversees the gardens, keeps them

blooming until winter.” The housekeeper went to the low

table near a pale green sofa and poured coffee from the

silver pot set there. She held out the cup. “Dr. Hastings

likes to have roses all summer.”

“Dr. Hastings?”

A laugh rumbled from the housekeeper. “‘Twas simpler



when Dr. Simon was just a lad, but now he’s a professor,

too. Wouldn’t be right to call him ‘Mister’ any more.”

“I guess not.” Darcy dropped a cube of sugar into her

coffee and stirred it. She might be able to address the older

man by such a familiar name, but Simon Garnett was her

employer, and it would be unthinkable to use any name

but Dr. Garnett.

“Nash can take your letter into Halyeyn to post it when

you are done.”

“Halyeyn?”

“The village at the bottom of the hill.” Mrs. Pollock

bustled about the room, clearly not willing to leave until

she learned more about Darcy. “It is a charming place, but

nothing like London.”

“It sounds very pleasant. I hope to visit it soon.”

“You don’t like London?”

Darcy had not intended to intrigue the housekeeper

with her trite answer. Setting her cup on the table, she

said, “I can imagine no other place like London, but I prefer

the fresh air of the country.” But not this country, she added

silently. Only in her memory could she recall the odors,

some which were not pleasing, rising from the mud along

the Nile.

“You have come to the right place then.” Mrs. Pollock

tapped the wall by the door. A brass lamp hung there. “I

was surprised when Dr. Hastings had the house piped for

gas, but he did it because he didn’t want the smell of oil

lamps covering the roses’ scents. Cost him smartly to have

gas piped here from the village. But he is determined to

have exactly what he wishes.”

“Just like his son.”

Mrs. Pollock chuckled. “They are two of a kind. When

they get an idea in their heads, there’s no stopping them.”

Knowing she should not be gossiping about the

Garnetts with their housekeeper, she asked, “Was

something going on in the garden last night?”



“Last night?” The housekeeper’s face closed up as fast

as a slamming door. “Why do you ask, Miss Kincaid? Did

you hear something?”

“I saw what looked like torches going toward the wood

at the edge of the garden where the shrubs have become

overgrown.”

“Oh, my!” Mrs. Pollock turned away.

“What is it? If I chanced to see something I shouldn’t

have, you need only say so.” She could not imagine what

she might have witnessed that would cause the jolly

housekeeper to look so stricken.

“Yes . . . yes . . . Yes, that’s right. You saw something

you shouldn’t have.” Mrs. Pollock’s words came faster

and faster. “Looking out the windows at night on the edges

of these lonely moors isn’t wise.”

“Is there some danger?”

Mrs. Pollock faced her. “More things than one can

imagine. It’s said only fools go out after dark nowadays.”

Darcy’s next question was forestalled by the clock

chiming on the mantel. Eight o’clock. She had dawdled

too long with her writing. Now she was going to be late

for her first day of work.

Pulling on her double-breasted jacket of pink

velveteen, she gathered the ruffles along the side of her

pink-striped skirt as she rushed out of the room. With a

groan and an oath that would have brought a reprimand

from her grandmother, Darcy wheeled about and ran back.

She flashed the housekeeper a strained smile and plucked

her notebook from beneath Mrs. Pollock’s outstretched

hand. She did not want anyone—especially a housekeeper

who clearly had a love for chatter—reading what she had

written this morning.

She hurried along the arched hallway and down the

stairs at its dusky end. She did not pause as she reached

for the banister to the next flight leading to the ground

floor. Taking the steps at an uncomely pace, she gasped



when her foot slipped out from under her. She collapsed

in a flurry of pink ruffles and a jar that ached all the way

to her head.

“Are you hurt?” came a call from the shadows of the

upper hallway.

Darcy looked up to see Dr. Hastings Garnett regarding

her with a puzzled smile as he came around the end of the

staircase and down the stairs. She suspected she had

interrupted his reading because he carried a small volume.

When he held out his hand, she let him help her to her

feet. His hand was as dry as a mummy’s wrap, and she

pulled her hand away. Don’t be fanciful, she warned

herself. She should not be thinking about anything

Egyptian. Getting too caught up in Meskhenet’s story had

made her late.

“I’m fine, thank you, Dr. Garnett.” She clenched the

banister.

Dr. Hastings Garnett must once have had the

distinguished good looks his son possessed. Yet, even the

morning sunshine pouring through the pink glass could

not add a healthy glow to his complexion. His face was

lined in an abstract pattern of wrinkles, and his eyes were

heavy with what appeared to be exhaustion.

“You are in quite a hurry,” he said.

“I was to supposed to begin work at eight.”

“No need to hurry, Miss—Kincaid, isn’t it?”

“Yes, sir.” She stepped down another riser. “Dr. Garnett

was quite emphatic he wouldn’t abide tardiness.”

“A fine sentiment when he is late in returning from

his morning ride.” His smile sifted through the wrinkles.

“Don’t let Simon intimidate you. The fact you haven’t been

packed off this morning should prove how much he needs

you to prepare that tome of his.”

“Dr. Garnett wishes me to be—”

“Simon is still out of the house. Even if he has returned,

I can assure you that he has his nose in a dozen different



books by this time. Nothing is more important to him than

that damnable manuscript.” A surprisingly boyish

expression wiped the years from his lined face. “Forgive

my coarse language.”

“I have heard it before.”

“Most likely.” He pointed his pipe toward a settle at

the base of the stairs. “Do sit for a moment, Miss Kincaid.”

“I should—”

“You should obey your elders.”

His words were so like her grandmother’s Darcy

almost refused. Then she sat on the wide bench whose

carved back reached high along the side of the staircase.

“I continue to be amazed,” Dr. Garnett continued, “that

your generation of women is removed from any form of

cursing. Hypocrisy isn’t my way, Miss Kincaid.”

“Yes, sir.” She was not sure what else to say. The elder

Dr. Garnett had been curt to her last night. Why he wished

to waylay her with this conversation she could not guess,

but she recalled Miss Mumsey’s edict that a social superior

was always correct . . . even when they were mistaken.

That thought was as distasteful now as the first time she

had heard it.

He puffed on his pipe, then withdrew it to ask in a

cloud of smoke, “Why are you here?”

Darcy choked on the noxious odor. “Your son placed

an advertisement for—”

“Yes, yes, I know that,” he said impatiently. “I fail to

comprehend why you came all this way to take a position

you should have known was better suited to a man.”

Although she was tempted again to retort, she was not

interested in prolonging this discussion when her position

might be lost any moment. “I thought it would be

interesting to visit another part of England.”

“You’ve been honest up until now, Miss Kincaid. I’m

sorry you feel uncomfortable enough about this to be false.”

She considered regaling him with a tale of lost love, a



tragedy straight out of Jaddeh’s stories, but she said only,

“It’s the truth. Wanderlust was instilled in me at an early

age, and I seldom have had the chance to indulge it.”

“Are you a spinster by choice?”

She raised her chin in the pride which had gained her

so many reprimands. “Sir, with all respect due, the subject

of my marital state is of concern only to me.”

He clamped his pipe between his teeth and chuckled.

“So the child has teeth she’s ready to use? Good. You shall

need them with Simon. He tends to be obsessed by a single

subject. Of course, I’m much happier he’s involved with

this manuscript than when he was—” He cleared his throat

and glanced away.

Curiosity taunted Darcy, but she could not pursue the

subject. She had chided Dr. Garnett for questions about

her private life, so could not ask about his son’s. “Dr.

Garnett will be disturbed if I am much later.”

“I understand, Miss Kincaid. It’s important to make

an excellent impression on your first day. I wish you good

fortune in dealing with Simon.” His gaze slid along her in

a way that would have earned a younger man a slap.

“Although I question his wisdom in hiring a woman to do

such important work, I cannot question his excellent taste

in the woman he selected. Good morning, Miss Kincaid.”

Darcy fought back the temptation to fire a sharp

response at his back. Such outrageous statements and such

untoward perusals should not be allowed to go

unquestioned when the younger Dr. Garnett had let her

stay because of her skills. Nothing else. Let Dr. Hastings

think what he wished. She knew the truth.

And the truth was both father and son were more

intolerable than she could have guessed. If she had had

any idea . . . No, she needed this position, so she would do

what she needed to in order to make it successful. Even if

she had to swallow every bit of her pride.

Darcy hurried to Dr. Garnett’s study and reached for



the knob. The door opened in her face, and she stared at

Dr. Garnett’s frown beneath his mustache.

“You are late,” he said. The scent of horseflesh oozed

off the tan coat he wore over dark riding breeches. Shining

boots clung to his legs, and he held a top hat in one gloved

hand. She stepped past him, taking care she did not brush

against him. That odd sensation of familiarity stroked her

again. It was as if she already knew how enchanting his

embrace could be.

“I’m sorry,” she replied, concentrating on his anger

which reminded her how much she risked with these

ludicrous thoughts. Dr. Simon Garnett was only the venue

to reach her goal of returning to Egypt. He should not be

creating thoughts of anything but the work he had hired

her for.

Yet, as she looked up into his green eyes, she found

herself believing she had gazed into them long before she

stepped foot in Rosewood Hall. How could she have when

she doubted if she had ever seen eyes of this color except

in Jaddeh’s cat’s face? Was that what was causing this

sense of having seen him before? Maybe she was recalling

Mau who had intimidated everyone in her grandmother’s

house, even the human occupants. That cat, named for one

of the holy cats of old Egypt, had dominated with a single

stare everyone and everything within the house and yard,

especially a young child.

Her thoughts were interrupted when Dr. Garnett asked

in the same vexed voice, “Do you have an excuse for your

tardiness, or shall this be a regular occurrence for the next

week?”

Putting her book next to the typewriter, she said, “I’m

sorry I’m late. I was speaking with your father. He assured

me you were not yet back from your ride.”

When Dr. Garnett chuckled, she silenced her gasp of

surprise at a reaction she had not expected from him. “Miss

Kincaid, you’ll find my father has never lost his pleasure



in the company of the gentler sex. I assume he told you

that you are to join us for dinner during your week here.”

“No, he didn’t.”

“Then I’ll shall extend the invitation on his behalf. He

finds it unconscionable you should eat alone.”

“I don’t mind.”

“He does.”

Darcy recognized the futility of arguing. “Thank you,

Dr. Garnett. I’d be glad to join you and your father for

dinner.”

“Good.” He pulled off his gloves and tossed them into

his hat. Setting them on a shelf, he asked, “Now will you

join me for work?”

“Of course.” She sat. “I shan’t be late again.”

“I trust you won’t. I find tardiness unconscionable.”

“I understand.” She did, so why did he feel it necessary

to repeat things to her as if she were a dog in need of

training?

A motion past the French door caught her attention. It

must be someone in the garden. She wondered if that person

had seen the torches last night and gone to investigate.

“What about the garden do you find fascinating, Miss

Kincaid?” Dr. Garnett asked, warning her she had been

staring out the window for too long.

“Everything, for I enjoy flowers.” There. That was the

truth. She was uncomfortable asking him anything, because

nothing in this house seemed to be as it should. She did

not want him to recoil as Mrs. Pollock had at what had

seemed to be innocuous questions.

“If we keep our work on schedule, I assume you will

have plenty of time to explore.” Picking up her book, he

asked, “What is this? I don’t recall asking you to bring

anything from the library this morning.”

She leaped to her feet and snatched the volume from

his hands. “It’s my book, sir.”

“Yours?” He tipped it to read the spine. “A book with



no title, I see. What do you enjoy reading?”

“It’s a simple folktale.” She hoped the heat on her

face was not matched with a blush.

“An odd choice for you.”

“No, sir, it isn’t.”

“I stand corrected, for I must admit I know nothing of

you, save for your skill with that machine which awaits

your attention.”

His cool words gave her the excuse to turn away. She

put the book beneath her chair. Sitting, she picked up the

topmost sheet and set her fingers on the keys. The steady

tapping filled the room along with the rattle of pages as

Dr. Garnett read.

She tried to concentrate, but her attention kept slipping

as she listened to every muted noise Dr. Garnett made.

His boots against the rug, his finger on a page, even the

whisper of a book being slid off a shelf crept beneath the

clatter of the keys. As the morning passed, she was

dismayed to see how little progress she had made. She

must do better if she wanted to remain here for more than

a week.

She frowned as she deciphered a line of his

handwriting on the next page. “Dr. Garnett?”

“Yes?”

The answer came from so close, she almost jumped

out of the chair. She had not suspected he stood right behind

her. Steadying her voice, she said, “There is an error here.”

“An error?” His hand gripped the back of her chair,

and his knuckles brushed her nape as he leaned forward to

look past her.

She kept her gaze on the page in front of her, for his

cheek was not a finger’s breadth away. If she did not need

this position so desperately, she would have offered Dr.

Garnett her resignation right now. This intense, intimate

invitation to lean her cheek against his was insane. Doing

that would guarantee her being shown the door posthaste.



He was clearly thinking only of his work. She should do

the same.

Pointing at his notes, she said, “Here.”

“I see nothing wrong. The word artichoke is derived

from a Latin root.”

She shook her head. “You’re mistaken. The word’s

origins came from Arabic. Al-kharshuf is what artichokes

are called in the East.”

“Arabic? Are you familiar with the language?”

“A bit.”

To keep his place in the book he carried, he closed it

over his finger, then regarded her with astonishment. “What

other skills have you failed to mention, Miss Kincaid? Can

I dare to believe you are able to speak Greek and Latin as

well as Arabic?”

“My Latin teacher at Miss Mumsey’s despaired of me

ever learning anything beyond the most basic words, I’m

afraid. I never attempted to master Greek.”

“And your Arabic teacher?” He came around her chair

to stand by the table, giving her a chance to release the

breath she had been holding. “Did you learn that as well

at Miss Mumsey’s?”

“No.” She picked up another page and balanced it so

she could twist it into the typewriter. From her memories

resonated the caustic sound of Grandmother Kincaid’s

laughter as she chastised Darcy for being an unthinking

fool. She was a fool. She should have known better than

to reveal even a hint of her past.

“Then where did you learn such a language? Arabic is

considered too esoteric for study by an Englishwoman.”

“Dr. Garnett, if you wish these pages to be done before

the end of the day—”

His finger under her chin tilted her face toward him.

Shock riveted her as she stared up at his cool green eyes.

“Answer my question,” he ordered. “Where did you learn

to speak Arabic?”



Darcy twisted her head away from his finger and sat

straighter. Again Grandmother Kincaid’s sneer filled her

head. You shall come to ruin, just like your mother. You

are a thoughtless hoyden just as she was. She did not

want her grandmother’s voice to act as her conscience,

but it served her well today.

“Why do you wish to know?” she asked as she rolled

the page into the typewriter to avoid looking at his powerful

gaze.

“I’m curious about your skill level with the language.

If it is cursory, I would be hesitant to change what I have

written simply on your say-so.”

Darcy almost told him she knew very little, but that

would mean having an error in his book he was working

so hard to complete. Maybe if she told him a part of the

truth, he would accept her correction and not ask any other

questions. She was tempted to laugh at that thought. In

the short time since she had met Dr. Garnett, she had

learned one thing about this arrogant man. He would do

whatever he must to finish this book.

“I learned some Arabic when I was young,” she said,

picking up a handwritten page and staring at it so she did

not have to meet his eyes. “My father had interest in the

language.”

“Was he a teacher of Arabic?”

“He knew it well, for he had a fascination with the

countries where it’s spoken.” She hated half-truths, but

the truth might damn her in Dr. Garnett’s eyes. Others had

treated her differently when they had learned Darcy’s father

had been Egyptian. Her mother had met him during a grand

tour along the Nile. Although of a fine and wealthy family

and possessing an excellent education, he never was

accepted by narrow-minded English society in Egypt.

“As my father does.” He turned over the book he had

been reading and frowned at the spine. “Miss Kincaid, I

believe I left an important volume in the library. Will you



fetch it for me?”

“If you’ll tell me where the library is.”

“Up the stairs and to the right. Double doors.”

“And the book?”

“It is by Walter McNeal.” His brow threaded. “I don’t

remember the exact title.”

“I shall find it.”

“Thank you.”

Darcy watched him as he sat and bowed over his book

again as if he had forgotten her. Maybe he had not

experienced the same flame when he touched her. Maybe

the fire had not blazed in his very soul.

Don’t be fanciful. It was too easy to be caught up in

the epic romance of the old stories Jaddeh had recounted

during the few years Darcy had lived by the Nile. She

wished Mrs. Pollock had not interrupted at that moment

this morning. If Darcy had been able to finish the scene of

Meskhenet and the stranger, she might not feel as if she

were drifting so far away from reality. Glancing at the

book still beneath her chair, she hesitated. She did not want

Dr. Garnett reading her first draft of Meskhenet’s encounter

with the stranger, for she had no doubts he would find her

attempts at prose overwritten. His own words were spare.

Yet she could not carry the notebook with her wherever

she went.

“A problem, Miss Kincaid?” he asked, warning he was

aware of everything around him even when immersed in

his studies.

“No, sir.” She went out of the room and up the stairs.

As it had last night, the house seemed deserted. She

wondered how many silent-footed servants kept the corners

free of dust and the expanses of pink glass clean.

Her eyes widened when she pushed aside one of the

tall doors to the library. The ceiling reached up into

shadows. Glass-fronted bookshelves covered the walls,

edging every window and the pair of fireplaces that faced



each other across the long floor. Leather-bound chairs were

flanked by small tables just the right size for a cup of tea

or a pipe.

Her footfalls echoed up to the ceiling as she crossed

the parquet floor. Standing in the room’s center, she gazed

up at the brass chandelier that had been updated to gas.

She would have, if she were Dr. Garnett, done all her work

here.

“Walter McNeal,” she mused. The huge room

magnified her voice until it faded against the glass.

Darcy wandered from one set of shelves to the next.

The dry aroma of books and dust gave flavor to the room,

which was thick with silence. Her footsteps were

swallowed by the carpet runners in front of each bookcase.

Running her finger along the books, she scanned the

authors’ names etched in gold leaf into the leather bindings.

She discovered more than one book she would enjoy

reading herself. She must remember to ask if she could

use the library. Books on ancient history and novels which

had been lauded in London only the week before sat side

by side on the dark shelves.

Her neck began to ache as she stretched to see the

volumes on the uppermost shelves. As she started around

the room a second time, a suspicion taunted her. Had she

been sent on a wild-goose chase? She dismissed it. Dr.

Garnett was as serious, save for one laugh, as a prisoner

facing the hangman.

“The book is probably lost in his jumbled study,” she

murmured. She clasped her hands behind her back as she

struggled to read the names of the books on the lowest

shelf. With her head down, she wandered, off-balanced,

along the row.

She bumped into a low case. Grasping a bronze statue

atop it, she kept the statue from falling. She froze as her

gaze was caught by a golden glitter on the shelf below it.

“Thoth.” She knelt and stared at the small image of



the ibis-headed god. Jaddeh had spoken often of the old

gods, and her favorite had been the one who judged the

dead’s worthiness to enter the realm of the gods.

The small statue had one upraised hand, balancing a

scepter and an ankh. Did these artifacts belong to Dr.

Hastings? Dr. Garnett had mentioned his father ’s

fascination with things of the East. She had not guessed

that meant Egypt, for most English families, if she judged

by what she had seen in their homes, were intrigued with

items from the Orient or India.

Slipping her finger under her high collar, she drew

out her pendant, a gift from Jaddeh the day she was born.

She pressed her hand against the small rectangle hanging

from a pounded gold chain. The green-eyed head of a bird

sat on a man’s body. It was a flattened twin of the statue.

“Are you still here, Miss Kincaid?”

Darcy leaped to her feet, stuffing the necklace beneath

her dress. If someone were to see it . . .

“Yes, Dr. Garnett.”

Dr. Garnett crossed the room and set a book on top of

the glass case. “You’ve been gone nearly half an hour.”

“I couldn’t find the book you wanted.”

“So why didn’t you come back?”

“I wanted to be sure I had not missed it the first time I

went through the library.”

Amazement widened his eyes. “You went through the

library twice?”

“I didn’t want to come back and tell you I was unable

to find it.”

“Are you always this persistent?” He grimaced. “By

Jove, I shall have to be careful what I ask of you. I don’t

want you to be gone for a whole day when you have so

much work to do on your typewriter.”

“If you would make your desires clearer, I’d be happy

to satisfy them.” As soon as the words left her mouth, Darcy

wished she could take them back.



“Do you always speak in such enticing double

entendres, Miss Kincaid?”

Heat slapped her cheeks. “Forgive me if I suggested

something I didn’t mean. I try to think only of work while

I’m working, sir.”

Picking up the book, he handed it to her. “Please return

this to my office and continue your work at your typewriter.

I’m taking a respite to enjoy a glass of Mrs. Pollock’s

excellent lemonade. Shall I have her bring you some?”

She hesitated. “If you wish me to complete all the work

you set out for me today—”

“I have no doubts you’ll devour that stack in no time

and spit it back out through your typewriter. You are

amazing.” His gaze held hers again.

She could not look away, even if she had wanted to.

Who was this man? Man, or was he one of the gods

incarnate? Foolish was the mortal who did not offer

welcome to a god who came to walk among those whose

lives were weighed upon the scale of Thoth before they

could enter the eternal life of the underworld.

The words she had written lilted through her head as

Dr. Garnett walked out of the library, once again unaware

of the odd connection that unnerved her. She glanced at

the statue of Thoth. She was letting her yearning to go

home to Egypt get mixed up with her reaction to Dr.

Garnett. She could not guess why. Touching the pendant

beneath her blouse, she told herself she must separate her

longings for the past with her hopes for the present.

She did not want to think what might happen if she

failed to do that.



Four

Darcy tried not to hesitate as she reached the doorway

to the dining room. She breathed a sigh of relief to see it

was empty. Eating with her employer and his father tonight

was sure to be a mistake. She remained too unsettled by

what had happened in the library earlier.

And what happened? her mind taunted her. She kept

telling herself that nothing important had taken place. From

the moment of her arrival, she had been uncomfortable in

Rosewood Hall. That had not changed. She had let her

own nervousness persuade her that she had met Simon

Garnett before, even though she could not have. That had

not changed. Dr. Garnett’s breathtaking aura of masculinity

had unnerved her in the library. That also was no change,

for he had disconcerted her from the very first word he

spoke.

She brushed her hands against the satin brocade of

her best gown. Its shade was nearly identical to the pink

glass above the windows. As she entered the grand room,

she wondered if even her finest dress was elegant enough.

The dining room was longer than the railway car she had

ridden in from London and more than three times as wide.

Crystal dripped from the twin gas chandeliers hanging far

beneath the ceiling’s peak nearly thirty feet above the

Axminster carpet. On the long table, which she guessed

was rosewood, a quartet of candelabra each held five

candles. Their light reflected off the bone china, crystal,

and silver bedecking three place settings at the near end

of the table.

She wondered why candles burned all the way along

the table. Her grandmother would not have wasted such

splendor on an evening when only family and retainers

would be witness to it.

“Does Simon already have you trained to be early to

avoid his wrath?” A chuckle followed the question.



She turned, her dress’ short train rustling against the

carpet’s nap. When she saw Dr. Hastings was wearing

unblemished evening wear, she was glad she had asked

Mrs. Pollock what she should select from among her few

gowns for this dinner.

“Punctuality is already ingrained within me.” She

smiled to soften her reply. “I’m afraid I have never

understood the prestige in being fashionably late.”

He chuckled. “Not only punctual, but pragmatic. A

rare combination in a woman, if I may say so.”

Darcy was tempted to say that she wished he had not,

but she recalled his son’s words. Dr. Hastings liked to flirt,

and it would be harmless to indulge him.

Tugging on her left glove gently, so not to rip the fragile

lace, she replied, “I have found that most women fail to fit

the cliché of helpless and brainless.”

“Ah, another observer of humanity.” Before she could

reply, he added, “Something you used to enjoy, Simon,

before you buried yourself in your musty studies.”

Again she turned, telling herself to show no expression

other than anticipation of a cordial meal. Her preparations

were for naught, because she could not halt herself from

staring at the handsome man standing in front of her. Like

his father, Dr. Garnett was dressed in a pristine black coat

over perfectly ironed trousers. His white shirt caught the

bright glare of the candles that reflected as well on his

polished shoes. But, unlike his father, there was no teasing

expression in his green eyes. They were intense as he

appraised her candidly.

More than once during that unending moment when

time seemed to have forgotten its way forward, she thought

he might speak. She was not sure what she expected him

to say, but the very thought of him voicing the powerful

emotions she could see him restraining unsettled her.

“Really, Simon,” chided Dr. Hastings as if his son were

no older than a toddler, “one would think that you never



had seen a lovely young woman. Do greet Miss Kincaid,

so we may sit down for the meal that is already tempting

me with its aromas.”

“Good evening.” Dr. Garnett’s words shattered the

connection between them. He drew out a handkerchief

from beneath his coat. “If I may . . .”

“May what?” she asked.

“Take care of this.” He dabbed the fine lawn against

her right cheek.

When she pulled back in astonishment at his brazen

action, his smile became chillier than ever, although she

would not have guessed that possible. She wanted to ask

him why he had done that, but she was aware of his father

watching with obvious amusement.

Dr. Garnett held out the handkerchief so she could see

the black stain on it. “You have a habit, Miss Kincaid, of

brushing your hair back while you’re working. Apparently

your fingers had ink from your typewriter ribbon on them.”

“Thank you.” She managed to keep her voice from

wobbling with embarrassment. Not only at failing to see

the splotch on her face while she was readying herself for

dinner, but for reacting so outrageously to a simple

kindness.

“Now that you are properly cleaned up for our meal,”

Dr. Hastings said with a broadening smile, “allow me, Miss

Kincaid.”

Darcy put her fingers gingerly on his proffered arm.

This was not the way to treat a secretary. In her previous

situation, when she had first left Kincaid Fells, her

employer had scarcely taken note of her in his banking

office except when he needed something typed. She was a

set of competent hands to him and somewhat of an

embarrassment, because he never lost his disquiet with

having a woman working in his office. More than once,

she had tried to remind him that other young women were

handling such work in other offices, but she had not been



able to change his mind. Only his desperation to have

someone with her skills had persuaded him to hire her,

and he had not been able to hide his relief when she told

him she was leaving for another position. She had expected,

especially after the cold welcome, that the same would be

true here. Even though she had disliked being dismissed

as something other than a human being, it had been far

less complicated than this.

After Dr. Hastings sat her graciously on what would

be his left when he sat at the table’s head, he motioned for

his son to sit across from her. His smile remained wide

while he took the place at the head, another sign that she

would be foolish to underestimate his place as ruler of his

household.

“How is the book’s progress?” Dr. Hastings asked as

a serving maid ladled soup into the bowls set in front of

them, releasing the fragrance of vegetables and spices.

Darcy waited for Dr. Garnett to answer, then realized

Dr. Hastings was looking at her. She stuttered, “I-It is g-

g-going quite well, sir.”

“I should hope so. The clatter of that infernal machine

you brought with you suggests you are very busy.”

“I am sorry if it disturbs you.” She glanced at Dr.

Garnett, knowing she could not promise to move her work

to another section of the house.

The older man rubbed his forehead with two fingers.

“It simply adds to this interminable headache.”

“You have that headache still?” asked Dr. Garnett.

“Have you spoken to the doctor about this?”

“No.”

“Perhaps—”

“Perhaps,” his father said, abruptly acerbic, “you will

remember I am not your child, Simon. I am tending to

these headaches as I see fit.”

Dr. Garnett scowled. “As you see fit has done nothing

to ease the pain you have been suffering.”



“You don’t need to worry. I have no intention of dying

tonight.” Dr. Hastings’ smile returned as he turned again

to Darcy. When she gave him a tentative smile in return,

he chuckled. “See? I am feeling better already. Maybe all

I need is the company of a lovely, intelligent woman to

ease the headache.”

She had no chance to reply to his compliment before

the older man began relating a story about his most recent

journey to London. Unlike his son, Dr. Hastings apparently

had never met a detail he found too mundane to repeat. He

seemed to forget she had come from London because he

spoke as if she had never seen the buildings he described.

Quickly she realized he must not have been to London in

almost a decade because he spoke of buildings that were

no longer standing.

As dessert was served, for Dr. Hastings had talked

without a break through the previous four courses, her gaze

was caught by Dr. Garnett’s. There was no doubting his

thoughts now. He was furious. But at what or whom? At

his father for monopolizing the conversation, or at her for

some misdeed she had not realized she had committed?

Surely he would not be so upset over a small patch of ink

on her cheek, but she was uncertain why he would be angry

at his father for talking with such enthusiasm.

She wanted to look away as she enjoyed the piece of

chocolate cake that had been set in front of her. Even when

she nodded at a footman’s query if she wanted coffee, she

could not evade Dr. Garnett’s fury. It seemed to surround

her, smothering and icy-cold. The footman’s hand trembled

as he poured coffee into her cup, so she guessed he had

taken note of it as well. Only Dr. Hastings seemed immune

as he continued to prattle about a gathering at the club

which he continued to hold a membership in even though

he, as the older man put it, “had not visited it recently.”

Somehow, she managed to eat a single bite of the cake.

It was delicious, as the rest of the meal had been. However,



she did not take a second bite because Dr. Hastings pushed

back his chair as he announced he would enjoy his second

cup of coffee in the library. Then he left.

More slowly, Darcy came to her feet just as Dr. Garnett

was reaching for his coffee cup. He dropped it so quickly

as he stood that the saucer cracked in half.

“Oh, I’m sorry,” Darcy said.

Stepping aside so a maid could gather up the pieces,

he asked, “Why are you apologizing? You didn’t break

the saucer.”

“I should have said something to excuse myself.”

“Yes, you should have.”

She fought not to frown. Having her apology thrown

back into her face showed the depth of his discourtesy,

but she held her tongue before she told him exactly that.

Instead, she said in her most starched tone, “If you have

no further need for me this evening, I shall retire.”

“You may save your flirtatious comments for my

father.”

“Pardon me?”

He came around the table. “I believe I have pardoned

you as much as possible this evening.”

“I don’t understand what you are talking about.” She

shifted to put her chair between them.

“Come now, Miss Kincaid. Don’t mistake me for a

fool.” He stepped around the chair. “I can assure you that

I’m not one.”

“If I did anything to suggest that, it was by mistake.”

She clenched her hands behind her, hating this need to be

subservient to his mercurial moods and misplaced

assumptions.

“Was it?”

This was too much, but again she held her tongue

before she could remind Dr. Garnett of his manners. To be

sent from Rosewood Hall now could mean the destruction

of her hopes to be in Egypt before the end of the year.



Quietly she said, “If you were to tell me what you

found disturbing, I shall be glad to listen and attempt to

prevent it from occurring again.”

He started to speak, then glanced over his shoulder as

several servants entered the room to clear the table. Taking

Darcy by the arm, he herded her out and along the hall as

if she were a naughty child.

When they went around a corner, his fingers bit into

her and she winced. Did he think she was going to scurry

away? She glanced toward the staircase. Her hopes of

spending the evening working on Meskhenet’s story might

now be dashed.

As he opened the door to his office, Dr. Garnett said,

“It will be better if we speak in here.”

“As you wish.”

She knew that was the wrong answer when his scowl

deepened even more. “Please sit, Miss Kincaid.”

This time she said nothing. She sat in her chair by her

typewriter and folded her hands in her lap, ignoring how

the brocade crinkled beneath them.

He opened his mouth to speak, then closed it as he

looked past her. At her typewriter, she knew, although she

watched him steadily. Again it was simple to read his

thoughts. He wanted her gone from Rosewood Hall. Yet

he wanted her skills with the typewriter to remain.

“It would be best,” Dr. Garnett said in the same

strained tone, “if you don’t encourage my father in his

antics. If you did not notice, he was overexerting himself

at dinner in an effort to impress you.”

“I’m sorry. I don’t understand. I simply listened while

he told of his visit to London.”

“He was too frenetic. He needs quiet. That is what his

doctor has ordered.”

“Dr. Garnett, I had no idea that he was so ill.” She

started to rise, but he motioned for her to stay seated.

She watched as he paced the room, easily skirting piles



of books and not once stepping on a page on the floor,

even though he kept his gaze focused on her. How many

hours had he walked back and forth across his office while

he pondered some tidbit of information he had discovered?

“My father must have serenity.” He paused and affixed

her with his powerful eyes. “I should have followed my

first inclination and sent you away from Rosewood Hall

without delay. Instead, I let your machine seduce me into

changing my mind.” His lips tightened into a straight line.

“I shan’t allow you to seduce my father from his life one

day early.”

This time, when Darcy surged to her feet, she ignored

his gesture to remain where she was. She would not sit

here and let him spew his rancorous spite at her. No

position should require her to endure this.

“I bid you good night, Dr. Garnett,” she said, her voice

shaking with fury on every word. “I shall be here in the

morning to continue my work unless you wish to tell me

otherwise now.”

“I shall let you know in the morning.”

Although she wanted to accuse him of tormenting her

with this delay, she simply nodded. Anything she said now

might guarantee her being shipped back to London even

before morning.

“Good evening, Dr. Garnett.” She walked toward the

door.

“Miss Kincaid?”

“Yes?” She did not turn.

When he gripped her arm and swung her to face him,

she intended to order him to release her and to tell him she

was resigning from this position and state that she would

be leaving Rosewood Hall at first light. She said none of

those things when she found herself falling into his eyes’

emerald depths, fearing she would be scorched by the fiery

passions within them.

His fingers gentled on her arm, curling up along her



sleeve before tightening just enough to draw her a halfstep

closer. She barely noticed, for she was lost in his eyes.

Those eyes had seemed so familiar from the very first time

she had looked into them. If she gazed into them long

enough, would the answer to this puzzle be found?

She knew Simon Garnett. She was as certain of that as

she was of her desperate wish to return to the banks of the

Nile where she had been born. She knew his many moods,

and she knew how he chewed on his bottom lip when he

was concentrating on a problem he had not yet solved.

Most of all, she knew his alluring touch. It was the

most familiar thing of all. Even though he had never

touched her as he did now.

“Don’t go,” he murmured.

“I don’t want to go.” She was astonished at her

breathless response, for she should be lashing out at him

for treating her with such impertinence. Yet the words were

a truth which surged out of her lips as if they had been

kept silent for too long.

She was not sure whether to shiver at the brush of his

breath or melt into the heat that rushed through her. Beneath

his mustache, the hint of a smile urged her to lower even

more the wall of propriety he had breached. His full lips

would certainly be as fiery as his touch. Even as she

watched, the coolness in his eyes warmed to the heat

pulsating from his fingers. His other hand rose to cup her

cheek, setting her skin alight, as if the sun had suddenly

risen and sent its rays through the garden. Slowly her hand

rose to cover his.

“There is so much to say. I—” He jerked his hand

away from her face. Blinking, he abruptly looked down at

his fingers on her sleeve. He lifted them away, first one,

then another. Almost as if he could not bear to release her.

“Good evening, Miss Kincaid.”

She eased back from him, frightened of how the very

brush of his skin against her had undone every lesson she



had ever been taught. Alone with a man—her employer—

she should have been on her guard against any untoward

behavior. Rather, she had let him snare her in his seductive

trap with what should have been a chaste touch, albeit one

that overstepped the bounds of propriety.

But his indecorous actions were not the real reason

she was so unsteady she had to grasp the back of a nearby

chair to keep herself on her feet. It was the very knowing

how wondrous his fingers would be upon her. She had

anticipated his caresses with a longing born of

foreknowledge.

“Good evening, Miss Kincaid,” he repeated.

Was the tinge of desperation in his voice or in her

ears? Either way, she knew he was right to want to put

some space between them.

“Yes, yes. Good evening, Dr. Garnett.” Her fingers

fumbled along the door until she found the knob.

As she turned it, her eyes were caught by something

glowing close to the ceiling. Her companion light she saw

each night? It had never appeared anywhere except above

her bed as she fell asleep. Her guardian angel’s reflection,

she had told herself when she needed comfort. What was

it doing here?

Yet it was not the small circle of light she was

accustomed to seeing. It was a floating film, resembling a

wisp of cloud amidst bright sunshine. Even as she watched,

the film collapsed into the ball she had seen so often, then

it vanished.

“Is there something else, Miss Kincaid?” asked Dr.

Garnett in his coolest voice. He held a book open in his

hands, cradling it as gently as he had her cheek.

“No. No, of course not. Good evening, sir.” She hurried

out of the room and into the hallway.

Pressing her back against the raised panels along the

wall, she fought to catch her breath and slow her swift

heartbeat. Dr. Garnett’s bold touch had bewildered her,



but not as much as the swell of sorrow rising through her

as the light disappeared. A sorrow that was not hers. It

had come from the filmy glow.

What was going on here at Rosewood Hall?



Five

~~~ “You speak of things I do not understand,”

Meskhenet said.

“Do you understand this?” The stranger’s broad hands,

which were as coarse as the sand beneath her sandals,

framed her face. He tilted Meskhenet’s mouth toward his

and bent toward her.

She pulled back. “You dare much, stranger, to come

into the Pharaoh’s palace and try to kiss the Pharaoh’s

sister. Men have died for less.”

“I know.” Sorrow dimmed the fire in his eyes.

“Who?” she asked, knowing the very question

suggested a betrayal to her brother, the Pharaoh. That was

not so, for there were laws her brother despaired at, but

the priests in Ra’s temple insisted they were the god’s own

decrees. Meskhenet’s argument her brother was the

reincarnated god who should be able to decide how his

people were ruled had done no good in budging the

Pharaoh.

“Does it matter?” he asked. “The Pharaoh’s laws must

always be obeyed. That is the decision of the gods

themselves.”

“But only when they are fair.” She put her fingers to

her lips. If she was overheard—if this man spoke of her

traitorous words to anyone else, even her close relationship

to the Pharaoh might not save her.

“You are wise, Beloved of Thoth.”

“Why do you call me that?”

He pointed to the pendant she wore about her neck.

When he smiled, she was sure his face was as bright as

the sun upon the Nile. He reached out to lift the pendant,

and his finger brushed her skin. That scintillating heat

soared through her like a bird gliding over the river.

“You wear this,” he said, running one fingernail along

the design on the pendant. “Only those who are beloved



by Thoth would wear it.”

“That is silly. Many wear jewelry inscribed with the

ibis-headed god to honor Thoth.” She pointed to his sandals

which were decorated with a similar symbol, although not

as finely rendered.

“But I cannot call you by your given name, for that is

forbidden. For me, you are the Beloved of Thoth.”

Meskhenet knew she should have understood that right

from the beginning, but her mind was ajumble with the

unknown, yet enticingly familiar sensations roiling through

her with each word this man spoke. Quietly, trying to regain

control of her errant emotions, she asked, “What is your

name, stranger? It is not forbidden for me to speak it.”

“I am called Kafele.”

“Kafele the architect?”

He bowed his head toward her again, but his smile

revealed his pride. “I am honored you know of me.”

“How could I not? You are overseeing the building of

my brother’s tomb in Thoth’s Valley.”

“It is my greatest honor.”

“I hear it is beautiful beyond all others dug out of the

mountain there.”

“It will be.” He chuckled, surprising her for he had

been so somber in his speech before now. “It is a blessing

the Pharaoh has many more years before he will need his

tomb.”

“You worked as well on my father the Pharaoh’s

tomb.”

“Do you wish to speak only of death? I know you are

curious why I am in your garden.”

“That is true.”

His voice softened. “I have heard many songs of your

beauty, and I wished to see the truth for myself.”

“So my brother the Pharaoh’s tomb can be accurately

painted?”

“No.” He held up his hand as he had before. “When I



hear your name lauded, my heart is filled with such joy I

needed to learn why. Now that I behold you, I know it was

meant I should be here with you.”

She could not halt her fingers from rising to settle on

his. As he drew her to him, she did not resist. She could

not resist. Her other hand curled up over his shoulder. It

was as unyielding as the wall surrounding her garden.

When his arm encircled her waist, he pulled her up

against his naked chest. His mouth found hers, and she

thrilled in his kiss. It was . . .

***

“Blast and damnation!”

Darcy quickly closed her notebook, shocked at the

curse and the slamming office door. She stared at Dr.

Garnett, who was striding toward the desk with the

determination of a runaway wagon. He held a single piece

of paper, but his knuckles were white and his mouth a

straight line.

“Sir?” she asked, hoping he would not plow over her.

“Oh, Miss Kincaid. . .” His expression revealed he

had forgotten she was there.

She stood, holding her notebook protectively. “If you

need some time alone to—”

“Time?” He laughed sharply. “I have no time, and I

have all the time in the world.”

“Excuse me?”

He tossed the paper onto the typewriter.

“What is this?” she asked. Was she being dismissed

after only three days? If so, she could not understand why

he had delayed this long. She had been fearful that he would

send her back to London after her first dinner with him

and his father. . .and the way Dr. Garnett had touched her.

Dr. Garnett had acted as if nothing were amiss when

she returned to the office the next morning. The only

difference was his voice sounded more gruff than before.

They had worked side-by-side like the strangers they were.



“Read it,” he ordered.

She set her notebook beside the typewriter. With

trembling fingers, she lifted the fine vellum. She read it

quickly. She was not being fired. It was a letter written to

Dr. Garnett. It stated if his manuscript could not be

delivered to the publisher in two months, the offer of

publication would be withdrawn. It was signed with a

scrawl she could not decipher.

Dr. Garnett fingered his mustache that could not hide

his scowl. His coat was wrinkled, and he was wearing the

same green waistcoat he had worn yesterday. He must have

worked through the night, then found this waiting.

Quietly she asked, “Is this a problem?”

“A problem?” He stared at her as if she were mad. “A

most unanticipated problem. I was in London only last

month and spoke with Caldwell.”

“The gentleman who signed this?”

A grim smile barely tilted his lips. “One and the same.

During my visit, he told me I would have until next summer

to complete the work. It’s ludicrous to think I could finish

the book this far ahead of schedule.”

“But aren’t you going to try to finish the book as he

requested?”

“Try?” He cursed vividly as he dropped to the sofa.

“Why bother?”

Darcy placed the letter on the desk. “And, if you don’t

bother, what will you do? How many years of your life

have you invested in this book, sir?”

“I shall not present Caldwell with less than the best I

can do. Two months.” He crossed his arms over his chest.

“How in hell do they expect me to perform such a miracle?”

With a sigh, Darcy glanced at her typewriter. She could

answer him, but he would not like what she had to say. He

never would finish the book by complaining. Perhaps he

had become too accustomed to having his every need

anticipated before he was even aware of it. She had almost



been seduced into such a life, but it never could have been

truly hers. She would have remained an outsider in the

closed circle of the British aristocracy who considered pure

bloodlines so important. For their horses, for their dogs,

and for themselves.

She bit her lip as he walked toward the door, then

called, “Dr. Garnett?”

He slowly faced her. “Miss Kincaid, if you’re about

to launch upon a lecture on the fact the effort in itself is a

reward, let me warn you I have no interest in listening.”

“Do you want me to continue?”

“Continue.” Frustration burned in his eyes, anger

tightened his jaw.

“If you plan to halt your work, there’s no need for me

to continue typing your manuscript. However, if you wish

to finish before your deadline, you should know I am

willing to work whatever hours are necessary.”

His eyes narrowed. “Why?”

“I need this position, sir.” She linked her hands behind

her in a pose identical to his. That way he would not see

how they quivered as she imagined crawling back to

Kincaid Fells. “And I was engaged to help you complete

this manuscript.”

“You’re being honest, aren’t you?”

“Yes.”

He looked past her to her typewriter. A flurry of

emotions crossed his face, each replaced by another before

she could gauge his thoughts.

She held her breath, waiting for his answer, although

she was not sure why. His decision should be simpler than

the one Meskhenet had made to trust Kafele. Clenching

her hands by her sides, she wondered why she was letting

the story linger in her head when Dr. Garnett’s next words

might destroy any chance to finish her book.

Walking back to her, Dr. Garnett asked, “You are

daring me to complete it, aren’t you?”



“Am I?”

“You are amazing, Miss Kincaid.” He smiled for the

first time in days.

“What do you mean?” He stood too close, but she did

not want to back away and insult him.

“You’re so dedicated. You speak with ease of working

long hours to complete a compulsion that isn’t yours. It’s

my obsession, and I’m not willing to relinquish it because

of a ludicrous demand. How can I ignore such a

challenge?”

“I did not mean it as a challenge.”

“But it is. I suspect you shall challenge me in many

ways. I—” He stepped away and said, “Good morning,

Father.”

Darcy moved aside as Dr. Hastings came into the

office, followed by Mrs. Pollock. The housekeeper carried

a tray with muffins and a pot of fragrant coffee.

Before Mrs. Pollock could set the tray on the desk,

Darcy rescued the freshly typed pages. She placed them

on the typewriter.

“Neither of you joined me for breakfast,” Dr. Hastings

said as Mrs. Pollock handed him a cup of coffee. “I decided

to bring breakfast to you.”

Darcy took a cup from Mrs. Pollock and nodded her

thanks. “Forgive me. I had no idea I was to join you at

breakfast.”

“I do recall,” the gray-haired man said in a tone that

again brought her grandmother to mind, “saying you were

to dine with us.” Not giving her a chance to reply, he added,

“Mrs. Pollock, do see if Miss Kincaid wants a muffin.

The raspberry ones are especially good.”

The housekeeper held out the basket. Darcy smiled

weakly as she chose one and sat at the desk.

“Father,” Dr. Garnett said as he shifted some books

and sat on the sofa, “I believe Miss Kincaid can decide

what she wishes to eat.”



“Actually the breakfast is just a ruse. There’s a problem

far more important than which muffin Miss Kincaid

selects. I wish to discuss it with both of you,” Dr. Hastings

stated.

“Problem?” Darcy asked.

“Not with you, Miss Kincaid.” His smile broadened

as Mrs. Pollock left. “This formality is tiresome. It’s time

for Miss Kincaid to give us permission to call her Darcy.

And you, Darcy, shall address us as Hastings and Simon.

Don’t you agree, Simon?”

“It does seem to make sense, seeing as how she will

be here with us for the next two months.” He lifted his cup

in a salute toward her.

Darcy smiled. Not only had Simon decided to finish

his book, but he intended to allow her to retain her position.

Happiness bubbled through her. He could achieve his goal,

and she would, too. She could escape the shadow of her

grandmother’s domination and return home.

“Two months?” Hastings asked. “Are you so close to

being done?”

“Caldwell is asking for the book at that time.” He

smiled. “My secretary assures me, with her help, it can be

finished.”

Darcy lowered her eyes as the men continued talking

about the book. The affection between father and son was

heartwarming. She once had believed she might have such

affection for her grandmother in England, but Grandmother

Kincaid had eliminated any chance by trying to change

everything about Darcy to erase the truth of her birth.

Grandmother Kincaid had succeeded only in changing

Darcy’s surname to her own. In Egypt, Jaddeh had loved

her and had assured Darcy her parents had loved her, too.

Darcy wished she could recall something about her parents,

but they had died when she was a baby.

“Why don’t you take Darcy with you into Halyeyn?”

Hastings was asking when she listened to the conversation



again. “She must have several letters to post.”

“Letters?” Darcy wondered what she had missed while

lost in self-pity, a place she hated.

Dr. Hastings patted her hand. “Mrs. Pollock mentioned

you spend much of your meager free time writing letters.

She was concerned you might be anxious to post them.”

She hesitated, not wanting to admit the truth, but not

wanting to lie. If she spoke of her efforts to recreate the

story Jaddeh had told her, other questions might arise.

“Andrew would appreciate you stopping by,” Hastings

continued. “He has expressed an interest in seeing Darcy’s

work that she has done on her typewriter machine.”

“Andrew?” she asked.

Simon stood and set his cup on the desk. “Andrew

Fairfield is Halyeyn’s vicar. Two weeks ago, I promised

to bring him a book he wants to read.” He hesitated. “I

should finish my day’s work before making calls.”

His father clapped him on the shoulder. “You can work

on the way. Go.”

“Shall we go, Miss Darcy?” he asked, clearly not going

to argue with his father’s dictates.

“Of course, sir. Let me get my bonnet.”

“I shall meet you outside in a few minutes.”

Darcy was glad for the excuse to escape Rosewood

Hall. Fresh air might give her fresh perspective. Entering

her rooms, she hurried into the bedroom. She went to the

bay window and looked out as she had every time she

came into this room since she had seen the lights in the

garden. Now, in the sunlight, she could see the wood was

not large, for it was almost hidden behind some shrubs

that must be twice her height. That was the only overgrown

section of the garden, and in the sunshine, there seemed

nothing malevolent about it. She should forget about the

lights she had seen, for she had been unsettled that evening

by her first meetings with Simon. She should not let her

imagination lead her into trouble.



She tied her best bonnet under her chin and turned her

back on the bay window. She would save her fantastical

ideas for her story about Meskhenet and Kafele while she

focused on the work she had been hired to do. And now

she had been given an interlude away from it and Rosewood

Hall. Smiling, she walked out of the room, eager to enjoy

the chance to visit the village she had heard about.

When she came outside and saw Simon reading at the

bottom of the steps, Darcy smiled. He had changed into a

fawn coat that turned his auburn hair almost gold. His

bowler was the same shade. He was immersed in his book,

and she suspected that, if no one intruded, he would have

remained sitting there reading until it became too dark to

see.

Her smile faded as icy fingers slipped along her back.

This was only another example of his fanatic resolve to

complete his manuscript. Such zeal rolled over anyone in

its way, not even noticing anyone was in its way.

As she walked down the steps, Simon closed the book

and turned to her. He said quietly, “I suspect you know by

humoring Father on this matter, we shall be working late

this evening.”

“I realize we have many late nights ahead of us.”

He led her to where the carriage that had brought her

to Rosewood Hall waited. “I don’t wish to quarrel with

my father on something so incidental.”

She wanted to argue that the new deadline was hardly

incidental, but understood his concern for his father’s wellbeing

outweighed any other matter. Quietly, she said, “His

color looks better today.”

“Maybe, but Father must be careful not to exert himself

too much. His heart is weak, so I try to spare him whenever

possible. If I had told him we must work on the manuscript,

he would have pilfered a few typed pages and gone to see

Andrew himself.”

She nodded. “I understand, Dr. Gar—”



“Simon,” he corrected.

“You are my employer, so I shouldn’t address you so.”

She did not want to admit she already called him Simon in

her thoughts.

He shrugged. “You have been having a damnable time

trying to keep your Doctors Garnett separated. I agree with

Father. This should be simpler.”

“It would be, but it wouldn’t be considered proper.”

“By whom?”

“By Miss Mumsey, for one.” Despite herself, she

began to chuckle. “Miss Mumsey would, in all likelihood,

be astonished if she thought I’d learned even one lesson in

deportment. She considered me her most incorrigible

student.”

“You?” He eyed her up and down. “I find it difficult

to imagine you as a naughty child.”

“I did grow up.”

“Obviously.”

Darcy was glad the coachman jumping down from the

box and opening the carriage door kept her from having

to answer. Anything that involved her past created a danger

she must avoid.

When Simon handed her into the carriage, he released

her hand quickly. Had he felt it tremble? Except when she

was lost in her work—either at the typewriter or with her

notebook—she had been on edge every second since she

had arrived at Rosewood Hall.

Simon sat beside her on the luxurious cushions and

opened his book, beginning to read once more. She looked

out the window at the gardens that were even more glorious

in the sunshine. Her gaze moved back again and again to

him. His thick hair with its silver tints glowed in the

sunlight. The stubborn line of his jaw was hard in

comparison with the curve of his mustache.

She stared at the front of the carriage. It was clear

Simon did not wish to have his reading intruded upon by



conversation. Now was a good time to try to recall the

next parts of the story Jaddeh had told her. When she had

gone to seek publication for the collection of stories, she

had been sure she remembered every word her grandmother

had spoken over and over. She had written two stories

before she left London, and those had been simple, for

she could hear her beloved grandmother’s voice echoing

through her mind. She had penned the words, pausing only

to translate some idiomatic phrase from Arabic to English.

Then she had begun Meskhenet’s tale of meeting the

young man who was designing a tomb for her brother, the

Pharaoh. Even if she had not been interrupted by the

journey across England and the work she was doing now,

she doubted if she could have finished the story. She was

unsure, she had to admit, how it ended. Surely she had

heard Jaddeh tell it over and over as she had heard the

other tales.

A parade of phrases and scenes from the other stories,

simple ones meant to entertain a young child, appeared

unbidden from the depths of her memory. She closed her

eyes and savored the sound of Jaddeh’s voice telling of

the lion and the crocodile as well as stories of the gods

worshiped by the Pharaohs. Each word was as clear as if

her grandmother sat beside her, recounting the stories anew.

And the tale of Meskhenet and Kafele. . .The scene of

the handsome man emerging from the reeds by the river

erupted out of her memory. The sun’s blistering heat and

the smell of the mud along the river filled her senses as if

she stood by the shore’s languid waters. A teasing breeze

against bare skin was as soft as a caress.

But not as sweet. A strong arm slipping around her

waist and the hard pressure of his chest against her kept

her from drawing in a breath. She did not want to let this

moment vanish like a popped soap bubble. As her own

arm raised to encircle firm shoulders, she gazed up at a

strong face she had known for only moments, but had



known since the beginning of time. His green eyes . . .

Darcy shuddered, and the sensations vanished. What

was she thinking? Kafele’s eyes were as dark as the heart

of a cave on a moonless night. Not green like . . . She

refused to let the thought form. Looking out the carriage

window once more, she hoped no sign of her thoughts

were visible on her face. She must not let fantasy engulf

her. Grandmother Kincaid had scolded her often for

allowing the East’s sensual ways to silence her good British

common sense.

She gripped the window when the carriage bounced

into a chuckhole. An arm caught her shoulders, and she

looked at Simon. His eyes were unfocused. She guessed

he was still lost in pursuing some word to its origins. That

was good, because that made it unlikely he had noticed

her engrossed in her own wandering thoughts which had

led her in directions she should not go. When she flinched,

he quickly released her, his eyes hardening. She wanted to

assure him that she did not find his touch distasteful. Quite

the opposite, but anything she said might reveal the truth.

It would be for the best to say as little as possible.

“This road needs repair,” Simon said, his voice as

intense as his eyes. “Are you all right?”

“I’m fine.”

“And I am rude.” He closed the book and placed it on

the seat facing them. “I shouldn’t have invited you to join

me in a trip into Halyeyn and then ignored you.”

“Please, don’t let me keep you from your work.” She

hoped he did not note the rather panicked sound of her

voice. She must get her emotions under control posthaste.

“You are not. I brought the wrong book with me. This

one won’t help me today.”

She turned slightly to face him, broaching a subject

she could handle even in this turmoil, “You love your work,

don’t you?”

“Yes.” He rested one arm along the back of the seat,



but did not touch her. “And you?”

She fought another flinch. He was, she knew, asking

only about what she did with the typewriter, not the story

which seemed to be consuming more of her thoughts with

each passing day.

“My work isn’t an obsession for me,” she replied. “It

will get me what I want.”

“Which is?”

“To travel to Egypt.” That much she could admit safely.

His brows rose. “Egypt? To learn more Arabic?”

“Language brings you pleasure, not me.”

“And what brings you pleasure, Darcy?” His leg

brushed hers as he shifted to face her.

The touch—which must have been inadvertent,

because his expression did not change—nearly undid her,

but she bit back the truth before it could leap from her

lips. He had not passed the boundaries of propriety, for

the carriage offered little space to move. Yet her

imagination had gone far past it.

Swallowing the words she must not speak, she said,

“The idea of traveling to Egypt gives me great pleasure.”

Simon tapped the side of the carriage. It slowed to a

stop, and he flung open the door. Jumping out, he held up

his hand to her. “Come with me, Darcy. I think I can help

with that wish.”

She looked about. The carriage had stopped near a

stone bridge. It was new, because the stones were not

stained with age.

“Darcy?”

Her gaze went back to Simon. He now wore a smile

that hinted at a playful, much more carefree man rather

than the composed, studious one who seemed happiest

when immersed in his studies. She wanted to look away,

because the expression he wore now was too close to what

she had seen when her imagination betrayed her into

inappropriate thoughts.



“Thank you,” she murmured when he handed her out.

She glanced up at Nash. The carriage driver wore a puzzled

expression.

Darcy tried to silence her curiosity as Simon led her

down the gentle hill toward the pool. Flowers were brushed

aside by her skirt as insects buzzed, and water gliders

swirled among the water lilies. And the scent of mud. .

.The very smell she had imagined for her story, so she

took a deep breath, savoring it as she sought words to

describe its wet, earthy aroma.

“Is something amiss?” Simon asked.

“No.”

“You have a very intense expression of concentration.

If you prefer not to be out-of-doors like this, you need

only say so.” He chuckled, shocking her anew. “I gave no

thought to how you would get up and down the hill in that

ruffled skirt.”

“It shall be no problem.”

“Good. Then come along.” He motioned toward a

small pond.

It was truly nothing more than a catch basin for the

water that flowed in and out in a twisting stream. Trees

edged both sides, but he was walking toward the one spot

along the pool where it had been cleared. Or maybe it was

nothing could grow among the rocks that were almost as

large as the ones peeking out of the water. As she glanced

along the stream, she was amazed to see another bridge

only a short distance away. It must be very old, for its

stones were weathered and covered with moss.

“Where does that bridge lead?” she asked.

“Nowhere. It’s unsafe.” His smile vanished as he

paused by the water. The lightheartedness he had exhibited

disappeared into his scowl. “It should be torn down.”

“Maybe it can be repaired.”

“That old bridge is not what I brought you here for.”

Again his expression changed. Since she had arrived here,



he had been so focused and somber. Now again his smile

had returned. An uneasiness that started somewhere in the

pit of her stomach tightened its grip around her until she

had to fight to breathe.

“Why did you bring me here then?” she asked.

“Because you want to go to Egypt.”

“I don’t understand.”

He chuckled, and her disquiet increased. Not disquiet,

she realized, but the tingling suspense of walking along

an unfamiliar street and not being certain if there was

danger or delight around the next corner.

Simon did not appear to notice her reaction, because

he said, “When I was younger, I believed this was a wishing

pool. If I tossed a penny in and wished hard enough,

anything was possible.” He pulled a coin out of his pocket

and placed it on her palm. “Try it.”

“Shouldn’t you be wishing you can complete the book

on time?”

“Why waste a wish on something mundane? Why not

wish for something more frivolous like your sojourn from

England?”

Darcy smiled, unable to halt herself. She wanted to

put the darkness of the past years behind her and look

toward the future. Maybe she was letting her own grim

spirits paint Simon with emotions he was not truly

experiencing. He seemed determined to make this amusing.

She would acquiesce and do her best to act as fanciful.

She closed her eyes, thought of herself stepping ashore

from a Nile boat, and tossed the penny into the pool.

“Now your wish will come true.” He drew out another

coin and let it fly in a lazy arc into the center of the pond.

“As well as mine.”

“What did you wish? Not something as mundane as

finishing your book on time, I hope.” She laughed, but the

sound trickled away like the water when he did not join

in.



For a long moment, he did not answer. Her breath was

lodged over her rapidly beating heart as he faced her and

stepped closer. The dizzying sense of having already shared

every thought within his head flooded her anew. This was

wrong. It would only lead to disaster.

“You are wrong,” he murmured.

“Wrong?” She wondered if he could hear her thoughts.

“To fear this.”

“I didn’t say I was frightened.”

“You don’t need to. I can see it on your face.” His

voice lowered to an uneven whisper. “Your lovely face.”

“Simon—Dr. Garnett,” she corrected herself, although

such formality was a flimsy shield, “I think we should

return immediately to the carriage.”

As she turned toward the path leading up to the carriage

that was, she noticed for the first time, out of view, Simon

gripped her shoulders and tugged her to him. She could

almost believe they stood in his office again when he had

drawn her close. Hadn’t he learned from that mistake?

Hadn’t she?

“Don’t go.” There was desperation in his plea. “To

see you with the sunshine on your face and the sound of

the water lapping at our feet . . .” His fingers glided along

her arms, drawing her even nearer. “Have you ever seemed

to recall something happening just as it did in a vivid

dream, a dream as real—maybe even more real—as this

moment?”

“Yes,” she whispered. “Once or twice, and I’m caught

up in a whirlpool of events I can’t stop. But—”

“I have dreamed of this moment when you stand here

beside the flowing water with me. Exactly like this,

although, in that dream, I didn’t know your name. Yet I

could see your face.” He ran his hand along the brim of

her bonnet. “I even recall this lace shadowing your face.”

Knowing she should demand he release her, she heard

herself asking, “And what happened when we stood here



by the flowing water?”

“We spoke and then . . .” His mouth brushed her cheek.

She stepped back even as a yearning for so much more

than that reserved kiss rushed through her like an

undammed torrent. This was not enough. She wanted more,

the more she had been denied for so long. A part of her

mind pondered why she should be reacting like this to a

man she had met such a short time ago, but she heard

herself asking, “You dreamed this?”

“Not only that.” He drew her slowly to him. His legs

were hard against hers, even through the layers of her skirt

and petticoats.

When he put a single fingertip under her chin, she

gasped at the flare of lightning searing through her. She

stared up into his jade eyes, unable to move and not wanting

to even if she could. His finger glided along her cheek and

curled beneath her cheekbone to sweep back down to her

chin. It drifted across her lips, sending the savage flame

through her, stronger this time.

Gently, tentatively, she raised a single fingertip to

outline the sensuous line of his mouth. Hearing her own

breath pulsing swiftly, she continued to gaze up into his

eyes. Shimmering sparks glowed there.

He tilted her face beneath his. When the soft thickness

of his mustache brushed her skin as his lips followed the

gentle angles of her face, her eyes closed. Quivers ran

through her as his tongue flicked its way along the uneven

shape of her ear.

Then, his mouth slanted across hers, and her arms

curved around his shoulders. He brought her down to kneel

beside him and drew her into the arc of his embrace. Her

senses filled with sensations as strong as the scent of

greenery around them, as unstoppable as the water, as

encompassing as the sunshine. Sensations excruciatingly

new and exquisitely familiar at the same time. She moaned

against his lips when his arms tightened around her.



Did she hear his husky laugh in the moment before

his tongue delved into her mouth to explore each facet? It

teased her, urging her to be as eager in finding their

pleasure. She ached to be even closer to him, to share what

had been theirs.

With a gasp—this time of horrified dismay, Darcy

pulled herself away. Or tried to, for Simon’s arms did not

open to let her escape.

“Do not scurry away,” he murmured. “The hour is still

early, and the day’s heat is not yet upon us. Stay here and

warm me while—”

“Simon, what are you talking about?” She was

frightened by his strange words and her reaction to them.

A small whisper from deep within her mind beseeched

her to heed him and forget everything but the delight of

his kisses.

His eyes focused on her and then grew hard. The

enticing curve of his lips straightened. With a curse, he

released her. He opened his mouth, then closed it. He stood

and held out his hand to bring her to her feet. He released

her fingers so quickly her hand was left hanging in the air

between them. Turning on his heel, he strode toward the

carriage.

Darcy blinked. Had she been mad to kiss him like this?

A man she barely knew? Worst yet, her employer. He had

every reason to send her back to London immediately. She

had been so worried about doing a good job for him on

her typewriter. Not once had she imagined she might be

sent away from Rosewood Hall because she lost control

of herself.

Twice.

She put her fingers to her lips which still tingled from

his eager, deeply probing kiss. Among all the questions,

one thing was clear. When she wrote of Meskhenet

yearning for her lover’s kiss, she had had no idea of the

splendor of a man’s lips on hers.



A shiver etched along her spine as she imagined his

lips against hers again . . . as Kafele had kissed Meskhenet

in Jaddeh’s story.

Her breath caught in her throat when she imagined

Simon holding her while she wore the diaphanous gown

Meskhenet donned each day. Simon’s heated hands would

burn away the fabric to enlighten her skin with rapture.

His hair was not the kohl of Kafele’s, but she guessed the

breadth of his bare chest would be no less magnificent. In

so many ways, he reminded her of Meskhenet’s daring

gallant. Intense, driven by ambition, and creating an

undeniable fascination for her.

Don’t be an idiot. This had been a mistake.

She looked up to see Simon was almost to the top of

the hill. He glanced back, and as if no amount of distance

mattered, his gaze captured hers as it had when they stood

side-by-side.

Hastily, she lowered her eyes. She must not give him

more cause to think she was a wanton. Gathering up her

skirt, she brushed dirt from where she had been kneeling.

Her mind spun at the very idea of what had happened here.

As she walked up the hill in Simon’s wake, she tried to

piece together when the situation had exploded out of the

commonplace.

Simon stood by the carriage, and Nash sat in the box.

Nothing appeared out of the ordinary, but nothing could

be the same. She whispered the merest thanks when Simon

handed her into the carriage. She sat where she had before

and kept her gaze on her folded hands as it lurched into

motion.

“Darcy . . . Miss Kincaid.” Simon cleared his throat

and, when she glanced at him, stared at the front of the

carriage. “I’m not certain what came over me. It was most

unlike me to force my attentions on you.”

She did not want to argue, but, when he had drawn

her into his arms, she had seen genuine passion on his



face. The same passion she had seen when he spoke of his

work, and, she recalled with a shudder, the same passion

she had seen in her imagination when she thought of

Kafele. How could two men who were so many centuries

apart seem so alike?

“I can assure you as well,” Darcy said, “I’ve never

allowed such—”

“Liberties?” His laugh was taut. “Even trite phrases

seem uncomfortable now.” His fingers rose toward her

cheek, then he drew them back. “I have no excuse for my

actions, but for one that sounds absurd.”

“What do you mean?”

His smile was cold once more. “Do you wish to hear

of my compulsion to kiss you? A compulsion I couldn’t

resist?”

She raised her gaze from her folded hands to meet his

eyes. “I understand.”

“You do.”

“You couldn’t not kiss me, and I couldn’t not let you,”

she whispered, wanting to ask what he was hiding beneath

these proper manners. It took every bit of her flagging

strength to say, “If you wish me to present my resignation

and—”

“That isn’t necessary, for the incident won’t be

repeated.”

“I’m glad.” When had lying become so easy? She knew

it was insane to want him to kiss her again, but this

inexplicable longing refused to be ignored.

His eyes became emerald slits. “Tell me something.”

“If I can.” She grasped the window as the carriage

bounced into another hole in the road.

“Why does this odd feeling of familiarity persist? I

haven’t met you before you came to Rosewood Hall, and

yet, there is something about you that seems as familiar as

those people whom I have known all my life.”

“I can’t say.” Nor would she admit she had been



consumed too often by the same bewildering sensation.

“There might be someone else you have met who reminds

you of me.” She yelped as a wheel dropped into a hole.

Simon’s hand on her arm kept her on the seat. When

she turned to thank him, his fingers spread along her

shoulder. Her words seemed to shrivel in her mouth as her

own hand rose, unbidden. She hastily lowered it at the

very moment he yanked his fingers back from her.

He stared down at it as if he believed he had been

betrayed by his own body. Her expectation he would

apologize vanished when he continued as if there had been

no intrusion in their conversation, “It isn’t that you remind

me of someone. I have seen many faces in my travels

throughout Europe and Asia, and many people I have met

have brought other faces to mind. This is nothing like that.

This is a knowing, a longing born not of discovery, but of

rediscovery.”

“I’d rather we said no more of this.”

“Frightened?”

Yes, she wanted to shout. She was frightened of her

longing to be in his arms and of the sensation he described

so well. Rediscovery. That was what it had been. The

simple, inexpressible joy of finding something precious

that had been lost.

“It isn’t a matter of being frightened,” she said in her

best imitation of Miss Mumsey. “You are my employer.”

“So you’ve said already.”

“I trust you will forget this when I seek another

position. Without a good recommendation—”

“I don’t intend to ruin your reputation as a competent

secretary.” He gave her another of his cold smiles. “Nor

as a young woman, especially when you have done nothing

wrong.” He reached for his book and, without another

word, began to read.

As the carriage continued to bounce along the uneven

road, Darcy stared out the window without seeing anything



they passed. She must pretend as he was that everything

could be just as it had been before. She feared that was no

longer possible.



Six

The carriage stopped in front of the largest cottage in

Halyeyn. Only a score of buildings made up the whole

village. Like the others along the single street, this cottage

was covered with a green cloak of vines. Marble steps

and an ornately turned balustrade hinted at an unanticipated

elegance within, for the steps and banister seemed more

likely to be seen in London than in this small village.

When Simon assisted Darcy from the coach, he

released her hand the very moment her feet touched the

cobbled road. She nodded her thanks, not trusting her voice.

Each touch, even an insignificant one, coursed a pleasure

through her that was both unwanted and desperately

yearned for. She should present her resignation as soon as

they returned to Rosewood Hall, but how could she? She

needed this position.

Walking through the gate and to the front door, she

saw that the highest peak of Rosewood Hall’s roof was

visible from this street. The small woods she could see

from her bedroom hid most of the house along with the

section of the garden where the overgrown shrubs

commanded the edge of the hill dropping toward the

village. The stream they had crossed on their way tumbled

down that hill. She wondered if there was a spring lost

somewhere among the bushes. This was not the time to

ask.

Simon knocked on the oak door. A gray-haired woman,

who squinted at them, answered so quickly Darcy

suspected their arrival had already been noted.

“Good day, Mrs. Lennox,” Simon said as he stepped

aside to let Darcy enter the house ahead of him. “I trust

the vicar is at home to guests.”

“I shall announce you, Dr. Garnett, if Reverend

Fairfield is willing to be disturbed. Today is sermon writing



day, as you should know,” the dour woman said, vanishing

along with her dark gown into the shadows beyond the

spacious front hall.

“Pay no attention to Mrs. Lennox.” Simon placed his

hat on the mahogany coat stand by the stairs. “She is grim

even on the sunniest day.”

Darcy had no chance to do more than nod before Mrs.

Lennox returned.

“This way. He will see you now, Dr. Garnett, miss,”

mumbled Mrs. Lennox, opening a door just past a longcase

clock that Darcy had not noticed until now.

Again Simon motioned for Darcy to precede him. She

entered a small room containing a pair of dark red settees

in the center. A desk and its chair took up the space within

a bay window. Thick, brown drapes were as somber as the

furniture and the simple rug. The room’s ceiling was low,

so if Simon had not removed his hat, it would have brushed

the rafters crisscrossing it.

A man who was taller than Simon stepped out of the

shadows, startling her. His pale hair contrasted with his

black coat. Its high collar emphasized the hollows in his

cheeks, for his skin stretched tightly across his narrow

face. Yet when he smiled, his features no longer resembled

a death mask.

“Simon, what a pleasant surprise,” he said in a warm

baritone. “I hadn’t expected callers today.”

“Father suggested we drop by, Andrew.” Simon

slapped the other man on the arm and gave him an

unexpectedly warm smile. Darcy realized this must be the

vicar, even though he did not wear his reversed collar. “He

has told me that you have expressed a great curiosity about

Darcy—about Miss Kincaid’s work on her typewriter

machine.”

“I could have stopped in at Rosewood Hall to see it.”

“And interrupt my work?” Simon laughed, the sound

again very jovial. The vicar must be a good friend. “You



know how dangerous that is. I get discussing something

with you, and before I know it, the day is past.” His smile

remained as he turned to Darcy, but she could not help

noticing how his lips grew taut at the corners. “You must

have guessed this is Reverend Mr. Andrew Fairfield.

Andrew, allow me to present my secretary, Miss Darcy

Kincaid.”

Reverend Fairfield took her hand and bowed over it.

He started to relinquish it, then lifted her hand to his lips.

More amazing than having a clergyman kiss her hand was

the pulse of distaste that riveted her. Taking such an

immediate dislike to someone was not something she

usually did. Or was it simply that his polite gesture

reminded her of how her mind had been filled with wanton

thoughts at Simon’s touch? She must not let her guilt

muddle her reactions to the vicar.

“So are you the mistress of this amazing contraption

Hastings has told me about?” he asked pleasantly.

“Yes.” She drew off her gloves and folded them, hoping

the motion would give her hands something useful to do.

She could not allow them free rein to touch Simon again.

“At Dr. Garnett’s convenience, I’d be glad to show you

how it works, Reverend. Or perhaps he would prefer to

show you himself.”

Reverend Fairfield chuckled. “You can already use the

typewriter machine, Simon?”

“Barely.” He opened his book, and, withdrawing a few

of the pages she had done on the typewriter, handed them

to the vicar. “See for yourself, Andrew.”

Motioning for them to sit, Reverend Fairfield carried

the pages closer to the bay windows. Darcy hesitated, then

sat when Simon gestured impatiently at the settee. When

he sat next to her, she fought to keep a pleasant, innocuous

expression. Pretend, she warned herself. Pretend nothing

unusual had happened on the way here.

“I’m amazed,” Reverend Fairfield said.



“I was amazed, too,” Simon replied, “when I first saw

Darcy’s work.”

She wanted to add she was as amazed as both of them.

Not at her work, but at how easy and calm Simon’s voice

sounded. He leaned back on the settee, his brightly shined

shoe propped atop his other knee. To look at him, nobody

would have guessed he had held her in his arms, his mouth

against hers, only minutes before.

Reverend Fairfield chuckled. “I’m speaking of how

far you have come with your research, not of Darcy’s

work.”

The slightest emphasis on her name brought heat to

her face. She wanted to retort that Simon’s use of her given

name was at his father’s insistence. She remained silent,

for her protest might cause more damage by embarrassing

Simon.

“Why are you surprised, Andrew?” Simon asked. “You

knew I was ready to finish the manuscript as soon as I

decided upon hiring a secretary.”

“Yes, although I had no idea you were planning to

hire a secretary with Miss Kincaid’s—” He paused, then

said, “Her attributes.”

Darcy squared her shoulders, shocked by such a

comment from a vicar. Then, telling herself she must not

paint him with the colors of her own misguided thoughts,

she said, “Reverend Fairfield—”

He must not have heard her for he continued to look

at Simon. “Why haven’t you shown me these pages

before?”

Simon shrugged. “To be honest, Andrew, I didn’t think

you were interested in my work. It can be tedious for

anyone who doesn’t share my interest in etymology. Even

Father disdains it, and he usually enjoys researching

through weighty tomes.”

“Yes, like father, like son.”

“In the case of enjoying academic study, yes.”



Darcy glanced from one man to the other as the vicar’s

smile became brittle. Why was Reverend Fairfield

questioning Simon in such a sharp tone? She had thought

the two men were friends.

Simon took the pages back and held out the book.

When Reverend Fairfield mumbled his thanks, she relaxed.

Simon was not offended by the questions, so maybe she

was mistaken. Reverend Fairfield’s voice might be simply

brusque, even though that was not the best tenor for a vicar.

“I haven’t yet gathered the books you told me you

wanted to borrow, Simon,” Reverend Fairfield said, putting

the book on the desk. “Why don’t you ring for Mrs. Lennox

to bring in some luncheon for us while I give the books to

your secretary? You look exhausted.”

Simon smiled. “Because I am.”

“Did you work all night again?”

“A bad habit I can’t rid myself of, I’m rather afraid.”

“I’m glad to hear it isn’t because Hastings has taken

ill again.”

Simon’s smile vanished. “Father has been doing as

well as can be expected.”

“I’m very glad to hear that.” The vicar finally looked

back at Darcy as he asked, “Miss Kincaid, will you please

come with me before Simon disgraces himself with a

yawn?”

Darcy nodded, relieved. The vicar’s compassion for

Hastings seemed appropriate. When Reverend Fairfield

edged to one side to follow her into the hall, she tried to

ignore the pinch of uneasiness in her stomach. She was

startled, for it was not the vicar who made her

uncomfortable. How was she going to set aside, as Simon

apparently had, what had happened near the wishing pool?

Reverend Fairfield led her down a narrow hall into a

miniature of Rosewood Hall’s spacious library. Two

windows overlooked a small garden, but sunshine could

not reach far past the bookshelves. The rows of shelves



were set too closely together, and the books were shoved

in at every angle. She wondered how the vicar found

anything.

Turning up the gas lamp, he handed her a large book.

“May I express a personal opinion, Miss Kincaid?”

“Of course.”

“You’re a good influence on Simon.”

“Why do you say that?”

He reached up and plucked another book from the

topmost shelf. Placing it on the heavy one she held, he

gave her a cool smile which she suspected he offered to

sinners and saints alike. “He hasn’t called here in more

than a month because he’s been lost in the attempt to finish

that book of his.”

“He needs to spend considerable time ferreting out

the origins of each word.”

“Ah, I see you are quick to champion his work.” He

drew out another book, glanced at it, and put it back among

the others. “Is that one of the qualities a good secretary

should possess?”

“I’ve seen the results of his intensive research.” She

shifted the books to readjust their weight as she trailed

him along the bookshelf. “He’s dedicated to his work.”

“Now.” Reverend Fairfield turned, and she stepped

back so he would not bump into her.

She gasped as the ruffles on her small bustle struck

shelves behind her, knocking several papers to the floor.

Only then did she realize they had come to a corner.

He put his hands over her fingers which were curled

up over the books’ spines, astounding her at his

impropriety. “Have you no curiosity as to what he was

before?”

“No.” She wished he would step aside. His touch was

as startlingly familiar as Simon’s was, but her reaction

was very different. Simon’s drew her closer, and the vicar’s

urged her to put more distance between them.



“Has he mesmerized you so completely?”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.” Guilt

pierced her as she lied to a clergyman. Mesmerized? That

was the perfect word to describe what had happened by

the pool. She had been caught up in something she could

not now understand, but some part of her remained eager

to tempt it once more . . . as if she had had her will altered

by a hypnotist’s tricks.

“You don’t?”

She slid her hands out from beneath his and tried to

edge past him, but the books were too wide. “Reverend

Fairfield, I’m here to help Simon with his work. Nothing

else.”

“Forgive me for suggesting some indiscretion on your

part or his, Darcy. I trust I may call you that.” He gave her

no chance to answer. “I think only of your well-being and

Simon’s. He hasn’t been the same since the accident.”

“Accident? What accident?”

Reverend Fairfield frowned. “I find it impossible to

believe no one, especially Mrs. Pollock who loves to

gossip, has said nothing to you about the accident which

took Margaret and Juliet Garnett from us.”

“Who?”

“Simon’s mother and older sister. Margaret and Juliet

were returning from their regular calls on a rainy day nearly

five years ago. Their carriage overturned and fell down

the steep embankment beside the old Roman bridge.” He

sighed. “I tried to look at that quick death as a blessing,

but nothing lessens Simon’s grief. Or his guilt.”

“Guilt? Why should Simon feel guilt about an

accident?”

He wrung his hands, his face growing long with

despair. Turning to stare at the bookshelves to his left, he

said, “You might as well know. Everyone else does. Simon

had plans to restore the old bridge, so his father halted

arrangements to have the new one built until Simon



returned from India. The accident happened before he got

back. Now no one uses that bridge.”

Darcy closed her eyes. No wonder Simon fought to

keep his emotions so tightly in check. He was not hiding

something. He was hiding from something. By immersing

himself in his work, he could escape the pain of his loss.

Reverend Fairfield took the books from her. “I see I

have distressed you. I apologize, but I thought you needed

to know to understand his moods.” He walked to the door.

“Although he seems content to stay here with Hastings

rather than wander about the world, he has not put aside

his guilt about what happened. The anniversary of the

accident is only a few weeks away. Every year at this time,

he is even more morose than usual.”

“Thank you for telling me. You are a good friend to

him.”

“I try to do what I think is best for all of those in my

parish.”

Her first impression of the vicar clearly had been more

accurate than her second, which was that he was too brazen

and sharp-spoken for a clergyman. His housekeeper had

seemed nervous when they arrived, warning them this was

the day Reverend Fairfield wrote his sermon. Maybe

Reverend Fairfield was as vexed to be disturbed at his

work as Simon was. No wonder the two men were friends.

As she started to follow the vicar out of the library,

her gaze was caught by a view of Rosewood Hall through

the window. Not of the house itself, but the wild section

of gardens that ended among the trees of the small wood

that clung to the side of moor.

She hesitated before asking, “Reverend Fairfield, did

you, by any chance, see anyone climbing the hill above

the village a few nights ago?”

He paused in the doorway where the sun brightened

his blond hair. “Why are you asking? Did you see

something amiss?”



“I saw lights from my bedchamber window. It looked

as if there were several people with torches going into the

wood.”

“Yes?”

Abruptly she felt as if she were a young girl being

hauled up before Miss Mumsey to be chastised yet again.

She should have followed her first instinct and remained

quiet about what she had seen. Knowing it was too late

now for those regrets, she said, “If the wood is used without

care, the torches could easily ignite a fire that could

endanger Rosewood Hall. With all the tall shrubs in that

section of the garden, the flames would spread toward the

house quickly.”

“I can see why you are concerned.”

“Did you see anyone?”

He shook his head as his mouth grew straight. “I don’t

make a habit of spying out my windows at my neighbors.

I suggest you do the same if you want to continue enjoying

your time at Rosewood Hall.”

Darcy recoiled from his sharp tone. Nothing he had

said was threatening, but gooseflesh rose along her arms.

She was not certain what she replied then or if she said

anything more during the rest of the call. Even when she

again sat beside Simon as the carriage took them back to

Rosewood Hall, she was silent.

“What’s wrong?” Simon asked. “You aren’t usually

this quiet.”

She wanted to tell him he had no idea what she

customarily was like, but said only, “I know.”

“If you’re worried about continuing your employment

after today, I can assure you that I won’t ask you to leave

because of my inappropriate behavior earlier.”

“It isn’t that.” Even though she knew it had been a

mistake to let him kiss her, she did not like to hear him say

so.

He leaned one elbow on the window. “Then what?



You didn’t laugh at a single one of Andrew’s jests.”

“I didn’t hear anything amusing. All I heard were

questions about you and your father and Rosewood Hall.”

“You must excuse Andrew’s inquisitiveness. It’s quite

normal, for he grew up at Rosewood Hall.”

“He did?” She sat straighter, startled.

“Andrew’s father was my father’s distant cousin. When

he died, Andrew came to live with us. Father arranged for

him to have this living.” He looked out the window. “We

once did everything together.”

“And now you are doing your book without him. That

explains why everything about your manuscript distresses

him.”

“Bah!” He waved her words aside. “He has no interest

in my work.”

“He’s envious of your upcoming success.”

“He’s a vicar. He has his own life’s work.”

“That doesn’t matter. Couldn’t you see that he was so

upset you were going ahead with it without him?”

His smile became frigid again. “This viperish side of

you isn’t pleasant. Why are you belittling him like this?”

As they passed through the gates to Rosewood Hall,

she answered, “I’m not belittling him. I’m acting as a good

secretary, taking note of things you might have

overlooked.”

“Confine your work on my behalf to your typewriter.

Maybe it would be better if we ended this conversation

right now. After all, I can’t believe Andrew was anything

but a perfect gentleman with you.” His voice lowered.

“Which is more than can be said for me.”

Again Darcy could think of nothing to say that would

not create more anger between them. She could not wait

to lose herself in her work once more. That would give her

an escape from these odd relationships which everyone–

but she–seemed to understand.

***



~~~ “Who are you?” Meskhenet whispered as she

gazed up into eyes as dark as the night-serpent’s. “You

come here as a stranger. Then you take me in your arms

and it is as if I have known you since my first breath.”

“That is because I can never be a stranger to you,

Beloved of Thoth, for I am the man you have been destined

to love since Ra took his early ride from beyond the sea.”

He pressed her hands to his forehead as he knelt once more.

“My brother the Pharaoh admires the work you are

doing to build his tomb. When he speaks your name, it is

with awe.”

“As I would have it spoken in yours, Beloved of

Thoth.” He drew her to sit beside him among the flowers

at the edge of her garden. “I came to the palace today,

seeking an audience with the Pharaoh to inform him of

the progress being made. But my eyes beheld you and all

thoughts of anything but you vanished.”

She let her finger course along the firm line of his

brow and wished she had sweet, perfumed waters to wash

away the dust of his journey from the river’s far side. “I

am glad,” she whispered, “for I shall think of no one but

you from this moment forward.”

He slipped his arm around her. She had no chance to

enjoy its strength, for someone called her name.

“Who comes?” he asked.

She stood. “Ahwere, my sister who will soon become

the wife to our brother the Pharaoh.”

“She is not yet close.”

“No, but she will know to seek me here.”

“But she is not yet close.” His hands curved along her

shoulders.

Her soft gasp of delight rippled from her lips as his

mouth warmed her nape. His hands lowered to encircle

her waist, bringing her back to his muscular body. While

his lips continued to burn an abstract pattern along her

skin, he slowly turned her. Her hands rose along his brawny



arms to wrap around his shoulders. His mouth covered

hers, fueling the brisk fire of her impassioned breaths.

“Oh, Kafele,” she whispered as he traced her ear’s

contours with his tongue. “You are imperiling your life by

staying here.”

“But I cannot leave with only a single taste of you,

Beloved of Thoth.”

“You must.”

“You could come with me.” With a smile, he took her

hand and motioned toward the river.

“That is impossible.” She glanced behind her as she

heard her sister’s voice. Closer this time. “You must go.”

He nodded. “She seeks you. Go to her.”

“As long as you promise me you will go before you

are seen.”

“I shall, and I shall return.” His kiss was swift and as

heated as the desert sands. “Be sure of that, Beloved of

Thoth.”

Then he was gone.

Certain her heart had left with him, for a great void

ached within her, Meskhenet turned to greet her most

beloved sister. Would Ahwere, who knew her so well, guess

what had happened? Meskhenet could not imagine lying

to her sister.

She put her fingertips to her lips, where Kafele’s

enticing fire still burned. Slowly she turned to look at the

river. The Nile had never seemed so wide.

“Meskhenet! There you are. Didn’t you hear me calling

to you?”

Meskhenet forced a smile for her dear sister. As she

turned, she realized Ahwere was not alone. A taller shadow

reached into the garden. Dropping to her knees, Meskhenet

pressed her forehead to the earth. All the world, even his

sister, must acknowledge the Pharaoh Onuris as its rightful

lord, the son of Ra and the incarnation of Ra in one.

“Rise, sweet sister,” Onuris ordered, taking her hands



and helping her to her feet. As he kissed her cheek, his

round face stretched with a smile as bright as the sunshine

glinting off his shaved head. “You grow more beautiful

with the passage of each hour, sweet sister. Don’t you

agree, Usi?”

Meskhenet feared the sun had been eclipsed, for her

spirits became dark at the thought of greeting Usi, who

controlled all work on her brother’s tomb. Usi had the

respect of his Pharaoh, but she did not trust this man who

blamed others for his errors and took credit for all ideas

he brought to his Pharaoh, even those ideas that were not

his. Whispers throughout the palace warned Usi had not

yet tested the full extent of the powers granted by her

brother.

“Your sister Meskhenet is a glory unto the gods,” Usi

murmured, his narrow features reminding her of a hungry

hawk. He was wearing his ceremonial wig, and rivers of

sweat flowed down his face. She doubted if he would

remove the wig on even the hottest day, for he wished to

relinquish none of his prestige. “It grieves me to take you

from her side, my Pharaoh, but we have urgent matters to

discuss . . . alone.”

“I will send for you later, sweet sister. A matter exists

which I wish to discuss with you.” He paused and smiled

at Usi. “. . . alone.”

“Send for me,” she said, “and I shall fly to your side,

my dear brother.”

Meskhenet sighed as Onuris walked away with that

evil serpent slithering at his side, whispering his venom in

the Pharaoh’s ear. When Ahwere, who was shorter than

she, took her hand, Meskhenet said, “I wish Onuris would

rid himself of Usi.”

“He will not heed your voice any more than he did

mine on that matter. He is enchanted with Usi, and he will

hear no wrong of the man.” Ahwere sat on the ground

where Meskhenet had been sitting before Kafele stepped



from the reeds. She smiled at Meskhenet. “Tell me why

your eyes glow like stars, younger sister. Your voice, even

in anger, is soft and hushed. Did you dream of the lover

who will seek the Pharaoh’s permission to make you his?”

“Not a dream.” Folding her legs beneath her, she sat

beside her sister. “This lover came to me, unbeckoned,

bringing such joy in his touch my ka surely will resonate

with it until the end of time.”

“Who is this man who dares so much?”

“Kafele.”

“The architect of our brother’s tomb?” Ahwere shook

her head. “He serves Usi, the very man you hate. Be wary,

sister, for Usi would use you to gain more power with our

brother. If he were to learn of your affection for Kafele

and of Kafele’s courage in coming to you here, a curse

might be placed upon Kafele that shall endure past Ra’s

final journey.”

Meskhenet laughed, unable to restrain the joy rising

within her like leavened bread. “I shall be wary, but I shall

see Kafele again. He brings music to my heart and fire to

my body. I wish to be with him. I wish . . .” ~~~

***

Darcy scowled at her page as she put the top on the

bottle of ink. This was utter drivel. Only in a fairy tale

could life unfold this smoothly. She stood and kneaded a

knot in the center of her back. As she heard the clock across

the library chime ten times, she sighed. She should be in

bed. Tomorrow might be as worrisome as today.

Would Simon be less angry if she explained her distress

with what Reverend Fairfield had revealed to her? She did

not want to remind Simon anew of the accident he must

never have forgotten.

She turned down the gaslights in the library. She should

turn them off, but she could not abide the idea of being in

the darkness. Not even the many books and the statue of

Thoth would offer her comfort in the oppressive shadows



she loathed.

“Darcy?”

She turned to see Simon standing in the door to an

upper terrace. Silhouetted against the beacon of a single

lantern glowing there, his broad shoulders looked even

more impressive, belying his life as a scholar. She recalled

Reverend Fairfield’s comments Simon had been in India.

Had Simon been serving Queen Victoria? He had the wellhoned

strength of a military man.

“Yes?” she answered.

“I would like to speak with you a moment, if I may.”

“Of course.” She placed her book on the table as she

went out onto the terrace.

Overhead the stars wheeled beyond Thoth’s moon. She

shook such nonsense from her head. She should not be

thinking of Meskhenet now. That silly story. Why had she

even begun working on it? Every word seemed to scare

away the ones to follow. She should concentrate on the

stories she recalled with ease. Yet, this story refused to go

unwritten.

As Simon walked past the lamp where insects flitted,

risking everything for one moment of brilliance, a dull

fire burned through his hair. She was astonished to see the

breeze playing with his shirt sleeves. Not once before had

she seen him without a coat.

He grasped her hand and sat her on the wall next to

him. She considered pulling her fingers away. Even as she

thought that, his hold tightened on them, giving her the

uncomfortable impression that he was again privy to her

thoughts.

“We must talk,” he said, “about today and what

happens from this point forward.”

“We did. In the carriage. You stated you would not

ask for my resignation.” She took a steadying breath before

asking, “Have you changed your mind?”

“Not on the issue of having you finish the typing of



my manuscript. As your employer, I need only one thing

from you, Darcy.”

“What is that?” She sat very still, although her pulse

thudded in her ears.

“I want you to be honest with me all the time.”

“Honest?”

He nodded. “Completely.”

“Then believe I’m being honest when I say it would

be wise if you released my hand.”

He sandwiched it between his far larger ones. “Don’t

your fingers grow tired from working at your typewriter?”

“Yes. Does your question mean you have more work

for me tonight?”

“What I have for you is an apology for what I said

earlier. I can’t expect you will be comfortable immediately

with Andrew. I’m accustomed to his irritating ways, which

you have mistaken for a cold heart. Trust me when I tell

you he does what he thinks is for the best.”

“I’d like to believe that.”

“And I’d like to believe, in spite of your words, you

aren’t planning to leave. I need you to stay until the

manuscript is finished. It may take even longer hours of

work than you envision.”

“I understand. I know this is a difficult time for you.”

In the dim light, she could see his brows lower. “What

do you mean?”

Cursing her tongue which did not wait for her common

sense to curb it, she said, “You were curious why I was so

upset in the carriage. It was because the vicar told me some

things.”

“Exactly what did he tell you? As if I can’t guess.” He

released her hand and stood. Walking a few paces along

the wall, he stared out at the gardens which were stripped

of color by the moonlight. “No doubt he took it upon

himself to warn you to flee because I bring ill-fortune to

everyone around me.”



Darcy rose and moved toward him. He lifted his hand,

warning her away. She halted, but said, “He said no such

thing. How can you believe he’s your friend and yet believe

he would say things like that?”

He closed the distance between them in a single step.

“Look at me, Darcy,” he ordered in the same taut voice.

“Simon, what’s wrong?”

His face was now masked by the night shadows. “I

am what’s wrong. Once I believed I knew everything and

nothing could defeat me. I was such a fool I couldn’t see I

was endangering everyone I loved.”

She put her hand on his arm, but he shook it off.

“Reverend Fairfield told me about the carriage accident

on the old bridge. That wasn’t your fault.”

“No? I shouldn’t have listened to my pride which

convinced me I knew enough about the history of that old

bridge to have it repaired when I returned to Rosewood

Hall.” Each tormented word sliced into her as he went on,

“That accident took my mother and sister’s lives, and it

deprived my father of his good health, for it stole his heart

from him. When he began to fear dying alone, I came home.

Home?” He shook his head. “A prison of memories I can

escape only within my work. But the past no longer

matters.”

“You really believe that?” She had not guessed his

stern veneer concealed such heartache.

“All that matters now is my manuscript. That’s why I

am asking you to stay.”

“I told you I would.”

“And it must be only business between us, for I shan’t

hurt you, too. There must be no more of this.” He framed

her face with his hands. His kiss was fierce and deep. Then

he released her and strode away.

She did not move as he went into the library. This

should be just what she wanted. She had the job that would

provide her with funds to return to Egypt. She had the



chance to steal a few hours to write her own story. She

should be happy.

She had never been so miserable in her whole life.



Seven

Darcy stared at the lights flickering through the garden

like a parade of stars. She had not intended to look out the

window, because Reverend Fairfield’s advice about not

spying on one’s neighbors was well-taken. Yet, when she

had come to raise the window for fresh air, as she did each

night after Mrs. Pollock must have had it lowered each

day, her eyes had been caught by the lights.

They were, she could tell now, coming along the ridge

of the hill before disappearing into the wood. Were they

torches carried by the villagers? Or was someone else

entirely trespassing on Rosewood Hall’s property?

She let the drapery fall back into place. Hugging her

arms tightly around herself, for she shivered even though

the night air was unseasonably warm, she knew she had

no answer for either question. On the morrow, she must

ask Simon if he had seen the lights. Maybe he could explain

what or who was causing them. And if he could not . . .

She shuddered again. She did not want to think how she

would be able to submerge her curiosity much longer.

Yet she must. She got into bed and drew her knees up.

Leaning her chin on them, she glanced toward the ceiling.

Where was the light that always came to her at night? She

scanned the ceiling, panic twisting down her throat. She

could not imagine being without this soft glow she

understood—somehow—connected her past and her

present.

There it was. She smiled when she saw it floating

where it always did. Her smile faltered as the light edged

toward her. It had never moved so close to her in all the

years she had found comfort in it.

“What are you doing? Stay away,” she cried aloud,

then clapped her hands over her mouth. She hoped her

voice had not carried to other ears.

The light stopped. It drifted back to where it had been.



A sensation she could not name—Sorrow? Loss?— surged

through her as it had when she saw the gauzy glow in

Simon’s office. She had had no idea why she had felt that

way then . . . and she did not now.

Burying her face in her pillow, she sighed. There were

too many unanswered questions in Rosewood Hall. She

should be asking more questions to calm her imagination,

which might be creating problems that did not exist. But

if she did ask questions, she might get answers. Answers,

she feared, that were certain to create only more questions.

***

Where could it be?

Darcy looked about the clutter of Simon’s office, but

saw no sign of her notebook anywhere. How could she

have been so careless? She had spent hours trying to recall

every word of the story Jaddeh had told her. Now, if the

book was lost, all her work on Meskhenet’s tale had been

for naught.

She tried to remember everything she had done during

this long day. Most of her time had been spent struggling

to decipher Simon’s handwriting as the sunlight dimmed

and typing more pages to add to the growing stack. She

had not spoken more than a score of words with Simon,

for he had gone to the library for a book and had not

returned. When a maid had come to get the luncheon tray

and then the supper tray, his share went back untouched.

Maybe he was avoiding her, or maybe she was avoiding

him. It did not matter. There should be nothing but business

between them.

As soon as he returned, she must speak with him about

the strange lights she had seen in the garden. Her one

attempt to bring up the incident had been cut short by his

terse retort they must get to work straightaway so the

manuscript would be completed in time to deliver it to

Mr. Caldwell in London. Then he had left to go to the

library to do his research.



The library.

Could she have left her notebook in the library? She

had not gone there today, but she had been there last night.

Maybe she had left it there.

After putting the cloth over her typewriter as she did

each time she stopped working, she straightened the short

coat she wore over a skirt of the same dark blue wool. The

bow at her white blouse’s high collar matched the gold

ruffles brushing her slippers. Everything was just as it

should be, save for her lost notebook.

Darcy glanced out the window as lightning flashed.

There had been a storm at midmorning, and another must

be on its way. Leaving the lamps in the office lit, she went

out into the hallway. She was glad she did not meet anyone

as she walked toward the stairs closest to the library. She

suspected her face revealed every aspect of her disquiet,

and she had no wish to explain to anyone why she was

upset.

As she climbed the stairs, she frowned. The last time

the house had been this quiet was the day of her arrival.

Although she had not heard the Rosewood Hall servants

speak many words above a whisper, save when they

addressed someone directly, this mysterious quiet seemed

even louder today in the wake of what she had seen last

night.

“Don’t be silly,” she chided herself aloud, glad for the

sound of her own voice. “Find your work, and you’ll feel

much better.”

She hurried into the library and to the chair where she

had been sitting the previous evening before Simon invited

her out onto the terrace. She smiled, remembering how

she had set her notebook on a table and then walked

outside. It must be here.

Going to where she had been sitting, she saw the

notebook was not on the table. She bent to look under the

chairs. The dim light from the lowered gas flames revealed



not so much as a mote of dust.

Darcy sighed as she sat back on her heels. The book

was not in her private rooms or in Simon’s office or here.

Could she have left it on the terrace last night? If so, it

would be completely ruined by the rain.

Light flashed. Not outside, but within the library, and

she realized someone had turned up one of the gas lamps.

“Are you looking for this, perchance?” asked a deep

voice. Hastings’ voice.

Darcy’s shoulders stiffened, but she forced her rigid

knees to unbend so she could come to her feet.

Hastings wore a dark green smoking jacket over his

sedate gray trousers. His small, brimless hat reminded her

of a fez. Her smile wavered when she saw what he held.

Her book. If he had read what she had written . . . Despair

dropped into her stomach as he opened it with a lack of

curiosity that suggested he had already perused it closely.

“This is very intriguing, Darcy.” He crossed the library

to where she stood. Closing the book, he ran his fingers

along its cover. “When I read the first pages you had

written, I was charmed by your childlike tales.”

“They are stories told to me by my father’s mother

when I was young. I’m writing the stories down to share

with others.”

“A child’s story?” He arched an eyebrow as his son

often did when he was about to make a point. “Maybe the

first ones, but you cannot believe I would accept that this

story of unfettered passion is a child’s story. I had no idea

my son’s secretary would find ancient Egypt the proper

place for such an improper fantasy.”

She must not back down at this point. Keeping her

head high, she replied, “No more than in any story by the

Brothers Grimm.”

“True.”

Holding out her hand for it, she said, “Thank you for

finding it. I had feared it was gone for good.”



“Everything eventually turns up in this house.” Instead

of giving her the book, he gestured toward a chair. “Please

sit, Darcy.”

“I have to return to my work.”

“At this hour?” He glanced at the clock on the mantel.

“It is nearly midnight.”

“Our days must be long if we wish to meet Mr.

Caldwell’s deadline.”

“True, and you may return to your labors after you

have satisfied my curiosity.” He motioned again toward

the chair. “Indulge me.”

Wanting to say no, Darcy could not leave when

Hastings had her book. She chose a chair with a view of

the door. That way, if Simon came searching for her, she

would see him and, taking her book, escape. That plan

failed when Hastings drew the doors nearly closed, an

obvious warning to any servant not to intrude.

Her heart thumped like fists against her breastbone.

Was he about to banish her from Rosewood Hall? She

prepared her words of argument that Simon was her

employer. They fell apart like wet paper when she recalled

how Simon had said more than once he would do what he

must to keep his father’s life serene in an effort to protect

Hastings’ heart.

As he returned to where she was sitting, Hastings drew

out his pipe and lit it. He sat in a chair next to hers. Puffing

on his pipe, he smiled at her as he reopened the notebook.

Heat climbed her face as he read, “He brings music to

my heart and fire to my body. I wish only to be with him.

I have to admit I don’t recall such passages of passion in

the works of the Brothers Grimm.”

“Think then of Homer and the tales of ancient gods.”

He nodded. “On that, I concur. The Grecian tales of

yore contain much that would be banned in England if

anyone took the time to read them in their original form.”

Turning to another page, he added, “You write with



authority about this distant land.”

She saw no choice but to reveal the truth. “I spent the

first eight years of my life there.”

“Did you?” His eyes narrowed as he appraised her

anew. Or was it for the first time? He had dismissed her as

an annoyance upon her arrival. Although he had spoken to

her many times in the days since, he always seemed to be

thinking of other things during their conversations.

“My parents lived there at the time of my birth. My

father had business in Egypt, and my mother was

introduced to him while on a tour of the antiquities. After

they died, I was returned to England to live with my

grandmother.” That was the truth, although not the whole

of it. She knew better than to speak of the years between

the time of her parents’ deaths shortly after her birth and

Grandmother Kincaid’s arrival in Egypt to bring her to

Kincaid Fells.

“Now I understand why this reads as if written with

nostalgia. You clearly enjoyed your time there.”

“Very much. Egypt is so different from England. The

colors of the midday are sharp. Here, the mist softens the

contours of the hills, making one flow into the next like a

never-ending river. A river unlike the Nile, for the Nile

possesses a strength I haven’t seen anywhere here.”

“Not even the Thames?”

She shook her head, but kept her gaze focused on her

notebook. “Not even the Thames. Maybe because England

would continue to exist without the Thames, but I cannot

imagine Egypt without the Nile’s waters.”

Closing her book, he handed it to her. “Your

enthusiasm for the country has brought life to your little

stories. I hope you’ll share its conclusion and any other

tales you write with me.”

This time the warmth on her cheeks came from

pleasure. “I’d be honored, sir.”

“I look forward to it then.” He took several deep puffs



on his pipe and smiled as lightning flickered through the

room. “I have often aspired to be a writer.”

“As Simon has.”

His nose wrinkled. “I’m not speaking of such weighty

subjects. I have had enough research in this lifetime. Rather

I’d enjoy flights of fancy like the ones you are creating.

Maybe in another life, if one can be reborn, I can explore

a world without limits brought on by age or infirmity. A

world limited only by my imagination.” With a pause, he

added, “You must enjoy your writing.”

“It’s wonderful to be able to be anywhere at any time

one wishes,” she said over the roll of thunder.

He sighed and tapped his pipe’s stem against his chin.

“Enjoy such freedom while you are young, my dear.” He

patted his chest. “When your heart demands your constant

attention, you find yourself its slave. I recall so many years

when I couldn’t wait to rise in the morning. Now, some

days, I remain in bed waiting for the pain to subside.”

“I didn’t realize, sir.”

“Why should you? Simon has you so intent on his

work, I daresay you have not been able to do as much as

wander through the gardens.”

Darcy knew she must not let this opportunity to discuss

the garden pass. “I have been curious, I must own, to look

at sections of it.”

“And which sections intrigue you, young lady?”

“The sections near the wood.”

“The wood?” His shoulders straightened. “There are

so many lovely rosebushes, so why would you want to go

there?”

“I have seen lights being carried into the wood after

dark, and I am curious to see what lies within.”

His brows lowered. “Nothing that should intrigue you.

A wood is no place for a young woman by herself. Confine

yourself to the more carefully tended areas, where you can

always keep the house in view.”



“It is a small wood.”

“It is large enough to shelter any assortment of

criminals.”

“Here?” She laughed, then shut her mouth when he

did not join in. “Excuse me, sir. It’s just that Rosewood

Hall and Halyeyn are so different from London.”

“Maybe the places are different, but men are the same

wherever they might be.” More softly he added, “Indulge

this old man, Darcy. Stay away from the wood and away

from the maze.”

“A maze? Here in your gardens?”

“Surely you have seen it if you have been looking

toward the wood. The boxwood and yews are nearly a

dozen feet high in some parts.”

Darcy’s hands tightened on her notebook. “I thought

it was simply overgrown.”

“No, it is a complex maze. You and my son are not the

only ones interested in antiquities, my dear.” He sent a

cloud of smoke swirling around his head. “My late wife

and I were fascinated by the ancient mazes of the

Mediterranean. If you wish to explore it, do not go in

without Simon to guide you out.” His smile became

roguish. “One houseguest was lost for more than a day

before we recovered the poor chap.”

“It seems you have more imagination than you wish

to admit to, if you built such a maze.”

“A different sort of imagination than in your story, I

fear.” He drew his pipe from his lips. “Do you think, on

days when you have a few free minutes and I’m not a

captive to my feeble heart, we could sit in the sun while

you teach me more about what you know of Egyptian

mythology?”

She smiled. “I’d be delighted, as long as you teach me

about mazes.”

“Excellent. Now tell me more of Egypt.” Folding his

arms over his chest, he relaxed. “I wished to go there. You



can see that thwarted dream in my small collection of

artifacts. Share with me what you have seen there. If you

tell that tale half as well as you have the one within that

slim volume, I believe I shall call you a reincarnated

Scheherazade.”

Darcy laughed and began to describe the small village

where she had spent her happiest years. Telling of mishaps

and misunderstandings between the Egyptians and

outsiders who came to see the grand monuments left by

ages past, she soon had Hastings chuckling along with

her.

She kept her fingers over her notebook and relaxed in

the chair. For the first time in longer than she could

remember, as Hastings asked her questions and revealed

his overt curiosity about Egypt, she did not feel like an

outcast who would never fit into polite society.

She was sure she would always be grateful to Hastings

Garnett for this conversation.

***

She could not breathe.

The darkness was stifling, pressing down on Darcy so

she could not draw in a single breath.

Pain and darkness . . .

Nothing left but pain and darkness and knowing she

had failed. The lives in this time had nearly run their

measure. Not only her life, but the lives of the ones she

loved.

She tried to breathe, but there was no air. Just dust

from shattered mortar and broken rock.

She had been warned. She should have listened.

Pain and darkness . . .

Where was the light that appeared each night and

hovered over her until the sun rose? Was it lost in this

ebony labyrinth as well? She looked for it, but saw only a

darkness blacker than the inside of her eyelids. Her only

escape now was death. When he designed this trap, he



would have left nothing to chance. Except she would be

the one to spring it, continuing the parade of death

overtaking everyone she loved.

Patience. She should have heeded the warning to be

patient, but how could she when so much was at stake?

Pain and darkness . . .

No, she could not let the darkness win. She might have

only one breath left, but she would use it to shriek out her

defiance to those who had betrayed her.

She screamed. From somewhere, she found more air

to pull into her lungs. She screamed again. And again.

And again.

Raising her hands over her head, she found she could

stand. What was happening? Had she, in the midst of her

terror, crawled out of the trap and back to life? If so, where

was the light? It was dark. Utterly dark.

“What is it? Are you hurt?” The words resonated

through open space. Someone was here with her. Not just

anyone, but the one man she longed to believe would never

desert her.

She ran toward his voice. His rugged masculine body

halted her. His arms surrounded her as her screams became

sobs of relief. He had come for her. Just as she had prayed

with what she had believed was her last breath he would.

With a soft moan she could not silence, she pressed to

the unyielding breadth of his chest. She wanted nothing in

her life as much as him at this moment. When her fingers

twisted through his hair, her other hand guided his mouth

to her hungry one. His lips against hers, his body

welcoming hers, his fingertips trailing down her spine and

setting each nerve afire, she could imagine nothing more

wonderful. She loved this man as she would no other, now

or forever. Falling to her knees before him, she pressed

her face to his firm abdomen.

“You came, Kafele,” she whispered between

shuddering sobs as she gazed up at him from where she



still knelt. “You did not leave me in the darkness alone.

You came, Kafele. You came. I wanted to believe you

would, but I lost faith. Praise Ra you are here at last.”

“Darcy?” Hands took her by the shoulders and shook

her gently. “Darcy, what are you talking about?”

Darcy shuddered, opening her eyes. It was not dark,

for the single lamp she always kept lit was burning. The

draperies in her bedchamber had been blown back by a

storm that had left raindrops on the sills. Past them, she

could see stars poking through the night sky.

She looked up toward the ceiling. The light was there,

but it seemed to be glowing more faintly. When another

gaslight was lit, she hoped her companion was not fading,

but just overwhelmed by the lamplight. She hid her face

in her hands and leaned forward to rest her elbows on her

knees. She was safe. The darkness was gone.

“Are you all right?”

Her head jerked up, and she stared at Simon in horror.

His disheveled hair and his shirt hanging half out of his

trousers as well as his braces looping down around his

hips instead of over his shoulders told her he had come to

her bedroom swiftly. In her nightmare, she had screamed

for help. Had her voice reached out of that terror into the

waking world?

“Darcy?” He knelt beside her, his hands gentle on her

arms. “Are you all right?”

“Yes. Yes, I think so.” Her throat burned on each word

as if she had screeched until it was raw or as if she had

been fighting for one more breath in the overwhelming

darkness.

“You must have been frightened.”

“I was.”

“Of what?”

She raised her gaze to meet his eyes that once again

reminded her of a cat’s. Could he see in the darkness?

Was that why he had no fear of it? She bit her lip. Could



he see the light lingering near the ceiling?

Not looking away, she whispered, “When I was a child,

the coming of twilight always was my favorite part of the

day. At that hour, the blessed winds, swirling blood hot

across the sunset-stained sands, flickered through the

campfires and twisted the robes of the men as they squatted

to listen to old tales. But I have always feared the night.”

“Why? There is nothing there in the night that isn’t

also there during the day.”

“I know that. I simply can’t set aside the fear of

darkness.” She quivered again. “And of small spaces. I

know it’s silly, but no matter how much I try to persuade

myself differently, the fears always return.”

He frowned. “You called me Kafele when you kissed

me.” His hands drifted along her arms, and his voice

dropped to a whisper, “I envy this Kafele.”

“Kafele?” She rubbed her forehead and noticed her

companion light had vanished as if with the dawn. “Dear

me. I must have been dreaming still.”

“A nightmare, I would say, save for Kafele. Who is

he? Someone who waits for you in Egypt?”

Darcy knew she should nod, letting him believe a lie,

but she heard herself saying, “Kafele is a character in the

story I’m writing.”

“A story you are writing? You are an author, too?”

“I have begun to write down a collection of old tales I

heard in Egypt. That is what I’ve been doing when Mrs.

Pollock thought I was writing long letters.”

“You lived in Egypt?”

“Yes, when I was a child.”

His eyes widened. “Is this Egyptian?”

She started to pull back, but gasped as his fingers

brushed her breast with the power of lightning. Trying to

come to her feet, she was too late, for his hand cupped her

pendant with its engraving of the green-eyed Thoth. The

emerald stones glistened in the lamplight.



“Yes, it’s Egyptian,” she said. “It is a picture of Thoth,

the ibis-headed god.”

“Thoth?” He smiled. “I seem to be lisping to speak its

name.”

She tucked it beneath her nightgown, but, as never

before, was aware of its warmth against her skin. Had

Simon’s touch heated the gold? “It’s a good luck charm

my grandmother gave me.”

“Has it worked?”

“Infrequently. Please don’t speak of it to anyone,

Simon. There are those who would denounce it as heretical

and barbaric.”

“If you’re worried about Andrew—”

“I’m not.” She had not given the vicar a thought.

She let Simon bring her to her feet and seat her on the

sofa. When he sat beside her, she tried to stand. Her legs

wobbled.

“Sit here before you fall on your face,” he ordered

with a smile that eased the sting of his words.

“If you’ll promise me you will tell no one you saw

this.” She folded her hands over the amulet, then realized

what a mistake she had made.

His gaze seemed to burn through her hands and into

the pendant, heating it and the surrounding skin until she

was sure both must be glowing. “I promise, for there are

some sights a man prefers not to share,” he murmured as

he hooked one finger beneath the chain and lifted it from

behind her hands. He held it draped across his palm, but

did not look at it. Instead he raised his eyes to meet hers.

She lowered hers, not daring to let herself be caught

up anew in the desire aching within her. A desire his eyes

revealed he shared.

Again she started to rise, but he halted her and asked,

“What do you need?”

She almost said, “You.” She halted herself. He was

not Kafele, and she was not Meskhenet. That was simply



a story told for so many centuries no one could tell if any

part of it was true.

When she pointed to her wrapper, he plucked it from

the back of a chair and handed it to her. She pulled it on

and buttoned it closed, trying not to notice how his shirt

was undone and had fallen open to reveal the smooth skin

of his broad chest.

“So why do you wear the good luck charm if it doesn’t

bring you good luck?” Simon asked.

“As I said, it was a gift from my grandmother, so it’s

precious to me. Yet it was more than that. When I first

went to school, I wore it openly to irritate Miss Mumsey.

She considered me a heathen.”

“Heathen?”

“I spent part of my childhood in Egypt.” She knew

she must say no more than she had to Hastings. If either

man learned of her mixed heritage, she might be sent from

Rosewood Hall without a recommendation. Or was it really

a recommendation that concerned her? If Simon knew the

truth of her parents, would he despise her as Grandmother

Kincaid had? Choosing her words carefully, she added,

“Living there, in Miss Mumsey’s opinion, defined me as a

heathen. She followed my grandmother’s orders to beat

every remnant of Egypt out of me. Of course, that made

me only more determined to cling to what I’d learned.”

Simon rested his elbows lightly on his knees. His shirt

drooped forward to hide his chest. “What were your parents

doing in Egypt? Digging for antiquities and all?”

“No. My family wouldn’t have taken part in the rape

of Egypt’s past.”

“Darcy Kincaid, such language!”

Darcy did not laugh when he did. “How would you

feel if foreigners came to England and started stealing the

stones of the Tower or dug among the royal graves in

Westminster Abbey? You would consider that barbarous,

yet no one seems to be bothered by those stealing Egypt’s



past.”

“I didn’t mean to upset you more.”

She rested her head against the back of the settee,

stared up at the ceiling, and sighed. “Forgive me. I believe

I’m still half asleep.”

“Then I should leave and let you go back to sleep.”

He stood.

Grasping his shirttail, she cried, “Not yet!”

Puzzlement darkened his eyes. He lifted her hand off

his shirt and went to the table by the window. Pouring a

glass of wine from a bottle there, he brought it to her. “Here.

This may calm you.”

“Do you want some?”

“I think not. Tell me, Darcy, why your family was in

such a far-off place.”

Again she thought about what she had told his father.

The truth was safe as long as she hid the damning facts.

“My father was a well-respected merchant whose ships

plied the Nile. We lived in a wondrous house with every

window and door open to the river.” She sipped on the red

wine. “It was the perfect place to be a child.”

“And that is where you got Thoth?”

“It was a gift from my father’s mother on the day I

was born.” She touched the chain. “Thoth was one of the

most powerful of the old gods, for he was the guardian of

the Book of Thoth.”

“What’s that?”

“A book with two spells. One allows a man or woman

to speak to animals and understand them. The second

guarantees eternal life.”

“A very powerful god indeed.”

She took another drink. “I’m sorry to have disturbed

your rest.”

“I wasn’t sleeping yet.” Pulling his braces back over

his shoulders, he buttoned up his shirt. “I was thinking.”

“About your book? The section on Anglo-Saxon words



seems to be giving you some trouble.”

He sat beside her and took the glass of wine from her.

Setting it on the table, he ran his hands along her shoulders.

“I tried to think about my book. You have no idea how

hard I tried to think of my book, but I couldn’t stop thinking

of how appalling I’ve been to you since we went to

Halyeyn. How appalling I’ve been since I kissed you by

the pool.” He closed his eyes. “Then I was fool to kiss you

last night. I thought kissing you once more would compel

me to be sensible, for I would discover my longing for

you came from the fact I haven’t held a woman in so long.

But all I did was whet my longing to hold you again.”

“You said in the carriage it should be only business

between us, and you are correct.”

His hand curved along her cheek, and she closed her

eyes as she instinctively nestled her face against its rough

warmth. “Darcy, I have lost too many of the people I care

about, and I don’t want to go through that pain again. Do

you understand?”

“Yes.”

When he tipped her lips beneath his, he whispered,

“My own private road to hell is paved with my good

intentions . . .”

His mouth captured hers. She should push him away,

but she could not. He might not be Kafele, yet she wanted

his kisses as Meskhenet had wanted her lover’s. When her

arms rose along his to curve across his back, he pressed

her down onto the cushions.

She gasped with pleasure as his lips eagerly explored

her neck, each touch leaving a sizzle like water on a hot

stone. His arms closed around her as he shifted to pin her

to the cushions eagerly. She savored the sensation of every

inch of him over her. He reached for the uppermost button

along the front of her wrapper. His fingers splayed across

its high collar.

She gazed up at him, wanting so much more, but unsure



how to put her longing into words. How could she explain

it seemed that they were not sharing this pleasure for the

first time, even though they were? She could almost feel

his fingers sliding down over her breasts and his warm,

smooth skin on hers. Nothing had ever been as luscious as

this anticipation of what she seemed to remember with

vivid longing.

He reached for the second button, and her fingers sifted

through his hair as she brought his mouth to hers again.

His hand was caught between them, each finger a separate

caress.

At a shriek, Darcy froze. She opened her eyes and

saw Simon’s were diffused with bafflement. Another cry

followed, and he jumped to his feet. She heard a series of

thuds. She stood, but he pushed past her and out the door.

She rushed after him. The low flames on the lamps

left the hall in shadow, but she did not slow as she followed

him to the stairs. She gripped the banister as Simon ran to

a body crumpled at the bottom. He bent toward silver hair

which burned like cold fire in the faint light.

Hastings. He must have fallen down the stairs.

Simon called, “Get someone to help me get him to his

rooms, Darcy.”

“Is he—?”

“He is alive.” His voice broke. “But I don’t know for

how long.”



Eight

Darcy ran along the hall to the closest room. She went

in and jerked on the bellpull. When a footman appeared,

she ordered, “Send for a doctor. Dr. Hastings has been

hurt!”

The young man rushed away to obey, shouting as he

reached the end of the corridor opening into the servants’

section.

Mrs. Pollock must have heard the bell as well, because

she hurried toward Darcy. She was dressed in her

nightclothes, her gray hair hastily pinned back, her feet

nearly out of her slippers. “Miss Kincaid, I heard—”

“Send some of the footmen to help Simon at the foot

of the front staircase.”

“What has happened?”

“Dr. Hastings is injured.”

As soon as Mrs. Pollock gave the orders to a maid

who had followed her, Darcy grasped the housekeeper’s

hand and led her toward the stairs. Mrs. Pollock followed

only a few steps, then halted. Darcy tugged on her hand.

When the housekeeper did not move, dismay carved into

her face, Darcy hurried to where Simon was bent over his

father.

“How is he?” she asked.

“Unconscious.” Simon frowned when his father’s eyes

opened, but were glazed with pain. “Barely conscious, I

should say.”

“Help is on the way.”

“Take this.” He handed her a handkerchief. “See if

you can stop the bleeding on his head while I check to be

certain no bones are broken. I don’t want to risk moving

him until I’m sure.”

She nodded. Murmuring apologies, she dabbed at the

wound on the side of Hastings’ forehead. He must have

struck it on the floor because there was no blood on the



steps. Something clicked against the buttons on his high

collar, and she looked down to see her pendant had fallen

out of her wrapper. She stuffed it away quickly. Now was

not the time for irrelevant questions.

“No bones broken.” Simon stood. “Step back, Darcy.”

“I would be glad to help.”

Mrs. Pollock came forward and drew Darcy to one

side. “Listen to Dr. Simon. Stay out of the way, Miss

Kincaid.” Her face was almost as gray as her hair.

Darcy edged back farther when Fraser ran along the

hall with a quartet of footmen. The butler and the footmen

carried blankets. With Simon helping, they tucked blankets

around Hastings as tightly as a mummy’s wrap. Together,

they carried the elderly man up the stairs. His shoe fell

off, and Darcy picked it up.

She frowned. The bottom was wet. Had Hastings

slipped on something that had been dripped at the top of

the stairs? She looked down at the hem of her wrapper.

There was no dampness there. Raising the shoe to her nose,

she was able to catch no odor. It must be just water. Maybe

it had been on the floor where he had fallen. Any signs

had been obliterated by the footmen’s boots.

“Come along,” called Mrs. Pollock as she followed

the men up the stairs.

Darcy stepped around the blood pooled on the floor,

then sent a maid to get cloths to clean it. None of them

needed to return down the stairs and see that. When the

ashen-faced maid nodded, Darcy hurried up the stairs, still

holding the bloody handkerchief and the shoe. The lights

had been turned up, and the silence banished as she heard

the servants calling to each other.

What about Simon? She paused at the open doorway

that led to Hastings’ private rooms. Taking a single step

inside, she halted. She should not be taking note of the

decor in the sitting room, but she could not ignore it. All

the furniture matched the styles she had seen in Egypt,



low benches and simple tables. The walls had been painted

with figures. She recognized some of them as the sort found

on ancient Egyptian artifacts. Others she could not identify.

They marched around the room in silence. When she saw

several were looking toward the ceiling, she did the same.

“Oh, my!” she whispered, pressing her hands over her

mouth. The ceiling rose to a point like a pyramid, and it

was decorated with more figures. She knew all of these—

Ra with his hawk head. Isis who had a vulture atop her

head and like Ra carried an ankh to symbolize the life of

mortals, the scarab beetle by her feet representing Khepera

who brought the rising sun. Kha-A with his bow to protect

the underworld. Anubis who wore the head of a jackal

while he guided the dead through the underworld to the

other gods. And Thoth who judged the dead to determine

if they were worthy of being granted eternal life. More

symbols were woven between them, and she knew each of

them from Jaddeh’s tales of Egypt’s ancient times.

She had not guessed there could be such a place in

Rosewood Hall, with its somber Tudor exterior and dusky

pink interior. Even though Hastings had told her he and

his late wife had had a great deal of interest in Egypt and

the classical world, this was still extraordinary for a house

on the edge of Dartmoor.

Her arm was grasped, and Darcy could not halt her

shriek of astonishment.

Mrs. Pollock put her finger to her lips. “Hush, Miss

Kincaid. Quiet is what we need now.”

“How is Dr. Hastings?” she asked, shaking off the

enchantment of this extraordinary room which did not seem

to impress the housekeeper who must have seen it many

times.

“Dr. Simon has had him put in his bed and is taking

care of him until the doctor can arrive. I must ask you to

go to your rooms now. I’ll bring the news of Dr. Hastings’

condition to you there, if you wish, Miss Kincaid.”



“I should—”

“Stay out of the way.” Mrs. Pollock softened her harsh

words with a weak smile. “I know you’re worried, but I

shall send you word as soon as possible.”

Darcy nodded and handed the handkerchief to the

housekeeper before setting the shoe on the floor by a table

decorated with engravings of palm fronds. Backing out of

the room, Darcy bumped into a maid who was coming in.

Mrs. Pollock was correct. Darcy had no place in these

rooms while they tended to Hastings.

She walked toward her own apartment of rooms, but

glanced back on every step. Servants scurried in and out

of Hastings’ door.

With a sigh, Darcy closed her own door behind her. It

was so quiet within her rooms that the hiss of gas lamps

seemed like a shout. She reached up for the closest one

and turned it down, but not completely out. She frowned.

It was time she put aside her silly fear of dark, enclosed

places. Simon had been kind tonight to indulge her . . .

And she had indulged him. She thought of how easily she

had gone into his arms. His kisses had been mind-draining,

but she must not risk her dreams of returning to Egypt by

wandering again into his embrace.

Picking up her notebook, she went into her bedroom

and shouldered aside the heavy draperies. The windows

were still up.

She leaned her forehead against the cool glass. Only

darkness filled the garden. No hints of lanterns or torches

taunted her. Everything was just as it should be.

So why had Hastings tumbled down the stairs? She

feared he had suffered some sort of heart palpitation, but

Simon had not mentioned that. Surely that must have been

the very first thing he checked, for he had spoken of his

father’s weak heart.

At the sound of footfalls in the corridor, she pushed

herself away from the window, letting the draperies fall



back into place. A knock came on her door. Before she

could reach it, the door opened.

“Simon!” she gasped. She had not expected he would

come here now.

For the briefest second, his gaze moved along her in a

caress so sensual she could almost believe he was touching

her again. Then his eyes hardened as he said, “I wanted to

let you know Dr. Tompkins has arrived and is with my

father.”

“But why are you here?”

“Dr. Tompkins insisted on privacy to examine him,”

he answered as he gestured with impatience for her to sit.

He barely waited for her to choose a chair before sitting

across from her. “Father has regained his senses.”

“Did he say what happened?”

“He doesn’t seem to recall that.” He clasped his hands

between his knees. “But he was aware you sent for help

for him.”

“I had no idea he had seen me.”

He shrugged. “It may be more he heard you while he

was regaining consciousness. He has asked me to convey

his thanks to you.”

“I wish I could have done more.”

Again his gaze swept along her, leaving her wondering

how he could sear her skin with a glance. “You’ll have all

you can do to halt the rumors already flying through the

house.”

She clutched the front of her wrapper. “Simon, I’m so

sorry my nightmare—”

“Pardon me, but, even if it was of the utmost

importance, I can’t worry about your reputation when my

father has been injured.”

“I didn’t mean for you to worry about that. How could

you think I was concerned about anything but your father?”

He sighed. “Now I owe you another apology. After

all, if I hadn’t been awake, I might not have heard Father



fall. Who knows how long he might have been left there

without help?”

She rose and went to kneel by his chair. Taking Simon’s

hand, she was not surprised it was winter cold. He drew

her head down against his arm. As she rested her cheek on

it, she knew no words could lessen the pain he was

experiencing, but whispered, “Does the doctor believe it

was a fall or something else?”

“Like a heart palpitations? I would rather hope not.”

He stood. “It has been long enough. I’m going back to

Father’s rooms. Darcy, I need you to do something for

me.”

“Of course. If I can.”

“Go into Halyeyn and alert Andrew about the accident

Father has had. I don’t want him to hear of it from a

footman. I know you will tell him gently, knowing of the

affection he has for my father.”

She nodded, although she wanted to ask him to send

someone else. “Yes, he will want to know. It’s kind of you

to think of him now.”

“‘Tis not just a kindness.”

She shivered. He wanted the vicar here in case

Hastings’ condition took a turn for the worse.

“I want to stay nearby if Father needs anything.” He

tipped her face up. “I’ll see you in my office after breakfast

on the morrow.”

Darcy nodded again, not surprised he spoke of work.

The deadline could not be changed because of his father’s

health. As he left, she wanted to call him back and urge

him to think only of Hastings. He was fortunate to have

him and the memories of the years they had spent together.

Lifting out her pendant, she cupped it in her hand as

she tried to recall any aspect of parents’ faces. Jaddeh had

kept a portrait of them in her house, and she had pointed

out how Darcy’s eyes resembled her father’s and the shape

of her mouth was an inheritance from her mother. Yet the



memory of that portrait had faded during the years since

she had been in Egypt. Maybe when she returned to Egypt,

the painting would still be there in her grandmother’s

house, and she could reassure herself Jaddeh had been

right about Darcy’s resemblance to her parents.

She went to dress. She could not linger here when

Simon had asked her to take the news to Dr. Fairfield. She

hoped, by the time she returned, Hastings would have no

need of the vicar other than his company.

***

The wheels clattered along the road leading from

Rosewood Hall. Nash drove with skill through the

darkness.

Darcy looked out the carriage windows. This night

had taken so many different turns. Her trepidation at seeing

the lights in the garden seemed silly now. Even her

nightmare had become absurd when Hastings had been

hurt.

With Simon’s permission, Dr. Tompkins had given her

a report to take to the vicar. Hastings had not broken any

bones, but he was badly bruised. Bed rest would be

necessary for at least a week. The doctor, whose face was

nearly lost behind his walrus mustache, had been most

concerned about the fact Hastings did not recall how he

had come to be at the base of the staircase. Hastings

remembered nothing since going for a walk in the garden

after his conversation with Darcy in the library.

She frowned. Why had Hastings gone out at such a

late hour? Her breath caught sharply. If he had chanced

upon the people trespassing through the gardens, he might

have rushed back to the house to get help in making them

leave. In his hurry, he could have slipped and fallen. Having

been out in the garden and the grass that was heavy with

dew would explain his wet shoe.

Her eyes were caught by lights from a huge building

on a nearby hill that rose even higher than the moors. It



would dwarf Rosewood Hall, and she wondered why she

had not noticed it when she drove with Simon into Halyeyn.

A heated flush surrounded her. She had been too busy with

her fantasies about her book and then her thoughts of

Simon to take note of anything.

When the carriage crossed the bridge where they had

stopped by the wishing pool, she clenched her hands more

tightly in her lap. She had been taken by surprise at Simon’s

ardor, even as she had awaited it. Tonight . . . She closed

her eyes and let the memory of his touch surge through

her. His hands were rough in texture, yet gentle when they

held her. That continued to fascinate her because she had

not expected a scholar’s hands to be workworn like a

builder’s.

She tried to silence that thought. Why did her thoughts

of Simon turn so often into a comparison to Kafele? She

forced her shoulders to relax against the seat cushion. It

could be simply that, like Kafele, Simon was driven to

complete his life’s greatest work.

As the carriage paused in front of the vicarage, she

took a deep breath. Bringing this disturbing news to

Reverend Fairfield was a task she wished had been given

to someone else.

She nodded her thanks to Nash when the coachman

held the door for her. Even in the faint light from the lantern

hanging on the other side of the carriage, she could see his

grim expression.

Drawing her paisley shawl more tightly around her

shoulders, even though the night was warmer than recent

ones, Darcy walked through the small garden to the

vicarage’s front door. She knocked quietly.

Mrs. Lennox, the vicar’s unsmiling housekeeper,

opened the door. She showed no surprise when Darcy asked

to see the vicar. Darcy wondered, as she followed the

housekeeper past the parlor, illuminated by a single lamp,

to another door, how many visitors the vicar received in



the middle of the night.

She blinked when Mrs. Lennox opened this door. The

flare of several gaslights exploded out to pierce her eyes.

As her eyes adjusted, she looked at a comfortable office

with a desk and a pair of overstuffed chairs. It was neat,

unlike the chaos in Reverend Fairfield’s library. Here, each

book was set neatly on one of the shelves ringing the room.

Not a hint of dust was visible anywhere. If she did not

know better, she would have guessed the room was never

used except for show.

“Wait here,” Mrs. Lennox ordered, leaving before

Darcy could say anything. Her footsteps went up the stairs

and across the upper floor.

Standing in the middle of the room, curious about the

books on the shelves but not wanting to disturb anything,

Darcy smiled weakly when the thick carpet teased her to

throw aside propriety and curl up on it and go back to

sleep. What more damage could she do to her reputation

than she had tonight? If she learned of this, Grandmother

Kincaid would chortle coldly and remind Darcy how

frequently she had lamented of her granddaughter being

as thoughtless and unable to control her passions as Darcy’s

mother.

“Good evening . . . or morning.”

She jumped when she heard Reverend Fairfield’s

greeting from behind her.

“Forgive me for alarming you,” he said as he came

into the room.

“You have nothing to ask forgiveness for,” she replied

automatically. She could have added that she was more

startled by his appearance than by his voice.

Reverend Fairfield did not have the look of a man

roused from sleep. His eyes were not heavy. Quite to the

contrary, for they glittered with what she would have

labeled the remnants of excitement in anyone else’s eyes.

Simon had this expression when he found another clue to



one of the words he was researching. She reminded herself

the vicar was a man just like any other. Maybe he had just

written the exact phrase he needed for his next sermon.

Such work could have kept him up all night.

“What brings you here at this hour?” Reverend

Fairfield asked.

“Dr. Hastings took a bad fall.”

The vicar’s smooth smile vanished. “What? How does

he fare?”

“He’s doing as well as can be expected. He hit his

head very hard, but the doctor believes—”

“Doctor?” His laugh was brittle. “That old fool.” His

mouth became a straight line that brought Simon instantly

to mind. “He’s an incurable gossip. If Hastings says

anything to him about . . .” He glanced at her, and his

smile returned. “Thank you very much for bringing this

news.”

“You are welcome.” She had not expected such a

reaction from him, even though she was not exactly sure

what this reaction was. She had guessed he would ask more

questions about Hastings’ condition.

“Why did Simon send you?”

“He thought you should hear it from someone other

than a footman.” She hesitated, than added, “He thought I

would tell you of this gently. I fear I bumbled that. I am

sorry.”

As she turned toward the door, he said, “One moment.

I shall be coming to Rosewood Hall as soon as I can have

my horse saddled, but I wanted to send Hastings some

words of condolence.”

“I have the carriage right out front.” Every word he

spoke confused her more.

He did not act as if he had heard her as he scribbled

some words onto a sheet, folded it, and sealed it with a

bright red wax. He held it out to her.

As she stepped forward to take it, her skirts brushed



something wet in the carpet. She glanced down to see what

it might be. Had someone spilled a cup onto the floor?

When she saw Reverend Fairfield’s shoes and the hem of

his trousers were soaked, she guessed he had tracked in

the water. From where? She had heard Mrs. Lennox

upstairs, so the vicar must have been up there. Yet, his

shoes were wet and covered with bits of grass.

“I would appreciate you having this delivered to

Hastings immediately,” Reverend Fairfield said, drawing

her attention back to the note.

She took it and saw how his hand was trembling.

Maybe she had misjudged him. He seemed far more

distressed at the news of Hastings’ accident than she had

surmised. Telling him she would have the message taken

directly to the elderly man, she hurried out of the vicarage.

If Nash was surprised Reverend Fairfield was not

joining her on the ride back to Rosewood Hall, he showed

no sign of it. He must have become accustomed to the

peculiarities of this family. She wished she could.

Balancing the note on her lap, she stared at the design

pressed into the wax. It looked like some sort of

mythological character—half lion and half snake. Not at

all what she would have thought a vicar might use.

She wondered why Reverend Fairfield had sent a note

instead of hurrying to Hastings’ bedside himself. When a

yawn burst out of her, she pushed her curiosity aside. There

was enough amiss. She did not need to look for more

trouble.

Darcy climbed the front steps as rain started falling

beyond the porte-cochere, and the door beneath the rosetinted

glass opened. She greeted the butler Fraser. He acted

as if he were frightened about someone or something

outside, for he hastily closed the door as sweat shone on

his brow.

“Dr. Simon is in his office,” he said before she could

say more.



“How is Hastings?”

“The doctor decided to stay with him while Dr.

Hastings sleeps.”

She held out the letter the vicar had sent. “Will you

have this delivered to Hastings’ room? Reverend Fairfield

wanted him to see it as soon as possible.”

“Isn’t the vicar coming?”

“He said he would be here soon.”

Fraser’s shoulders relaxed slightly. “That’s good. Dr.

Simon seems to have found sleep impossible himself. He

came down to his office and asked me to ask you if you

would join him there upon your return.”

Darcy nodded, although she could not halt a wistful

glance toward the stairs. Her nightmare had left her more

exhausted than when she went to bed, and the events since

she had awakened to find herself in Simon’s arms had only

added to her confusion and fatigue. Hoping Simon would

realize she could not type accurately when she was so tired,

she trudged along the hallway toward his office.

She paused when she saw the filmy glow hanging in

the air before the door. “What are you?” she whispered.

“Why are you here near Simon’s office?”

The glow flowed toward her too swiftly for her to react.

As it surrounded her, its light flickering along her as if she

had swallowed a ray of sunshine, all signs of her exhaustion

vanished. She was filled with a joy so sweet she laughed.

Putting her fingers to her lips, hoping no one had heard

her giddy giggle when Hastings was being tended to by

the doctor upstairs, she turned to see the glowing air rise

toward the ceiling and disappear.

She shivered, all yearning to smile vanishing along

with the glow. This odd light, which was so different from

her companion light, yet had metamorphosed into it when

she had seen it in Simon’s office, had created these strong

emotions of sorrow and now happiness each time it

appeared.



Was it a ghost? She frowned. She did not believe in

such silliness. Ghost stories were like Jaddeh’s amazing

tales, fun to repeat but based on nothing.

Another shiver coursed along her. Those were

Grandmother Kincaid’s opinions, not hers. If she accepted

that her companion light was some sort of guardian angel,

believing in ghosts which remained as pure emotion was

not much of a stretch to imagine.

She gazed up at the ceiling and whispered as she had

before, “What are you?” Some lingering sensation from

the glow suggested the answer to that question was one

she must find soon.



Nine

As Darcy entered the office, the soft patter of rain

against the windows was the only sound she heard. When

she saw Simon bent over a book, she had to fight the

temptation to smooth back his russet hair. Seeing him

absorbed in tracing the origins of another word was

appealing. She admired his resolve to complete his book

by the deadline. She was unsure she could be as focused if

her father had been hurt.

He looked up, coming to his feet, and she saw she had

misread him again. His face was drawn, his eyes dull with

worry. Setting the book on the table beside him, he swore

when several more tumbled to the floor.

She knelt and gathered them up, setting them back on

the table and straightening the pile so no more fell.

“Thank you,” Simon said tersely.

“Fraser said you wished to see me straightaway.”

Instead of replying to her comment, he asked, “Is

Andrew here?”

“Reverend Fairfield is following me back to Rosewood

Hall. He should be here soon, although the storm might

delay him.” She stood.

“Very good. I know he’ll want to be here. Thank you

for going to Halyeyn to alert him.”

“Simon, may I ask a strange question?”

“If you must.”

She flinched as she had at the vicarage. Simon’s tone

was almost lifeless. “It can wait until later.”

“You might as well ask now. Andrew never goes

anywhere quickly. He always has one loose end or another

to tie up, even in the middle of the night.” He went to the

window and peered out. “Last time Father took ill, Andrew

was more than two hours getting here, because he was

busy with his duties.” Facing her, he asked, “What’s

bothering you?”



“Don’t think me silly, but does Rosewood Hall have a

resident ghost?”

“Probably. Any house this old must have a couple of

spirits or two.” His lips tilted his mustache, although his

eyes remained filled with worry. “Why? Have you seen

one?”

“Maybe.” She wrapped her arms around herself as she

stared at the rain crawling along the window.

“I’d have thought you’d be more likely to see a real

ghost at Andrew’s house.”

“The vicarage?”

“It wasn’t always the vicarage. In fact, Andrew is the

first vicar to live there. He had a much smaller house before

he received the house from Mrs. Gaines after she died in

the insane asylum overlooking Halyeyn.”

“Insane asylum? Is that the big building on the hill

beyond the village?”

He nodded. “We try to forget it’s there, but those with

loved ones who are mad believe they’re helping them with

a life in the country.”

“Did the church or Reverend Fairfield inherit the

house?”

“I’m not sure. I believe it’s his for as long as he is

vicar of Halyeyn. He did spend a great deal of time with

Mrs. Gaines before she was sent to the asylum.” He walked

toward her. “Why are you so interested?”

“He just seems to be . . .” When Simon paused only

inches from her, her voice faltered. “It’s not important.”

She eased past him as if oblivious to his powerful virility.

No longer could she ignore the strong muscles hidden

beneath his sedate shirt. Her fingers tingled to touch that

smooth skin again. Taking off her bonnet and shawl, she

put them on a chair as she asked, “Shall I continue with

the pages from the Middle English text next?”

“You want to go to work now? You’ve been up half

the night.”



“As have you.” She rubbed her hands together, for a

sudden chill seemed to flicker along her fingers. “I doubt

if I can sleep now, and we’re lagging behind what we need

to get done in order to meet your deadline.”

He stepped between her and the desk. “Darcy, I know

you’re uneasy about what happened in your rooms before

Father fell.”

“You said there was nothing to discuss, and I agree.

You were kind to come to check on me, and I appreciate

it.” She looked past him, so she did not have to meet his

eyes. Then she might have to admit to herself—and to

him—how she wanted to be honest with him about so many

things.

“Yes.”

He said nothing more as she walked around him to

the desk. As she began to work, she tried to push away

both the chill of seeing that odd glow in the hallway and

the sultry heat of standing so close to Simon. She rolled a

clean page into the typewriter, and she pressed the keys,

she never had been so happy to find a haven in her work.

***

~~~ Meskhenet stepped ashore on the far side of the

Nile. She had never come to Thoth’s Valley without her

brother and his retainers. Today, she brought only a single

servant. Nuru, who had served Meskhenet’s mother, knew

how to keep her counsel. Unless asked directly by Pharaoh,

she would not reveal where she and Meskhenet had

traveled.

Turning to the boatman, Meskhenet smiled. Ubaid was

as faithful as Nuru, so she had been elated to find him

with his small boat by the wharf this morning.

“Wait here,” she said.

“I must return to the palace by midday to ferry others

to this shore,” the boatman replied.

“Our business here will be completed long before

midday.”



He nodded his shaved head and sank to sit in the

bottom of his shallow boat. Pulling out a piece of sail, he

bent to work on repairing a rip in it.

Meskhenet motioned for Nuru to follow her as they

walked along the dusty path toward the heart of Thoth’s

Valley. She had come with Onuris on the day her brother

had selected the site of his tomb, and she had been here on

the day the priests came to consecrate it. That had been

months ago, but she knew she would be able to find the

tomb. It would be the sole site of work in the valley. All

activity had been completed at her father’s tomb, and it

had been sealed, its entrance hidden when her father’s

sarcophagus was placed within it to await his judgment

by Thoth.

Sounds of stone being torn from the mountainside,

which rose abruptly from the sand, led her toward where

men worked, their skin already a sheen of sweat. No one

seemed to take note of her and Nuru walking along the

road. Dressed in simple robes and without any jewelry

other than the necklace and the lapis ring that had been

her mother’s, she could have been one of the workers’

women.

“What are you doing here?” asked a deep voice from

beside the road.

Meskhenet believed her heart would leap from her

breast to dance with joy as she saw Kafele climb up from

a ravine. He was as handsome as she remembered, even

with rock dust covering the symbols of Thoth on his sandals

and turning his hair to the gray it would become when he

grew old.

“I came to see you.” She heard Nuru’s breath draw in,

but she would not be dishonest. It had been a full turn of

the moon since she had last spoken with Kafele.

He took her hand, drawing her toward a stack of stones

that would conceal them from the work area. Nuru

followed only a few paces, seeking the shade although the



sun was not far above the eastern horizon.

“You should not be here,” Kafele said.

“You don’t wish for me to be here?”

He framed her face with his large hands. “Beloved of

Thoth, you know I wish you to be near me every minute of

the day and throughout the night. But you are Pharaoh’s

sister.”

“Do you think I care about that?” She stood on tiptoe

and brushed her lips against his.

With an eager laugh, he tugged her into his arms as

his mouth covered hers. His fingers rubbed her back gently

as he held her even closer.

Slowly he turned her so he pressed her against the

stones, but the rock was no harder than his strong body.

Her head rested on his muscular arm as he continued to

kiss her with uncontrollable passion. His other hand settled

on her waist, and he caressed its slender lines.

Her own arms slipped up his naked back, her skin

delighting in the hot, sticky warmth of his. When he raised

his mouth from hers, she did not ease away. She gazed up

into his eyes, which were bemused with glittering desire.

He traced her face’s curves with a single finger, as if

seeking to learn each angle. She wondered if he explored

the stone he used to create her brother’s tomb with this

same questing curiosity.

“You are like a kitten,” he murmured. “When I pet

you lightly, you purr so sweetly. The question is if you are

a gentle cat or a lioness.”

“My lady.” Nuru’s voice held a hint of anxiety. “He

comes.”

Meskhenet did not need to ask whom her servant spoke

of. Nuru disliked the chief architect Usi even more than

Meskhenet.

Leaving Kafele’s arms with regret, she said, “Usi may

be seeking you.”

“You must leave without delay, and you must not return



here alone.”

“But I need to see you.”

“I will come to you.” He gripped her hands. “Do not

do anything ever again as foolhardy as returning here alone.

Promise me that.”

“I promise,” she replied, the words bitter on her tongue.

“You must think before you act.”

“Something my brother has told me more than once.”

He gave her a fleeting smile as he said, “Now you

must leave, Beloved of—”

His name was shouted by the chief architect, who must

still be on the other side of the road.

Knowing what she risked, Meskhenet kissed Kafele

again. His arms came up around her to hold her against

him before he pushed her away.

“Go!” he ordered.

She doubted if she had ever done anything in her life

as difficult as walking toward where Nuru paced in dismay.

A single glance back revealed Kafele had already

disappeared among the rocks edging the ravine.

Meskhenet motioned for her servant to follow her back

toward the Nile. They had gone only halfway to the water

before her name was called. For a moment, she tried to

convince her ears Kafele was coming after her. It was

impossible because she recognized the man’s voice

instantly.

Usi.

A young man rushed up to her and dropped to his

knees. Through his panting, she realized he was explaining

Usi wished to speak to her before she returned to the palace.

“Tell him I have no time to remain here,” she replied.

“Not even long enough to make your presence

known?” came Usi’s question from behind her.

She turned, wearing a practiced smile. She had used it

often when speaking with the chief architect. “I did not

want to disturb your workers,” she said.



“So why are you here?” His smile was unctuous, and

she knew better than to trust it. Soon she must speak with

her brother about the chief architect’s greedy heart that

could become troublesome in the months ahead.

She could not reply with the truth, so she lied as she

did so seldom. “I had heard the tunnel to the tomb had

grown double-fold in length in just the past half-turn of

the moon. I wished to see that amazing feat for myself.”

“I would be glad to offer you a tour whenever you

wish.”

“No need. I have seen enough for today. When next

my brother the Pharaoh comes to the site, I believe I shall

join him for a further tour.”

Usi did not step aside to let her pass. “It is not your

honor to join your brother. That goes to your sister.”

She stared at him for a long minute before realizing

what he meant. It was not the place of a chief architect to

speak of the Pharaoh’s intimate life with anyone, not even

Pharaoh’s sister. With all her dignity, she said, “You forget

yourself, Usi. Please move, so I may continue to the river.”

“I have Pharaoh’s respect, and he knows I would do

anything for him.” He eyed her up and down so boldly she

feared he had persuaded Onuris to give her to him. Such a

match would offer Usi unprecedented access to the heart

of Egypt’s power.

“We must not delay,” Nuru said just loudly enough so

Usi had to hear. “It is time for you to return to the palace,

my lady.”

Meskhenet nodded and stared at Usi without comment

or emotion, an expression to suggest he was no longer

worthy of her time. She had seen her mother use it with

great success, and it worked this time as well, because the

chief architect moved aside. Saying nothing to him, she

continued toward the river.

As they neared the line of palms on the shore, Nuru

whispered, “He is watching you, my lady.”



“Usi?”

Nuru peeked back. “He is, too.”

Too? Meskhenet could not look behind her as Nuru

had, but she took with her the joy of knowing Kafele’s

heart was with her, even when he could not be. She hoped

it would strengthen her for what was to come.

***

Darcy put her notebook onto her lap and considered

what she had written. With every word, this story was

proving to be less and less like the other tales Jaddeh had

told her. Was she really recalling her grandmother’s story?

This was most certainly not a tale shared with a child.

And it was a story that added to her disquiet with her

memories of Simon’s caresses. She wanted them to be more

than a mistake. He could not pretend he was completely

engrossed in his work any longer, because she had seen

his strong passions each time he held her.

She looked down at what she had written. Meskhenet

and Kafele yearned for more than these heated kisses . . .

and so did she. Maybe Grandmother Kincaid had been

right. Maybe she was a wanton. In Simon’s arms, she

wanted to throw aside all inhibitions and follow her

passions as they merged with his.

Her fingers trembled as she closed her notebook and

put a top on the ink bottle. Setting both on the desk, she

sat and turned another sheet of paper into the typewriter.

She bent to study the next page of Simon’s work. By now,

she was well acquainted with his abbreviations, so she

did not have to interrupt him or seek him out in the library

to explain.

She paused with her fingers arched above the keys.

Was Simon in the library or with his father? It was

midmorning, so Hastings might be awake. She wondered

how he fared. Surely Mrs. Pollock would have come to

warn her if something more was amiss.

Behind her, the door opened and closed. She turned,



smiling, to greet Simon. Her smile faltered when she saw

Reverend Fairfield. He was wearing a great coat. Was he

just arriving, or was he on his way back to the vicarage?

“Simon isn’t here,” she said.

“I’m not looking for him.” The vicar’s voice was as

strained as his expression. “I was looking for you.”

“Why?”

“Because I have something to say which is for your

ears alone.”

“Of course.” She wished she was as serene as she

sounded.

“You should know very little happens in Halyeyn I’m

not privy to eventually. That includes Rosewood Hall.”

He picked up one of Simon’s books and stared at its spine

as he added, “You were a fool to think I wouldn’t hear

that, last night while Hastings was lying injured at the

foot of the stairs, you were in your rooms alone with

Simon.”

“That’s true, but it isn’t as you seem to think.”

“What I seem to think? I think you spent the night

with him. Is that false?”

She flushed, but kept her gaze on his face. Coming to

her feet, she held her head high. She would not let him—

or anyone else—shame her when she had done nothing

wrong other than to have a fearsome nightmare. Simon’s

arms around her as he comforted her was a precious

memory. Not only had she felt safe, but that she was where

she belonged, a feeling she had not had since she had been

brought to England.

Until she had a chance to sort all of this out and

persuade Simon that leaving what had happened between

them unsaid was a mistake, she did not wish to speak of

this with anyone else. Especially not with Reverend

Fairfield, but she had no choice. She would not be

defensive, just honest. She almost smiled as she realized

she could take a lesson from Meskhenet. She must not let



the vicar fluster her. As long as she appeared unruffled,

she gave her explanation credence.

“Reverend Fairfield,” she said quietly, “Simon did

come to my room last night. I had a nightmare and cried

out in my sleep. He heard me and came to ensure that

nothing was wrong. That’s all that happened, I can assure

you.”

He snorted in derision. “Simon is a virile man. You

are a not unattractive woman. Yet you want me to believe

you lured him to your rooms and then you did nothing but

talk?”

“I want you to believe the truth.”

“Then you should speak it.”

“I have spoken the truth. It’s your choice to believe it

or not.”

When she turned to leave, he said, “I haven’t yet said

what I intended.”

“Reverend Fairfield, I don’t believe I wish to hear

anything else you have to say.”

“No? I have a proposal you should hear. I offer you

£300 if you leave Rosewood Hall and return to London by

the end of the week. I believe that is more than the salary

Simon promised you.”

Darcy gasped. Three hundred pounds would more than

pay for her trip to Egypt. It would help her find a house

there, as well. She faltered, reluctant to throw away this

chance to obtain her dreams. When Reverend Fairfield’s

lips began to tilt in a smile, she wondered how a man of

the church could wear such a fiendishly satisfied

expression.

She shook her head. “Sir, I’ll continue to be honest

and say I’m sorry I can’t accept your generous offer. I

promised Simon I would remain here until his manuscript

is finished and on its way to his publisher.”

“He can finish it himself. Why don’t you just say yes

and we can be done with it? You know this is the exact



price for your cooperation.

“I won’t be bought.”

“I’m not buying anything but your absence.” He

reached under his coat. When he tossed an envelope onto

the desk, it scattered pound notes around her typewriter.

“Take it, Darcy. Then leave. £300 will last you a very long

time if you’re frugal. And if a reference is what you want,

I’ll be glad to arrange for an excellent one.”

She clasped her hands behind her back. “No.”

“No?” he repeated as if he could not believe her quiet

refusal. “What more do you want, Darcy? No, there’s no

need for you to answer that question. It’s clear you want

Simon and his inheritance.”

“If I wanted anyone’s inheritance, I could have my

own.”

“Your own?” His eyes widened in shock. “From

whom?”

“My private business is none of your concern. I have

given you my answer. I shall remain at Rosewood Hall

until I complete the job I’ve barely begun.”

Reverend Fairfield snarled, “To seduce Simon?”

“To work on his manuscript.” She refused to be baited

into anger. “If you’re finished, sir, I must ask you to excuse

me. I have more work to do.”

“Your supposed work will be of little use if I send this

letter to Mr. Caldwell.” He withdrew another envelope

from under his coat.

“Letter? Why are you writing to Simon’s publisher?”

“Why don’t you read it? Then you can see how you

shall ruin Simon.” He opened the envelope and held a page

out to her.

She took it. In his excellent penmanship, Reverend

Fairfield was suggesting that the publishing house

withdraw its offer to Simon because of faulty research.

“This is a lie,” she said quietly as she tossed the letter

atop the money. “Simon is meticulous in his work.”



“But he has made mistakes.”

“One that I know of, but he would have corrected it

himself before sending the manuscript to Mr. Caldwell.

He is double-checking everything.”

Reverend Fairfield picked up the letter, but not the

money. With a smile, he folded it and placed it beneath his

coat. “I shan’t post this if you leave Rosewood Hall.”

“When I tell Simon about this, he’ll put an end to this

attempt to interfere with his work.”

Reverend Fairfield smiled. “You could tell him, but

you won’t.”

“I tire of your threats. I—”

“I’m not threatening you.” He wore the serene

expression she had seen on other vicars’ faces. “I’m being

honest. If you go to him with this, whom will he believe?

You or me? He knows I keep this family’s well-being

uppermost in my mind at all times.”

Darcy did not want to admit he was correct, but he

was. The admiration Simon had for his cousin was strong,

and, if she spoke to Simon, she had no doubts the vicar

would deny the whole. Was that what he hoped she would

do? By making her this offer and then challenging her to

say nothing of it, was he expecting her to run to Simon

with her complaints? Then, the vicar could denounce her.

Whom would Simon believe? She suspected it would be

his cousin.

When she said nothing, Reverend Fairfield asked, “Do

we have an agreement then? £300 plus a favorable

reference if you’re gone by the end of the week.”

“I can’t—”

“If you haven’t left by then, I shall post the letter to

Caldwell without delay.”

“Why are you so determined to have me leave?”

“As you put it so bluntly, my private business is none

of your concern.”

Darcy stared at the determination on his face. He would



do as he said. Arguing now would gain her nothing. A

week? She might find a solution in that time, a way to

convince Simon to listen to her. Taking a deep breath, she

said, “You’ll know my decision by week’s end, sir.”

“What do you mean?”

“It’s simple.” She smiled as icily as he had. “If I’m

gone at the week’s end, you can be sure I shall send you a

forwarding address so you may post the £300 and a

favorable reference. If I remain at Rosewood Hall, my

answer is just as obvious.” She turned to leave. “Good

day, sir.”

“Darcy,” he drawled to her back.

She should walk out of the office and put as much

space as she could between herself and the vicar, whose

devotion to his family was leading him in a misguided

direction. “Yes?” she asked, facing him as he gathered up

the last of the money and put it back beneath his coat.

He stepped closer to her. When he put his finger

beneath her chin and tilted it up, she was shocked.

“You shall never get what you want from Simon,” he

said. “He will send you on your way with your salary and

a good reference when you have completed your work here.

If you think you mean anything to him, you’re silly. He

has vowed never to care for anyone—other than his

surviving family—ever again. I’m not so shortsighted.”

He cupped her cheek. When she tried to step away, his

other hand curved around her nape, holding her in place.

“What do you say, Darcy?”

“I’m not shortsighted either.” She twisted away from

him and gasped as her hair dropped about her shoulders.

Ignoring her hair pins tumbling to the floor, she raised her

chin. “I don’t know why you want to hurt Simon, but it’s

clear that you do.”

“You mistake my intentions.”

“I don’t believe I do.”

“You know as well as I how you have been a disruption



to his studies.”

“I am helping him.”

“And so am I! I want him to achieve all he deserves.”

She stared at him. Grandmother Kincaid’s devotion

to the family had been the reason cited for making Darcy

miserable. Was this how all families were? She thought of

the girls at Miss Mumsey’s who dreamed of falling in love,

but knew they would marry whomever their parents chose.

Biting back her agreement to take the money so she

could leave England right away, she replied, “Reverend

Fairfield, I’ve given you the only answer I intend to give

you.”

Darcy’s outraged exit was ruined when the door opened

nearly in her face. She jumped back as the door swung

toward her.

Simon walked in, smiling broadly. “Andrew, why

didn’t you come directly to Father’s rooms? He’s eager to

see you.”

“I was on my way there.” Reverend Fairfield looked

at Darcy, his smile daring her to condemn him.

As he turned toward her, Simon’s brows lowered.

“Why are you hiding behind the door?”

“I was on my way out when you came in.” She glanced

at the vicar and quickly away. “If you’ll excuse me . . .”

Simon put his hand on her arm as she tried to slip past

him. Even as that delicious heat spread through her, she

shook it off. She must not show any reaction when

Reverend Fairfield was sure to be watching intently.

He regarded her with amazement. And why not? She

had welcomed his touch last night. “What happened to

you?”

Bending to gather up a couple of pins, she twisted her

hair back into place. “It’s nothing,” she said, taking pains

not to look at the vicar.

“Then come along. Father would like to see you, too,

Darcy.”



“In his private rooms?” she gasped, unable to restrain

her surprise at this unexpected request.

“Along with me and Andrew, so you’ll be properly

chaperoned.” An edge returned to his voice. “Do come

along.”

“Yes,” she replied, although she doubted if he heard

her as he walked with his cousin toward the stairs closest

to Hastings’ rooms.

She followed them, noting again how alike and how

different they were. As Reverend Fairfield handed his

greatcoat to a footman, he tugged on his waistcoat which

was as perfectly pressed as the rest of his clothing. Simon

looked enticingly mussed, and a hint of whiskers shadowed

his cheeks as they had last night when he had come to her.

Simon was speaking with enthusiasm about his father’s

recovery and his own work while the vicar listened with

an indifference that suggested he was no more than a mere

acquaintance.

When, at the top of the stairs, Simon continued along

the hallway, Reverend Fairfield paused and offered his arm

to her with a cool smile. She acted as if she had not seen it

as she walked past him. Hearing him grumble something

under his breath—something she suspected was not

appropriate for a clergyman to utter—she hurried to catch

up with Simon.

He put his hand on her elbow, startling her even as

she could not submerge her delight. As his fingers splayed

across her arm, he murmured, “After we talk with Father,

I believe it would be wise for you and me to speak of—”

“Yes.”

Bafflement filled his expressive eyes at her enthusiastic

interruption, but she could not explain she did not want

his cousin to be privy to any of this. When Reverend

Fairfield went with them through the ornately painted

room, she was glad the vicar said nothing to hint at what

they had discussed in Simon’s office.



The bedchamber was a continuation of the intricate

design in the antechamber. Darcy tried to keep her steps

even as she gazed around herself in amazement. Unlike

the outer room, this room had not been painted to resemble

the inside of an ancient tomb. Instead a mural covered

three walls, edging around the fireplace and the windows

and doors.

It was a depiction of a scene she knew so well. Or she

had known, for the mural suggested the room with its huge

tester bed commanding the unpainted wall was truly in a

garden overlooking the Nile. She almost could feel the

sand beneath her shoes and draw in the odors of animals,

pooled water, and heat. Looking up, she saw a domed

skylight which would welcome in sunshine and starlight.

“Oh, my,” she whispered.

From the bed came a rusty laugh, and she realized her

words must have been spoken more loudly than she

intended. Hastings, who was dressed in a scarlet smoking

jacket, sat there with a green satin coverlet over his legs.

Around his head was a bandage that dimmed his silver

hair, but he held his pipe as if this day were no different

from any other.

“Do come closer, my dear,” he commanded like a king

seated on a throne. “I welcome your comments about the

accuracy of the artwork in this room.”

Darcy glanced at Simon who dropped his arm from

beneath her fingers in a silent order to obey his father. She

was aware of all three men watching her as she walked

toward the bed. The mattress was so high above the floor

she could have leaned forward and perched her elbows on

it without bending far.

As she came closer, she saw how wrong she had been

to assume that, save for the bandage, Hastings was fine. A

bruise darkened his left cheek from beneath his eye nearly

to his chin. His left hand was bandaged, and she could not

guess if it was cut or broken. Hints of red still glistened



along the bandage around his head.

“I’m not dead,” he grumbled. “Not yet.” Looking past

her, he said, “Andrew, just the man I wanted to see.”

“How are you, Hastings?” asked the vicar, surging

forward to pay his respects.

Darcy swallowed her distaste as she watched the vicar

fawn over Hastings. Even though he was family, Reverend

Fairfield owed his living to Hastings, so he would be wise

to stay in Hastings’ good graces. However, he did not need

to be such a disgustingly obvious bootlicker.

Was she the only one disturbed by him? Simon was

joining in the conversation as if this were customary.

Maybe it was, but the vicar’s groveling bothered her.

Her thoughts were disrupted when Hastings said, “But

Darcy has what I wanted to show you, Andrew.”

All three men turned toward her.

“Come here, my dear,” Hastings said, motioning for

her to stand closer to where he was propped in a nest of

pillows. “Do show it to us.”

“Show what?” she asked.

“Why, your necklace, of course.”

She pressed her hand over the amulet beneath her

demure blouse as she locked eyes with Simon. After he

had promised to tell no one of it, he had wasted no time in

running to his father with the story of her necklace.

“Do show it to us,” Hastings gushed. “I’d like to

examine it closer.”

“It is inaccessible at the moment,” she replied.

“We shall wait while you do what you must to retrieve

it.” He pointed toward the wall divided by the fireplace.

“You can go into my dressing room.”

“Not necessary,” said Simon as he moved behind her

and put one hand on her shoulder. “The chain is visible

above her back collar. If I may, Darcy.”

She had never heard such a chill in his voice, and she

wondered why he was distressed. She had not broken a



promise made to him . . . not even for three hundred pounds.

Before she could reply, his finger slipped along her

nape to hook around the chain. She fisted her hands in the

folds of her gown. Not in anger, but to keep herself from

flinging her arms around his shoulders as she gave him

the opportunity to touch more than her neck. She wanted

his warm breath against her face in the moment before he

kissed her. As the chain was drawn up along her skin, she

imagined his fingers moving along her. She should be

furious with him—and she was—but even her vexation

could not submerge the yearning.

Then the pendant dropped against her ruffled shirt,

and he stepped away to put one hand on the bed’s carved

upright. A sense of loss threatened to overwhelm her. She

kept her face serene as she picked up the pendant, cupping

it in her palm. Nothing must betray her thoughts.

“It is Thoth,” exclaimed Hastings as he leaned toward

her. “I thought that was what I saw.”

“Saw?” she asked, puzzled.

“When you were tending to me after my fall. I wasn’t

sure I was seeing correctly, but, by Jove, it is Thoth. Why

do you wear a pendant with him upon it?”

“My grandmother gave it to me when I was born.”

She added nothing else as she saw the recriminations in

Simon’s frown. She must apologize to him, but not here.

“Who’s Thoth?” asked Reverend Fairfield.

Hastings laughed. “I would not expect you to know.

After all, you did not have a classical education.”

“Like you and Simon.”

Was Darcy the only one to hear the bitterness in the

vicar’s voice? Neither Simon nor his father seemed to take

note of it.

“Sit down, Andrew,” Hastings ordered, “and I’ll tell

you all about it. I can see by Simon’s posture he’s anxious

to return to his work now that he knows I’m going to

survive, and I know he’ll want Darcy to go with him to do



her magic on that machine of hers.”

“Before you go,” the vicar said, “I would like to

examine that.” He came around the foot of the bed and

plucked the pendant from her hand. Turning it over once

and then looking at the figure on it, he smiled. “This is

very interesting.” His eyes drilled into her as he added,

“Most interesting indeed. I look forward to hearing what

you can tell me about this Thoth creature, Hastings.”

Stepping back, Darcy was relieved when the vicar

released her pendant to let it fall against her. She nodded

when Simon excused both her and himself, motioning for

her to follow him out of the room.

She gladly did. Her breath came out in an unsteady

rush as soon as they were back in the hallway. When Simon

walked away, she hurried down the stairs after him,

ignoring how her pendant bounced against her on each

step.

“Simon,” she said.

“It’s time to go to work.” He did not give her the

courtesy of looking at her.

“I’m sorry I thought you had broken your promise not

to speak to anyone about my pendant.”

He paused in the doorway to his office and faced her.

Anger sparked in his green eyes. “I told you I wouldn’t

tell anyone of it, and I take my vows very seriously.

Jumping to conclusions is an unhealthy habit.” He opened

the door, adding as he walked in, “I trust you won’t break

your promises as easily as you believe I would break mine.”

“I won’t.” She was not sure he heard her, and she

wondered if it mattered. He had already closed her out as

completely as he had when she first arrived at Rosewood

Hall.



Ten

“Good afternoon,” called Darcy as she entered Simon’s

office. He did not look up from what he was reading. She

placed the stack of books on the table next to where he

sat. Although she knew her words might be thrown back

into her face, for in the past two days he had said no more

to her than was necessary to continue work on his

manuscript, she said, “Simon, Mrs. Pollock asked me to

let you know that she has kept your tea warm for you if

you’d like to take it on the terrace. She believes you should

enjoy this day before it is over.”

He surged to his feet, a single page instead of a book

in his hand. An odd glint brightened his eyes. “A walk in

the last of the day’s sunshine is the last thing I need at the

moment.”

“What’s wrong? Did you receive another letter from

Mr. Caldwell?” She lifted the cloth off her typewriter,

looking away from him. Even so, she could feel his gaze

cutting into her back. After him ignoring her, she was

unprepared for this odd stare . . . or her reaction to it, for a

quiver inched along her, urging her to turn and welcome

him into her arms. She forced a smile as she continued to

keep her eyes focused on her typewriter and said, “Tell

Mr. Caldwell I’m typing as fast as I can with these poor,

aching fingers.”

Darcy gasped as Simon caught her by the shoulders

and spun her to face him. “I ache at night, too,” he replied,

the passion in his eyes growing stronger as his fingers

stroked her arms.

“Simon—”

His mouth covered hers, driving all protests from her

mind. She gripped his elbows to push herself out of his

arms, frightened by this sudden change. If she did not know

better, she would have guessed he was a completely

different man from the one who had glowered at her for



two days.

He refused to release her. His fingers slipped up her

back, drawing her even closer. Slowly his lips tantalized

each inch of hers. His mustache was soft and caressed

her. When his tongue brushed her lower lip, her fingers

rose along his arms. Melting into the kiss, she surrendered

to the wild pulse throbbing through her.

The sound nearly drowned out his voice as he drew

his lips away only far enough so he could whisper, “Better.”

“Than what?”

His muted chuckle, so lighthearted she could barely

believe it was his, sent a renewed flood of delight sweeping

through her. “I could say better than not kissing you.”

“But?” She did not open her eyes. She wanted to

remain in this hazy world where anything was possible,

even being able to give life to her fantasies of this

passionate man instead of the reality of the domineering,

often overbearing Simon Garnett.

“But nothing. Do you have any idea how wonderful

you taste?” His mouth traced the pulse along her neck.

She was enveloped in delicious sensations. Her fingers

slipped beneath his coat and up along his shirt to caress

the strong muscles beneath it. The overt virility she had

noticed from the moment she saw him in the library

doorway was unleashed to entrap her in a seductive web.

A gasp of amazement and delight burst from her lips

when his hand rose to brush her breast. He stroked it, and

the quiver that had rippled along her now gathered deep

within her, an enthralling need she had never imagined.

When he bent and lifted her in his arms, she gazed up

into his eyes. Who was this man staring back at her, a man

who was unafraid to show his passions? His mouth slanted

across hers, and his fingers curved up her side to graze her

breast again.

She moaned against his lips, and his tongue darted

into her mouth, filling it even as she became so aware of a



void within her where she longed for him, too. As he placed

her on the settee, he leaned over her, pressing her into the

soft cushions. His tongue lured hers to explore his mouth,

and she did not resist.

When his hand cupped her breast again, she tilted his

head to burnish his ear with her kisses. Her breath was

frayed as he caressed her, teasing her through her clothes

until she writhed beneath him. She whispered his name,

unable to say more.

He pulled away from her and looked at her as if he

had never seen her before. Even as she watched, the potent

spark in his eyes muted, and his mouth hardened into a

frown. In a clipped tone, he said, “You must think me mad.

I can only say my brazen actions are the result of a mind

so unsettled by a longing to hold you last night that I didn’t

sleep.”

“You look it,” she blurted before she could halt herself.

She was not sure if she was more shocked by his actions

or his words. After being so cold to her since the

conversation by his father’s bedside, she had not expected

this. She had dreamed of him apologizing and welcoming

her back into his arms.

But not like this.

He swore and stood.

“Simon, what’s really wrong?” Darcy asked, rubbing

her arms and adjusting her clothes, which were askew.

That was not the question she wanted to ask. Who are

you? One minute you are icy to me, and the next you are

seducing me with so much fervor I can do nothing but

cede myself to pleasure. Who are you?

This was identical to the other times he had kissed

her. She had been deluged by a joyous knowing of how

splendid his caresses would be. In recent days, she had

pushed aside the unsettling idea Simon was someone she

had met before. Now it returned, doubly strong.

She wrapped her arms around herself as her gaze was



caught by wisps of light floating behind him. It was a

thicker cloud than the one she had seen before.

“What are you staring at?” he asked.

“That light.”

He turned and walked toward the cloud. She choked

on a gasp she did not want to release when he walked

through the cloud of light without dispersing it. Looking

closely at the gas lamp, he said, “I see nothing out of the

ordinary with this light.”

The cloud moved toward the ceiling as the other one

had, and then it was gone. Once again, emotion flowed

over her like an undammed torrent. Sorrow . . . unspeakable

sorrow that was so familiar she could almost put a name

to it. The truth was on the tip of her tongue, yet she could

not form the words.

“Darcy?” The impatience in Simon’s voice warned her

to focus on this conversation instead of trying to unravel

the puzzle. His frown had deepened. “You asked what’s

wrong. My father is what’s wrong.”

Horror gripped her, wiping away the fragments of

passion. “Hastings? He hasn’t taken a turn for the worse,

has he?”

“You have a remarkable compassion for a man who

wants to rid his house of you.”

“What?” She searched her mind to recall some faux

pas that would cause Hastings to insist she leave Rosewood

Hall. She clutched the settee’s arm. Had Reverend Fairfield

spread his tales to Hastings? Those lies mixed with just

enough truth could poison Hastings’ mind. And if someone

had chanced to look into the office a few moments ago . .

. She managed to gulp, “Why?”

“Because of your grandmother.”

“My grandmother?” That horror became a cramp in

her middle.

“My father is in receipt of a letter from her.” He

straightened his waistcoat with a motion that suggested



he was determined to forget what they had shared. “A letter

that has distressed him greatly. He is in such an agitated

state I fear for his health. Such aggravation could endanger

his heart.”

She pushed herself to her feet. Hands clenched at her

sides, she sought the strength to fight the battle she had

hoped to avoid by leaving London. She could not guess

how her grandmother had found her, but it did not matter.

She had, and Grandmother Kincaid would be determined

to destroy Darcy’s dreams of being independent and

moving to Egypt.

“If you want me to leave,” she said with quiet dignity,

“I’ll offer my resignation immediately.”

“Is that it? You’ll leave?”

“Do you want me to stay?”

He laughed, but the raw pain in the sound cut through

her. “Why are you asking such a ridiculous question? I

can’t finish my book on time without you. And—”

“Don’t say it.”

“Say what?”

“What you said before.”

“About having you haunt my every thought?”

“But you have said barely anything other than ‘good

morning’ and ‘good evening’ to me for the past two days.”

“Being angry doesn’t mean I want to stop doing this.”

When he ran a fingertip along her cheek, she gasped at the

renewed flare of lightning searing through her. She stared

up into his green eyes, unable to move and not wanting to

even if she could. His finger glided down her cheek and

curled beneath her cheekbone before edging over her

bottom lip.

She moved closer, then paused when she heard a

crackle.

“You should have told me the truth,” he said as he

looked down at the sheet of paper that he must have

dropped when he swept her into his arms. Bending, he



retrieved it. “I don’t understand why a countess’

granddaughter is working as a secretary.” His scowl

returned. “Or is this just a lark for you as your mother’s

journey to Egypt was for her?”

“My mother?” Darcy sank back onto the chair. “What

did Grandmother say in her letter?”

“The truth, I assume.”

“If she told you my mother went to Egypt to flee from

my grandmother’s country estate of Kincaid Fells, figuring

her own mother would not give chase to a country so unlike

England, then it’s the truth. If she told you as well my

mother married an Egyptian merchant, that also is true.”

She held her breath, waiting for Simon’s reaction. She

had listened too often while her grandmother paraded out

this fact in an effort to repay Darcy for failing to obey her.

The reactions were always the same—barely concealed

disgust and open pity. The former aimed at Darcy, and the

latter for her grandmother who must bear the burden of

her daughter’s mistakes.

“So my father said,” Simon replied, his gaze focused

on the page. Was he avoiding looking at her because of

what was in the letter? Or was it because of what had

happened when they both lost control and were caught up

in unsated desire? “I have no idea why either Father or

your grandmother would believe such gossip would be of

interest to me. Nothing has changed. I still have this

ridiculous deadline, and I still need you here to help me

finish the manuscript.”

“My grandmother won’t be pleased if you disregard

her wishes.” She dampened her bottom lip. “She has never

been pleased when I defy her.”

“I don’t care a thimble’s worth of salt what Lady

Kincaid wishes. I assume you took your leave from Kincaid

Fells of your own volition.”

“Yes.” She wanted to grasp his arm and thank him for

not letting her grandmother ’s venom spew through



Rosewood Hall.

No, she did not want to grasp his arm. She yearned for

his arm around her again. She said nothing. He was a man

of volatile moods, unpredictable and formidable, and she

did not want to rouse the wrong one.

“I shall discuss this with Father. He’ll understand this

is between you and your grandmother. It shouldn’t be of

concern to us.” His shoulders remained rigid, but the

slightest hint of a smile appeared beneath his mustache.

Darcy did not smile in return. “Simon, you don’t

understand prejudice. It’s not something you can talk a

person out of.”

“I realize that, for I’ve seen enough to know your

grandmother isn’t unique.”

“I’ve been fighting this since my grandmother

wrenched me away from Egypt.” A tentative smile lessened

the stress aching across her forehead. “At least the English

are more honest than Egyptians who can insult you a dozen

ways without you realizing it.”

“My father will want you to realize it.” He folded the

letter and put it in pocket beneath his coat. As a clock

chimed in the hallway, he added, “The time for tea is long

past, so we’d be wise to ready ourselves for dinner. Do

you have a suit of armor, Darcy?”

Startled at his sudden teasing, she faltered on her

answer. “No suit of armor, but my skin has grown thick

after so many barbs.”

“Your skin felt so soft and supple to me.” His lips

became a straight line again, and she knew he had said

something he had not intended.

She nodded as he bid her a good afternoon and left his

office. She never had been more confused. It was

impossible, but it was as if two contradictory men had

been here with her–the man whose passions were focused

on his work along with the man whose passions were

focused on her. She had never imagined two such disparate



personalities could exist in the same body.

Hurrying up the stairs to her rooms, she was glad she

did not meet Hastings. She locked the hall door, although

she doubted anyone would bother her at this hour.

“How much did it cost you to find me, Grandmother?”

she asked aloud. “I’m surprised you’re willing to waste a

brass farthing on me.”

She stormed into her bedroom and spat the most

horrendous curse she knew in English, then another in

Arabic. How could her grandmother fail to understand after

all this time that Darcy had no intentions of remaining at

Kincaid Fells? Darcy could not give up her dreams to marry

some man who was eager for a share of the Kincaid fortune

in exchange for siring some grandchildren for Grandmother

Kincaid.

She unbuttoned her blouse, noticing how it was

wrinkled where Simon’s hand had stroked her. With a moan

of a craving that would no longer be dormant, she hung it

on a peg in the dressing room. She took out her second

best dress of a vibrant purple satin with stylish stripes a

shade darker. Putting it on the bed, she turned to brush her

hair and stared at the bright green eyes of Thoth reflected

in the glass. As her fingertip caressed the pounded gold,

she remembered Jaddeh telling her the pendant would

bring her good fortune if she wore it every day. She had

never taken it off, risking Miss Mumsey’s outrage and her

grandmother’s cruel discipline.

“But where’s the good fortune?” she whispered.

Slowly her hand rose to her lips. Simon. Was he the

good fortune she was supposed to find waiting for her?

Her laugh was strained through a sob. If so, the jest was

on her, because he drew her close only to push her away.

That was not love as she had heard it described.

But she was drawn to this haughty, single-minded man

for reasons she could not name. Had she met someone in

Egypt that reminded her of Simon? If so, she could not



recall whom, but the sense of familiarity had not decreased

simply because she had ignored it.

She squared her shoulders and went to ring for a maid

to help her get dressed. If she hurried, she might have time

to work on her story before she joined Simon and Hastings

for dinner. Writing might help calm her trepidation of the

meal ahead. She would wear her lovely dress, for no battle

could be won without the proper weapons, and she intended

to let no one force her to leave Rosewood Hall as long as

Simon needed her . . . for whatever reason.

***

~~~ “You are guaranteeing yourself unhappiness by

going to see Kafele,” moaned Ahwere as she twisted a

flower through Meskhenet’s hair in a chamber that opened

onto the beautiful garden. “If our brother has deemed you

shall marry Usi, you must.”

“But I love another man.”

“You are the daughter of a Pharaoh and the sister of a

Pharaoh. Love is not something you can expect.”

Meskhenet took the ivory comb from her sister and

began to run it along her sister’s hair. “I know that, but

now that love has entered into my heart, I do not know

how I can set it aside.”

“Because you must.”

A servant came into the room and prostrated himself

on the floor, his face toward the door.

Meskhenet put the comb on the table and stood.

Ahwere rose just as their brother entered. He kissed Ahwere

on the cheek with no more than the brotherly affection he

would have shown his younger sister. Onuris had shown

no hurry to marry their sister because he was devoted to a

concubine who had been sent to him as part of a trade

treaty from a king across the narrow sea.

“It is a pleasure to come here and see the beauty within

this room,” he said. “Meskhenet, you look more like your

mother every day.”



“It is generous of you to say that.”

“Only the truth.” He looked down at the servant who

had not moved. “You are dismissed.”

The servant scurried away on his hands and knees,

keeping his head to his Pharaoh.

Onuris smiled. “I wish privacy to speak with our sister,

Ahwere. Would you please excuse us?”

“Yes . . . yes, as you wish.” Ahwere could not hide her

amazement at the request, for Onuris had never asked such

a thing of her before.

As soon as Ahwere had departed, Onuris motioned

toward the garden. “Shall we walk by the cooling fountain,

younger sister?”

Meskhenet nodded, but she had noted how he

addressed her. Was he trying to remind her she was

subservient to his commands? She wished the thought had

not formed. Walking out into the garden, she closed her

eyes as the sunlight dropped around her, setting each leaf

to gleaming.

Onuris sat on a bench and motioned for Meskhenet to

do the same. She folded her legs and sat on the ground. As

the grass tickled her legs through her thin gown, she rested

her arms on her knees.

“Meskhenet, I have depended upon you to be wise,

but now you have shown yourself to be foolish. You could

have been injured or worse by going to the Valley of Thoth

alone.”

“I did not think wisely.” She bowed her head. “Forgive

me.”

“I would forgive you anything, my dear sister.” He

took her hand in his and smiled. “And I am grateful to Usi

for his good advice to you.”

She fought to keep her smile in place. “He expressed

his concerns to me.”

“As he did to me.” He took so deep a breath, his chest

lifted the wide necklace higher. “And I expressed my



appreciation to him for this and many things he has done

for his Pharaoh and this kingdom. He has been a faithful

servant, whom I wish to see rewarded with a great prize.

One of my most precious treasures is what I want to offer

him.”

“He would be grateful for some fine fields or one of

the royal barges. I have seen how he admires the one with

the blue sail. Usi would be proud to be seen upon the Nile

in it. Then everyone would know he has won your favor.”

She was babbling, but she must offer her brother a chance

to reconsider what she feared he was about to say.

“I have given him fields before, and he is having a

grand barge of his own built. What I will offer him in

exchange for his loyalty is a connection to the Pharaoh’s

household.” He put his hand on her shoulder. “I have

offered him you, my dear sister. He will be a good husband

for you, for he admires you far more than my barge with

the blue sail.”

“No, Onuris.” She rose to her knees and clasped her

hands. “Please do not give me to him.”

“It is already done.” He frowned, abruptly the

imperious Pharaoh instead of her gentle brother. “You will

become his wife when next the moon grows full. That will

give you time to make preparations.”

“But I do not love him!”

Onuris stood. “But he loves his Pharaoh and serves

me well in building my tomb and overseeing many projects

for me. You will marry him, Meskhenet.” His stern

expression fell away as he brought her to her feet. “Dear

sister, I have dreaded the day when I would need to send

you far from here to marry an ally. Instead, you will be

nearby with a man I trust completely.”

“But I love another man.”

“What man?”

She bit her lip before saying, “It no longer matters,

does it?”



Her brother smiled. “Now you are being sensible. Go

and find your servants and plan a wedding feast suitable

for my sister.” He kissed her on the cheek before walking

away.

Sinking back to her knees, Meskhenet folded her arms

on the bench and wept. ~~~

***

Darcy smoothed her purple-striped satin gown as she

entered the dining room. The high neckline’s ruffle kept

her chin raised, but defiance fueled her determination not

to surrender to her grandmother’s demands.

She had found no comfort in working on her story.

The scene had been so dreary. Why had she written it?

She wanted Meskhenet to be happy with her handsome

lover . . . as Darcy wished she could be with Simon.

“Good evening, gentlemen,” she said serenely when

she saw father and son in a fervent conversation by the

table. As always, both men were dressed with the greatest

elegance. She wondered, for the first time, if the formal

clothes were meant to create the illusion they were

strangers.

At her words, Hastings fired an angry glare at his son,

but Simon did not acknowledge it. When Simon came

forward to greet her, she smiled. She wondered if it looked

as false as his.

“How lovely you look, Darcy,” he said, bowing over

her hand. He raised his head, and she saw a hint of the

more dangerous emotions within his eyes. Anger and desire

were a frightful mix. No hint of either colored his voice as

he added, “This color is perfect for you. There may be a

bit of royalty in your family.”

“I don’t think—”

Hastings called, “If you will sit, Darcy, we can begin

our meal before it’s time for breakfast.”

She took her place and settled her napkin in her lap.

Simon sat across from her as always. It was just the same,



but nothing was the same, for no one spoke. The second

course was being served before Hastings broke the silence.

“I take it you have made your decision, Simon.”

“My decision is unchanged.” Simon poked at a piece

of roast beef. “I can’t think of anything but meeting

Caldwell’s deadline.”

“Not even of Lady Kincaid’s request?”

Lowering his fork to his plate, he said, “Father, if you

wish to ask Darcy to leave so you may avoid Lady

Kincaid’s wrath, you are welcome to do so. However, I’ll

urge her to remain, for I need her and her typewriter here.

And she doesn’t wish to return to Kincaid Fells. I don’t

know why we are continuing to discuss this.”

“How long until she is finished typing your

manuscript?” Hastings asked.

“At least another month.”

“A month?” He grimaced. “I shall endeavor to devise

some excuse for her to remain until then.”

“The truth will suffice.”

Darcy laughed tautly. “Grandmother cares nothing

about the truth if it interferes with her wishes.”

“Her wish is for you to return to Kincaid Fells,”

Hastings said. “Your fiancé is losing patience.”

She heard Simon draw in a honed breath, but kept her

gaze on his father as she replied, “I have no fiancé.”

“Quite the contrary. Your grandmother stated in her

letter that arrangements are underway even now for your

wedding.”

“Did she mention whom I was to marry?”

Hastings frowned. “This is not amusing.”

“I agree. You, sir, are being lied to by my

grandmother.”

“I doubt if she’d lie about you marrying Lord Grafton.”

“Lord Grafton?” She stood. She tried to catch Simon’s

eyes, but he was staring at his father. To avoid looking at

her? Did he think she would have gone so eagerly into his



arms if she was betrothed to another man? “I can assure

you that I shall never marry him. Each of the four times he

has asked, I have told him no. He may have persuaded my

grandmother to continue with this charade, but I shall not

be wed against my will to that libertine.”

From the doorway came, “I should think not.”

Darcy’s mouth dropped open and she sat again when

Reverend Fairfield walked toward the table. As grandly

dressed as the Garnetts, he gave them all a beneficent smile.

He bowed over her hand and then sat next to her where a

place-setting was being hurriedly put in place. Nothing

about him gave any sign that he had issued her an

ultimatum three days before. Did he still expect her to

acquiesce and depart at week’s end?

“What is this nonsense?” the vicar asked. “Is this why

you sent for me? This is the modern age. A young woman

should have some say in her prospective husband.”

“A very liberal view,” grumbled Hastings, “from a man

who has performed wedding ceremonies where the bride

was less than joyous to be married.”

“This is quite different.” The vicar picked up his spoon.

“From your message, Simon, it appears Darcy has already

cut all ties with her family and is quite able to provide for

herself.”

She looked at Simon in surprise. He had asked the

vicar to come here? She silenced her ungrateful thoughts,

reminding herself that Simon had no idea Reverend

Fairfield had asked her to leave.

Ungrateful? She shivered at the word that brought

Meskhenet’s predicament to mind. Pushing aside a problem

she could not let clutter her mind, she said as she had not

thought she would ever say sincerely to Reverend Fairfield,

“Thank you.”

“I’m speaking the truth. Hastings, your prejudice about

Darcy’s background is in complete contrast with your

interest in Egypt and its ancient ways.” He held up his



hands and laughed. “Not that your pastor should persuade

you to continue such studies. However, I believe you shall

continue to discover many interesting things that will add

much enjoyment to the rest of your life.”

“You do?” asked Hastings.

“The rest of your long life.” The vicar picked up his

glass and said, “To a long life for you, Hastings.”

The old man grinned like a child, but Simon’s smile

was more restrained. Darcy knew he was worried about

his father getting too emotional and imperiling his heart.

When Simon changed the topic, the other men joined in

with a bonhomie that had been missing when Darcy came

into the room.

She was relieved to be able to withdraw after dessert.

Going into the library, she went out on the raised terrace

and gazed up at the stars. These were the same ones visible

when the story of Meskhenet and her lover was first told.

But, for the first time, she was leery of continuing the tale.

Too much happening in it seemed to parallel her life here,

for, just like Meskhenet, she feared she was falling in love

with the wrong man.



Eleven

Night had claimed the gardens. A cool breeze ruffled

Darcy’s sleeves, but she did not return inside. She needed

to avoid seeing anyone until she sorted out her thoughts.

Was she really falling in love with Simon? She had never

imagined losing her heart to such an arrogant man, for her

ideal had been closer to Kafele.

She folded her hands on the terrace wall. Simon was

as self-assured as Kafele and as dedicated to his work.

Further, Simon was committed to seeing to his father’s

well-being which kept Simon at Rosewood Hall when she

suspected he would prefer to be far from the reminder of

his mother’s and sister’s deaths. It was that devotion and

sense of duty she found appealing. And his touch . . . She

silenced a moan of yearning. His eager passions were

undeniably bewitching.

Darcy turned at the call of her name in the voice filling

her fantasies.

Silhouetted by the light from the library, Simon walked

toward her. He held out a glass of lemonade.

She took it. “Thank you.”

“Andrew has taken his leave, and Father has retired. I

thought it would be a good time for a private conversation.”

He walked past her to lean on the low wall. “This afternoon

was—”

“Don’t say again it was a mistake.”

“That was not my intention.” He took a sip from his

glass. “The words I was going to use were ‘not

unexpected.’”

She wished he would not speak in such cool, unfeeling

terms. “What do you mean? That I have been in your

thoughts?”

“Yes, but not only that.” Setting his glass on the wall,

he put his hands on her waist and lifted her to sit beside it.

He framed her face with his hands. “I knew how wondrous



it would be to hold you so intimately. Not with the

knowledge of a man’s fantasy for a desirable woman, but

with the knowledge of having done so before.”

“I understand.”

“Do you? Then explain it to me. I admit to being utterly

baffled.”

Darcy laughed ruefully. “I understand the sense of

knowing, for I share it. I don’t understand why either of

us feel it, or why this belief I have met you before I came

to Rosewood Hall persists.”

“It’s vexing, isn’t it?” Leaning again against the wall,

he picked up his glass and rested his other hand on the

stones behind her. Even though he did not touch her, she

was aware of every inch of him so deliciously near. “I

wonder why we’re suffering from this delusion. It seems

so unlikely we actually met before you arrived here, for I

daresay I would have been a cur to forget you.”

And I can’t imagine forgetting you, she almost said.

Silencing the words that would betray too much, she

replied, “I agree it unlikely we met before. I was in Egypt

when I was just a child. When you went to India, I was at

Miss Mumsey’s school.”

He flinched as if his lemonade had started to boil. He

placed the glass back onto the wall. “I guess not much

stays unknown long in Rosewood Hall.”

“Reverend Fairfield told me you went there. To study?”

“To serve Queen Victoria. What else did he tell you?”

“Only that you seemed comfortable to stay here as

you had not been before you left.”

“Nothing else?”

“No. Should he have told me something else?”

“He seems resolved to let you know about every bit of

my past.”

“Just that.” She hurried on when she could see his lips

clench in pain. “Did you visit Egypt on your way to or

from India?”



“I did not have a chance to stop in Egypt.” He raised

his hand toward her cheek, then lowered it. “I have heard

it is wondrous.”

“It is.”

“Tell me what you remember.”

Darcy was startled by his request, but she happily

described the city along the Nile where she had lived. As

she spoke about the river bordered by ruins, she did not

hold back her enthusiasm for her birthplace. Simon asked

questions about the city beyond Jaddeh’s house, and she

realized how little she knew. Enough people had come

through the stone gate, bringing many interesting tales of

Egypt, and she shared those with Simon.

She was not surprised he was so curious. Her life had

fascinated everyone she met until they learned of her

parentage. Before she had been torn from her life in Egypt,

she had considered her life quite commonplace. At

boarding school, she had discovered the cost of being

different from her classmates.

“That is why I’m looking forward to returning to Egypt

soon,” she ended as she gazed up at the stars slowly being

consumed by a bank of clouds.

“Darcy, it has been fifteen years since you left.” He

turned to face her, his arm now curved around her. “You

have only a child’s memories of it.”

“Happy memories. The happiest of my life.” Until you

took me into your arms. She warned her rebellious mind

to silence.

“What will you do when you get there? Work for some

Englishman who is interested in excavating out the tombs

of your ancestors? What did you call it? Raping the past?

Is that the life you want?”

Recoiling at his abruptly harsh words, she took a sip

of her lemonade before answering in the most even tone

she could manage, “What I do is my own concern.”

“And that’s that?”



“Why not?” When she met his eyes steadily, she was

not surprised he did not lower his before her anger. “Why

should it matter to you whether I go to work in London or

Cairo when your book is finished? With what you’re

paying me in addition to my savings, I can finally afford

my ticket to Egypt. Maybe I’m wrong to go back there,

but I shall never know unless I take the risk. I can’t spend

the rest of my life lamenting ‘what ifs.’”

Simon nodded. “I once felt the way you do. I miss that

yearning to discover what lies beyond the next hill. It was

in India with its multitude of languages and dialects I

realized how much I wanted to study the origin of the words

we share.”

“And when your book is done? What will you do

then?”

“I have given that far less thought than you have.”

Darcy started to reply, but was halted by his hand

brushing back wisps of hair from her face. Her breath

seared her chest as his stare captivated her. All rational

thought fled as she delighted in the warmth of his leg

brushing hers through the fine material of her dress.

He slanted toward her. Hearing her breath coming

sultry and fast, she gazed into his shadowed eyes. She did

not need any light to know shimmering passion glowed

there. Since the first time he kissed her, she had never

doubted he wanted her.

As his warm breath slipped along her neck, her soft

gasp of delight broke the steady rhythm of the insects

singing through the night. His lips burned an abstract

pattern into her skin. Her eyes closed while she succumbed

to the craving as his tongue teased the half-circle of her

ear. She could not imagine wanting anything as much as

his mouth on hers. Twisting her fingers through his hair,

she guided his lips toward hers.

“What the—?” he gasped, pulling away.

Darcy looked over her shoulder as he was. For a



second, she thought she saw the filmy light which she had

first seen in his office. Then it was gone.

“What was that?” Simon asked.

“I don’t know.”

“Is that what you saw when you started asking about

Rosewood Hall being haunted?”

She nodded.

He stood and walked past her. He swung his hand in

the air. “I’ve heard ghosts leave a lingering cold, but there’s

nothing like that here.”

“You would have noticed any chill when you walked

through one of those lights in your office.” She slid off the

wall, carefully tugging at her dress where it had caught on

a stone. “You didn’t seem to notice anything.”

“One of those lights? Have you seen more than one?”

“Yes.”

Shaking his head, he said, “This is insane, and we’re

insane to be talking of this. Ghosts are the stuff of stories.

Even if they were real, why hasn’t anyone seen a ghost in

Rosewood Hall before?” He took a deep swig of his

lemonade. “I believe these ‘ghosts’ are the result of too

much wine and too little sleep.”

“But you saw it with your own eyes.”

“Something that appears and disappears like

moonlight?” He laughed tautly. “I’m ready to admit I let

my eyes trick me. You should do the same.”

“I can’t.” She put her hands on his arms. “You have

no idea how much I wish to, but I can’t.”

“You must. If you don’t, you’ll be considered mad.”

Darcy pushed past him as she saw another flicker.

“Look. There it is!”

“What?”

“Lights in the garden.”

He walked back to the wall. Leaning on it, he peered

into the darkness. “I don’t see anything.”

“There.”



“Where?”

“Just beyond the maze.”

“Where?”

She went to stand beside him, pointing at the trace of

light visible through the bushes and trees. “Look into the

woods.”

Pushing back from the wall, he said, “Then it’s

probably nothing more than swamp gas. It often glows in

the bogs near the moor.”

“It’s not swamp gas. I have seen it in the garden.”

He scowled. “I have had enough of this discussion.

I’m returning to my office.” He walked toward the door,

then turned. “Are you coming along?”

“No, for we should go and find out who’s in the woods.

If they start a fire, it could spread to the gardens and the

house.”

“I won’t waste my time chasing swamp gas. Just when

I think you’re a somewhat reasonable woman, you make

hysterical comments like this.”

“Just when I think you’re a somewhat reasonable man,

you bury your head in your work so you can ignore the

truth,” she fired back.

His eyes widened, but he continued into the house.

She heard the door to his office slam. Looking to her right,

she could see him stamping past the desk she used. He

paused by the window. Was he trying to see if she was

still on the terrace?

She sighed as the draperies were yanked closed over

the window and the French door. Even though Simon found

her desirable, he did not want her to interfere with his too-

well-ordered life or force him to confront his too-well-

ordered opinions.

Darcy looked across the garden. The lights were still

there. She longed to believe Simon when he averred they

were caused by a miasma from the swamp, but she could

not. Yet going out into the night alone was silly.



She smiled. She did not need to go alone. Going into

the library, she went to the bellpull and gave her request

to the maid who answered it. She was glad to see, by the

time she went to her bedroom and came back down the

stairs with a cloak and her bonnet, a footman was waiting

there.

“You want us to go out tonight?” he asked when she

told him her plans. His face blanched. “Miss Kincaid, folks

don’t go out at dark. The moors have all kinds of bad things

roaming about after dark.”

“We aren’t going to the moors. Just out past the maze.

That should be far enough.”

“Too far,” he muttered, but he followed her out onto

the terrace.

In spite of her vow not to, Darcy glanced at the

windows to Simon’s office. Light edged around them, and

she suspected he was lost in his work again. Maybe

Reverend Fairfield had been right to be concerned, for

Simon sought that haven too often.

She pulled her wool cape more tightly around her

shoulders as she walked down the steps to the upper garden.

Damp oozed through her slippers, and she wished she had

taken time to change from them and her best gown into

something more appropriate. It was too late now. She had

to discover what was happening in the garden.

Her worry the lights would have disappeared was eased

when she saw them among the trees. More of them than

before, for she counted at least a dozen lights. Two groups

of them, she realized when she saw more lights entering

the forest from the right.

“Are you familiar with these gardens?” she asked the

footman.

“Yes, Miss Kincaid.” His admission was reluctant.

“The hill that drops down into the village is to our

right, isn’t it?”

“Yes, Miss Kincaid.”



“Then you go in that direction and find out what you

can. Don’t let anyone see you until we know who is in the

woods. Hurry back to the house and meet me in the library.”

“Yes, Miss Kincaid. I’ll hurry right back after

checking.” Relief brightened his voice.

Darcy watched him rush off, and she hoped he would

slow before he tumbled down the hill and into the

vicarage’s back garden. She walked in the other direction,

fighting her own urge to turn around and go back to the

house. Her curiosity refused to let her.

At the far side of the garden, she edged past the huge

wall of shrubs. What a hedgerow was doing in the middle

of the well-trimmed garden, she could not fathom. Then

she realized it must be one side of the maze. She had not

guessed its walls would be so high, for they towered almost

ten feet from the ground.

She paused beside the maze, searching for the lights.

She saw several directly in front of her, blinking as if being

turned on and off, and knew she was seeing them carried

among the trees.

Wishing she had not sent the footman to check on the

other set of lights, she slipped from the shadows of the

maze and hurried toward the small wood. She doubted if

she could run in her best dress, and that thought was

unnerving. Quickly she reminded herself she was being

silly. Someone was in the woods, and all she wanted to do

was learn who they were. They did not need to see her.

Near silence entombed the wood. Insects whined close

to her ears, but she brushed them away. The scents of

greenery, which would have been so enticingly fresh in

spring, now stank autumn’s decay.

Not sure exactly where she would find the private glade

she sought, Darcy pushed through the undergrowth. Briars

caught on her heavy cape, but she pulled the wool off the

bushes. She tried to keep her steps soundless and to watch

where she walked. The ground might drop off here, too.



She smiled as she emerged into a clearing. The muted

light of the moon, fading behind clouds, pooled in its center.

To one side a small brooklet whispered secrets. She did

not stay to admire it when she noticed a path leading out

of it. Lights bounced in that direction.

She followed the path through the trees, ready to jump

into the deeper shadows if a light came too close. When

she heard chanting in front of her, she slowed. Were the

chanters the ones who had brought the torches?

Hesitating, she shivered as she heard the music’s

frantic rhythm. It sounded so primitive. Suddenly she

wanted nothing more than to hurry back to a haven in

Rosewood Hall. She had seen and heard enough to be able

to tell Simon a group was using the wood for some sort of

ceremony.

Retracing her steps, she paused when she heard an

exultant cheer from behind her. Although she could not

submerge her curiosity to find out what was happening,

she kept walking. Simon could send for the constable to

banish the trespassers from the wood.

A shadow moved in front of her, becoming a human

form. She was seized from behind. When she opened her

mouth to scream, a cloth was stuffed into it, cutting off

her cry. She struggled to escape, but could not keep another

cloth from being tied over her eyes. She was shoved to the

ground. A sharp pain from her right knee raced up her leg,

and she moaned. Those same hands pulled her up and

forward. Where were they taking her? She tried to lash

out with her feet, but hit nothing. Her arms were wrenched

back around the full base of a tree and her wrists bound.

Footsteps faded into the distance. She might be alone,

or there might be others still here. She heard the chanting

begin again, but no closer than before. What was going

on? Why had someone ambushed her and left her here?

Her anger and frustration escalated into terror as

coolness oozed up from the damp ground and soaked her



dress. She tried to wiggle into a more comfortable position,

but each motion added to the ache burning across her

shoulders and the anguish of her knee. Her jaw hurt from

the gag. She leaned her head back against the rough trunk.

Whoever had bound her had known well how to keep her

from escaping.

The chanting voices, speaking some language she did

not recognize, became more feverish. The music leaped

through the trees like a stag. A lone voice—a man’s voice—

could be heard over the others. Then it was silent.

Completely and frighteningly silent. Whatever was

happening must be over. Bushes rustled, and she tensed.

No one came near. Was she going to be left here?

The crack of a single branch reverberated through the

night like thunder. A broad hand gripped her right shoulder,

fingers digging painfully beneath it. When those same

fingers began to undo the buttons on her dress’ modest

collar, she forgot the agony. Her cries came out as a muffled

moan. Again she tried to kick at someone. Again her feet

found nothing.

When she pressed her chin to her chest, the only way

she could halt those fingers, her face was grasped and her

head pushed back into the tree. The fingers continued to

loosen the buttons, one very slowly after another. Her

almost numb hands tried to clench behind the tree, but the

motion was no longer possible.

She recoiled when the fingers brushed her breast,

sickened by what had been so luscious when Simon

touched her there. One finger slipped beneath her gaping

gown, and she tried to press so far back against the tree

she could put space between her and that touch.

It lifted her necklace from under her dress. No! No

one must be allowed to steal her necklace. The gold would

be valuable to a thief, but she prized it as her only

connection to Jaddeh and the life she had lost. The pendant

dropped back against her, and she gasped. If she was not



about to be robbed, then what was happening here?

“It is Thoth, I see,” came a man’s voice close to her

right ear.

She kicked in that direction, but it was as useless as

before.

“Sit still,” he hissed like a giant serpent. “Never come

here again, woman, or you will be the next to face the

wrath of the god.”

She wanted to ask what he meant, but moaned as her

arms were released. They fell heavily to her sides. She

tried to make her deadened fingers work so she could pull

the gag away. Dropping it to the ground, she coughed as

she drew in a breath. A hand clapped over her mouth.

“Make a sound, and you will die now.”

She nodded, fearing he would do just as he threatened.

His hand lifted from her lips. Struggling to untie the cloth

over her eyes, she drew in a steadying breath. She began

to cough and cough.

Darcy looked around her. She was alone. Who was

the man who had spoken to her? His snakelike whisper

had distorted his voice so much she doubted she would

recognize his real one. He had spoken of a god. Was some

sort of pagan cult using this wood for their ceremonies?

Rising cautiously, she swayed. She grasped the tree

as she struggled to stay on her feet, then retched when

everything seemed to whirl around her. Pushing herself

away from the tree, she lurched through the woods, wanting

to find the quickest way back to Rosewood Hall and safety.

She entered a clearing. It was not the one she had found

before. She choked back her horror when she stared at the

stamped-down grass. She had blundered into the place

where the ritual had been held. In the clearing’s center

was a stone table long enough for her to lie on. It was

shadowed by overhanging branches. Some bits of a mineral

encrusted in the stone sparkled in the evaporating

moonlight.



She had to leave here before one of them came back.

Gathering up her dress and cloak as high as she could, she

ran. Her weak legs failed her. She threw out her hands to

catch herself as she fell. Her cheek scraped the stone table.

Darcy shuddered and drew her hands away from the

cold stone. Something was wet on her fingers, and her

stomach rose in disgust.

Blood!

She wiped her hands on the grass. Edging away from

the stone table, she pushed herself up and fought not to be

ill when she saw a dead cat on top of the stone. Its throat

had been slit.

You will be the next to face the wrath of the god. The

man’s strange whisper echoed through her head. Now—

as she stared at the dead cat—she understood what he

meant.



Twelve

Darcy’s side ached as she reeled across the uneven

ground toward Rosewood Hall. Pressing her hand to her

ribs, she stumbled forward. She wanted to believe what

she had just experienced was nothing more than a horrible

nightmare.

But how could it have been a fantasy? It had been

real, appallingly real.

The black bulk of Rosewood Hall appeared out of the

maze’s shadow. She never had been so grateful to see a

house. She slowed to a rapid walk, her breath puffing

loudly. Her right knee hurt more on each limping step.

She began to button her dress, a formidable task because

her fingers trembled so violently she could barely grasp

each small button.

Once she told Simon what she had seen and heard, he

would send for the constable. The man with the snakevoice

would be punished. Then—only then—could she

feel safe again.

Long fingers closed around her neck. She screamed

and pulled away. Her arm was seized as it had been in the

woods. She screamed as she was whirled about by a

strange, half-human being. The body belonged to a man,

yet its head was an odd shape she could not see well in the

dark. But she saw enough to know it was not human.

Victorious laughter grated in her ears. “The hunter

finds its prey,” came the horrible voice.

“No!” she shrieked. Terror gave her the strength to

break his hold on her arm. She pulled off her torn cloak

and threw it over his head. Then she ran toward sanctuary

of Rosewood Hall.

Behind her, she heard a snarled curse and harsh

breathing as the creature chased after her. Her frantic

heartbeat filled her ears. Her right slipper flew off. She

did not slow. Wincing when she stepped on a sharp pebble,



she hoped she could run all the way to Rosewood Hall

before the beast caught her. She cut a twisting path through

the rose beds, and the thorns snagged at her gown. Tearing

the satin away, she did not care if she left bits of cloth in

her wake.

She ran up the steps to the upper terrace and across it.

She grasped the knob of the French door opening into the

library. Throwing it open, she rushed inside. She struck

someone and screamed as long fingers grasped her arms.

Had the creature gotten into Rosewood Hall?

“What in the blazes—?”

Darcy’s head snapped up. The single lamp burning in

the library glistened off silver-white hair. Hastings!

A door crashed against a wall, and she heard shouts.

Simon! She was not sure if she shouted that aloud or only

in her mind.

He whirled her out of his father’s grasp, but she pulled

away from him and ran back to the glass door. She looked

out across the garden. It was empty. Where was the

creature?

“Darcy, was that your scream?”

At Simon’s question, Darcy threw her arms around

his shoulders and pressed her face to his shoulder, not

caring if her outrageous actions could cost her this position

and any future ones. She needed to be held by someone

who was wholly human.

“Put your arms around me,” she whispered. “Please.”

They curved around her. She realized how hard she

was quivering when his arms were still, steel bars against

her back.

“Darcy, what’s wrong?” he asked more softly.

“It was horrible.”

“What?” He drew her back a step and frowned. “What

happened to you?”

She looked down as he did to see the rips in the ruffles

along her skirt. Dirt and leaves stained the front. The toes



on her right foot were visible through her torn stocking.

Her left slipper was wet and filthy.

Simon lifted one arm off his shoulder and stared at

the swollen red streaks where the rope had cut into her

wrists. Tilting her hand, he ran his finger along her

bloodstained one. “Is this blood?”

“Blood?” choked his father.

Looking at the older man, Darcy saw that the footman

she had taken with her into the garden stood next to him.

Quietly, she said, “Yes.”

“Where did it come from?”

She started to reply but gasped when renewed pain

sliced through her right knee.

Simon lifted her into his arms. “Father, I think Darcy

should rest after what appears to be a harrowing

adventure.”

“Take her up to her room.” Hastings’ face creased into

a smile, and she could not hide her shock that he could

find anything at all amusing about this. “I shall ring for

Mrs. Pollock to join you.”

“Excellent.”

Darcy added, “Thank you.”

“At least you didn’t lose your pendant,” Hastings said,

lifting the golden rectangle.

With a gasp, she looked down at her gaping dress.

She had forgotten to finish rebuttoning it when she thought

she was safe in the garden. Stuffing the Thoth pendant

back beneath her open collar, she held her dress closed.

Simon said nothing, and she could not guess what he

was thinking. Although his body was rigid with tension,

she again rested her head on his shoulder while he carried

her to her rooms. She spoke only when he headed directly

to her bedroom.

“Simon, I think it would be best if you put me on the

settee in my sitting room.”

Doing so, he closed the door. She stared at what he



was wearing. His open-necked shirt was tucked into black

riding breeches, a very enticing sight, but she stared at his

boots. They were soaked. Not from her gown, because

she could see where the hem had swept drops off his boots.

Then she looked at his hands. The day of her arrival,

she had noticed his long, artistic fingers. Were they as long

as the creature’s? She was no longer sure what she had

seen in the dark wood.

“Did you go outside, too?” she asked cautiously.

“Outside?” He glanced down at his boots, then sat

beside her. “Yes, I did go outside. When a footman came

to me all upset that you’d asked him to check something

by the woods, I went out to see if you were on the terrace

and then searched the upper garden. When I saw a lamp

lit up here in your room, I guessed you had returned

already.”

“A lamp in my room?” She grimaced as she sat

straighter. “I always leave a lamp on here. Did you see

anything interesting when you were outside?”

He frowned. “Why are you interrogating me? Do you

hope to divert me so I won’t remember you haven’t

answered my questions about what has happened to you?”

He grasped her hand and held it up so the bloodstains were

in front of her eyes. “About this?”

Darcy wanted to share with him every bit of the horror

that had surrounded her and to beg him to find a way to

keep that thing away from her. But, if he knew about the

creature already . . . Could he be part of that cult chanting

beneath the moon before leaving the cat’s corpse in the

wood?

“I fear I jabbed myself on the roses when I went past

them,” she said, cradling her bloodied hand in her other

one. She had not guessed lying could become so easy. If

she had learned to avoid the truth while at Miss Mumsey’s

and Kincaid Fells, she would have had an easier time.

“You should be more careful. Wandering about at night



can be very dangerous.”

“I found that out.” She bit her lower lip, wanting to

ask him to assure her he had not been part of the madness.

“It seems you were more careful during your walk.”

“I know these gardens well.” His frown did not lessen.

“Why did you have a footman checking something by the

woods?”

“The lights were near there.”

“Darcy, will you stop with that nonsense? It—”

The door opened, and Mrs. Pollock bustled in. Her

eyes widened when she saw Darcy’s dishevelment. “Miss

Kincaid, what happened to you?”

“She was out in the woods,” Simon replied sharply

before she could answer.

“Tonight?” The housekeeper’s face became as ashen

as the footman’s when Darcy had asked him to help her.

“You went into the woods tonight?”

“Chasing mysterious lights.” He grumbled something

more under his breath, then added, “Mrs. Pollock, she

seems to have hurt her leg. Please tend to it right away.”

“Yes, of course.” She gulped on each word as if she

found it difficult to swallow. “If you’ll excuse us, sir, I

shall tend to her.”

He reached for the doorknob, but paused when Darcy

said, “Don’t leave, Simon.”

“Mrs. Pollock must tend to your leg.”

“If you’ll be a gentleman and not watch . . .”

“You ask much of a man.” He walked to where she

was sitting and plucked a leaf from her hair. “I believe I

shall examine this closely while Mrs. Pollock ministers to

you.”

Darcy wanted to thank him, but said nothing as he

walked to a chair and turned it so his back was to her.

When Mrs. Pollock began to ask questions about where

she was hurt, Darcy answered quietly. She was glad Simon

had remained, for she hated these suspicions haunting her



mind. She could not imagine a single reason why Simon

would be mixed up with that madness, but she also had

noticed how he would not meet her eyes when he explained

why he had gone outside.

The housekeeper’s face had not regained any color.

Darcy’s attempt to find out how much Mrs. Pollock knew

of the activities in the woods gained her nothing, although

the housekeeper clearly was aware of the danger Darcy

had faced.

The gray-haired woman kept up a light patter as she

washed the blood off Darcy’s hand and foot. Drawing up

Darcy’s skirt, she gasped at the bright red spot revealing

where Darcy’s knee had hit a stone.

“What is it, Mrs. Pollock?” asked Simon, starting to

turn.

“I can tend to this bruise on Miss Kincaid’s limb, sir,”

Mrs. Pollock said in her no-nonsense voice. Her customary

color returned. “Please respect her privacy.”

He muttered something, but looked back at the wall

in front of him.

Darcy smiled. His obvious concern revealed he cared

about her. Maybe there had been more in his kisses than

desire. Maybe he was letting her past that wall he had

built around him.

“Ouch!” She winced as Mrs. Pollock dabbed at her

knee.

“I’m sorry, Miss Kincaid. The dirt and blood must be

cleaned out of it.”

“Blood?” asked Simon, anxiety once more in his voice.

“Do not fret.” Mrs. Pollock grinned at Darcy, but her

voice remained stern. “It is less than was on her hand.”

With quick efficiency, the housekeeper cleaned

Darcy’s knee and draped a hot, wet cloth over it. She told

Darcy to leave the cloth on until she returned to bandage

it. Then she left the room with heavier steps than when

she had come in.



Simon stood and came back to where Darcy sat. His

eyes widened, but she did not draw her skirt back down

over her hurt leg. The heated cloth concealed her injured

right leg, and her skirt covered her left leg.

“May I?” he asked, pointing to the cushion at the end

of the settee.

“Yes, if you don’t lambaste me for being silly.”

“Darcy, you are being silly.”

“I know what I saw.” She adjusted the cloth on her

knee, taking care she did not reveal her leg. “You saw the

lights, too.”

“And I know they were nothing but swamp gas. I know

those woods well. When I was a boy on holiday from

school, I played there in the old ruins. Andrew and I

pretended we were ancient warriors living among the

standing stones. We even built a fort around an old stone

table in one clearing.”

She flinched. “You know about the stone table?”

“Every child who grew up around Halyeyn knows

about that old table.” He paused, then asked, “How is your

leg?”

“The heat is helping.”

“Is it?” His hand settled on her ankle.

She lifted it away and pushed her skirt down over the

cloth. “I think you know how foolish that would be,

Simon.”

“For me to examine your foot?” He cupped her heel.

“Yes.” She locked her fingers together to keep them

from reaching out to curve around his shoulders. “Please

don’t touch me.”

“Just now or from now on?”

The words were bitter in her mouth, but they must be

spoken. “I think from now on would be wiser. It’s clear

that holding me gives you little pleasure.”

“You’re very mistaken, Darcy.” He ran a single finger

along her instep, letting it linger where her stocking was



torn. “Holding you gives me the greatest pleasure.”

“But when you have held me, you turn away from me,

treating me as if I am a pariah.” Even though it sent pain

up her leg and another bolt of sorrow into her heart, she

drew her foot away from him.

“That was not my intention.”

“Then what was your intention?”

“None of this.” He set himself on his feet. “My only

intention was to finish my book and have it published. To

that end, I sought the services of a secretary—a male

secretary. If you’d been a man, none of this would have

happened.”

“I should think not.” Again she pushed herself up to

sit straighter. “Thank you, Simon, for being honest with

me at last.”

“At last?”

“You have made me see your priorities haven’t

changed. That they shouldn’t change. Please don’t touch

me again, for we shall never get your book ready to be

sent to your publisher on time if you continue to seduce

me into your arms and then push me away while you

wallow in whatever guilt you are suffering.”

His mouth hardened into the familiar line. Whether

he would have argued with her further, she did not learn

because Mrs. Pollock returned. This time Simon took his

leave without more than a nod in the housekeeper’s

direction.

Mrs. Pollock looked from the closed door to Darcy,

puzzlement and dismay on her face.

Darcy said nothing as the housekeeper tended to her

knee. Even when Mrs. Pollock gathered up her supplies

and left, saying she would send a maid up to help Darcy

undress, Darcy remained silent.

She had not thought this was how she would discover

why Simon was determined to keep her distant even as he

drew her to him. Simon tried to refuse himself every



pleasure. He was suffused with guilt that had been born at

the moment of the carriage accident which killed his

mother and sister. He felt guilty because he was still alive.

***

~~~ Thoth’s moon had risen higher than the mountains

edging the valley. In its cool, dead light, raw marks revealed

where stone was being torn from the mountainside to create

another incision for a Pharaoh’s tomb.

A collection of small houses hugged the river’s muddy

shore. They were as dark as the sky, for the workers within

refused to waste an hour when they could sleep. Long hours

of working in the merciless sun sucked every bit of life

from those who sought relief in the cool night shadows.

On the road leading from the shore, the light of a single

oil lamp could not fight back the darkness. It huddled

within its small circle, not daring to go beyond to challenge

the night.

Meskhenet guarded each step as she held the lamp

high. The rough road was nothing like the smooth textures

of her garden. Had she not come here before, she doubted

she would have had the courage to cross the river tonight.

Alone and without a servant or even a boatman, she had

taken a boat to ferry herself to this side of the river.

She knew her destination. A few questions had

obtained her the information she needed. Now all she need

do was reach it.

Tears still burned in her eyes, but she had refused to

let more fall. Weeping would gain her nothing but Onuris’

displeasure. He had made his decision, and it was one he

would not remake, even if she was honest with him and

told him he had been bewitched by the chief architect. Usi

had already gained too much power, with her brother’s

approval. Now his ambition had found him a place within

the Pharaoh’s family.

With a shiver, she wondered if Usi would be satisfied

with that proximity to Pharaoh’s throne. He was a man



who continued to covet more power, and she doubted he

would ever be content.

The streets between the huts were clean, and the smell

of sewer pits was swept away by the wind rising out of the

desert beyond the Valley of Thoth. No rubble being

accidently kicked would alert anyone to her presence.

Hoping she had counted correctly, she paused in front of a

dried mud house that was identical to all the others.

Meskhenet stepped through the door and held up the

lamp. Its light spread across a low table, the only piece of

furniture in a room less than a quarter the size of her bathing

room. Something moved in a corner, and she turned the

lamp in that direction to see Kafele coming to his feet,

tossing aside the blanket where he had been sleeping. Her

breath refused to leave her body as she stared at his body

that was covered so briefly by only a cloth about his loins.

His strongly sculptured muscles gleamed in the lamplight–

the ones she had seen when he came to her garden and

ones she had never seen but wanted to explore so much

more closely.

“Why are you here?” he asked as he paused in front

of her.

“I must speak with you.”

“You must return to Pharaoh’s palace without delay.”

She stroked his cheek. “When I return there, I shall

never be able to touch you again, to know your kisses, or

to imagine you welcoming me into your arms. Do not send

me back there yet. Let me stay here tonight.”

He put his hand over hers on his face. “It is being

whispered you have been given to the chief architect to

show the Pharaoh’s favor.”

“Soon it will be announced.”

“Then you should go.”

Drawing her hand out from beneath his, she slid it

along his naked chest. “I will . . . in the hour before dawn.”

“You dare to gainsay the Pharaoh, who has decreed



you belong to Usi?”

“No.” She did not try to halt the tears spilling from

her eyes at the pain she could see in his. “I shall obey my

brother the Pharaoh. I shall marry the one he chooses for

me, but the one I love is you.”

“You need to return to the palace before you are

missed.”

“I have made arrangements so I shall not be missed.”

Running her hand up his deeply tanned skin, she whispered,

“Open your heart to me.”

His arms enfolded her to him as he whispered, “Open

all of yourself to me, Beloved of Thoth.”

She raised her arms and welcomed him against her

breast. They dropped together to his blanket, and she knew

all that was familiar would never be the same. Every day

to come would be different because of this man for whom

her desire was as powerful as a Nile flood.

It was perfection. ~~~

***

“This is horrible,” Simon exclaimed as he tossed a

typed page on the desk the next afternoon.

“Excuse me?” Darcy asked, unsure if he meant his

work or hers. She had just completed typing page five

hundred of the manuscript. The task had gone far more

quickly now that Simon did as she had requested. He once

again treated her with the reticence he showed the

household’s servants.

“I can’t send this mess to Caldwell.”

She scooped up the paper. The typing was neat and

the margins tidy. “What is wrong with it?”

“It’s drivel.” He laughed coldly. “It was arrogant of

me to think I can finish this book in the time left me and

have it be worth anything.”

“We are so close to being done.”

“‘We?’ I didn’t suspect you had gained the status of

co-author of my work. Perhaps I should turn over the



remaining research to you.”

“Maybe you should!” she snapped back, rising to face

him. “Do you know how many people would be thrilled to

have their obsessions fulfilled as you are? Do you want to

know what I truly think?”

“Do I have any choice?”

“No.” Although she knew she should be silent, keeping

the barrier of polite respect between them, she could not.

“I think you’re afraid.”

“Afraid of what?”

“I don’t know. Afraid no one will appreciate your work

maybe, or no one will care. Or maybe you’re afraid you

won’t win your father’s approval even after the book is

published. Or worse, maybe you’re afraid you’ll have to

venture out into life when it’s done instead of hiding here

in your work.”

Fury tightened his lips. She straightened her shoulders,

for she would not cower when he dismissed her.

His curse scorched her ears. “Complete typing the

notes on the desk. I trust you’ll be in a better state of mind

by dinner.”

Darcy flinched as the door slammed so loudly she was

sure it could be heard down in the village. She wondered

how much longer—like Meskhenet and Kafele—he could

hide from the truth he did not want to face.



Thirteen

It was missing . . . again.

Darcy searched around the desk, but found no sign of

the book where she had been writing Meskhenet’s story.

Heat soared up her cheeks as she imagined Hastings

reading the scene of Meskhenet and Kafele becoming

lovers.

Rising from looking under the settee, she rubbed her

knee. It ached less with each passing day of the past week.

The book was not in Simon’s office. She had been certain

she brought it down with her this morning. Maybe she

was confused and thinking of another day. She might have

left it upstairs this morning.

A pulse of relief lessened her dismay when she saw

her notebook on the settee in her sitting room. That dismay

returned as she picked it up to discover the only pages

remaining in it were blank. All her stories, including the

unfinished one, were gone. Gone, too, was her dream of

going to Egypt when she was finished typing Simon’s book.

Then she would have enough money to go to Egypt, but

she needed the money that the publisher had promised her

in order to find lodging and to eat until she could find

some of her family. To begin anew was not impossible,

but it would take weeks to rewrite all the tales Jaddeh had

told her.

As she lifted the book to press it to her chest, a slip of

paper fell from it. Another torn page? It was in her

handwriting, but the word “amaze” had been circled with

a line drawn between the first “a” and the rest of the word.

A maze? She looked out the window at the garden.

Was this a clue to where the rest of her work might be?

She could not guess why anyone would want her to come

to the maze to retrieve it, but she did not have the luxury

of ignoring the invitation. She needed to find her work.

Darcy tied her bonnet under her chin, but did not reach



for her cloak. The past few days had been unseasonably

warm. She suspected, as she went outside and saw the

clouds gathering on the western horizon, the cold would

soon be returning with a storm off the sea.

She had not been near the maze since the night she

had foolishly wandered into the wood and met that thing.

Her steps faltered as she stared at the trees which seemed

so innocent in the bright sunshine. Could she be walking

into a trap? Within the maze, she might not be able to

escape that thing before it captured her again.

Looking down at her notebook, she continued walking.

She had worked too hard on these stories to let some

horrible prankster keep her from recovering them. Her feet

slowed again as she stared at the maze’s outer walls. The

yew bushes stood nearly ten feet tall. Seeing a page lying

on the grass just inside the maze, she glanced back at the

house. Once she entered, she had no idea how long it would

take her to escape again. Yet, if she left the pages of her

story here, they would be lost . . . or found by someone

else.

She stepped into the strange world between the dark

green walls. New growth shone in bright green, but she

paid it little attention as she lifted the page out of the soft

grass and set it in her notebook. Seeing another farther

along, she hesitated again. If she followed the pages into

the maze, she could pick them up in the opposite order

and find her way back out.

Thunder rumbled in the distance. She ran to the next

page and picked it up. Maybe she was being silly, but she

would not risk having her story washed away by rain. If

she watched where she walked, she could find her way

back out again . . . maybe.

No noise but the thunder filtered through the labyrinth.

Birds flitted in and out of the shrubs. By the walls, the

grass was knee-high, but a path was kept clear down the

middle. As the sunlight dimmed beneath the assault of the



upcoming storm, she hurried faster, counting the pages as

she gathered them. She wanted to be certain that none of

them were lost.

The sunshine was brighter in front of her, glittering

off the page that was held in place by a small stone. She

tossed aside the stone and picked up the paper. As she

straightened, she realized she had reached the center of

the maze, for in front of her was an open area with a pond.

She stared in disbelief. The green walls surrounded

an oasis she had not guessed could be found in its innermost

section. Verdant grass woven with pansies dropped down

toward a pool that reflected back the maze’s walls and the

sunshine fighting to hold its own against the blackening

sky. In the center of the pool was a small island.

“Oh, my!” she gasped as she stared at the single

building on the island. She could almost believe she had

been transported back to Egypt, for on either side of the

door stood a statue. Even from where she stood, she could

see one was Thoth and the other Ra. The god of the moon

and the god of the sun guarded what was a much smaller

version of the temples she recalled from her childhood.

This one was not almost buried in the desert sands, but

instead surrounded by late-blooming flowers and decorated

with silk drapes flapping listlessly in the fickle wind.

She put her hand over the necklace beneath her gown

as she walked out of the maze and toward the water.

Lightning flashed overhead, but she did not pause. She

knelt to pick up another page which was held at the water’s

edge, like the previous one, by a rock. Directly in front of

it, stepping stones led to the temple.

She crossed them, drawn not only by the sheet of paper

set on the scales held by Thoth, but by her curiosity of this

piece of Egypt recreated here. Walking up to the temple,

she realized the stone roof was not quite as high as the

maze’s walls. That allowed the temple to be hidden until

one reached the maze’s heart.



“The heart,” she whispered, touching the stone feather

on the other side of the scales. In Jaddeh’s tales of the

ancient gods, it had been believed the heart of a dead person

was weighed by Thoth in judgment. If the heart was lighter

than a feather, entrance to the joys of the underworld was

granted.

Lightning crackled overhead, and Darcy pushed

through the silk to get out of the storm. She would have to

stay here until it passed. With a laugh, she reached back

out and plucked the page from the scale.

She sat on the stone floor and restacked the pages

neatly. Scanning through them, she frowned. The most

recent page she had written—the scene of the lovers

surrendering to their desire—was not among them. She

set the pages on the floor and looked through them and

her notebook a second time, wanting to make certain the

last scene had not gotten put in the wrong place. It was

not here.

Rising, she went to the statue of Ra. If the page had

been on his outstretched hand, it had been blown away by

the strengthening wind. The silk swirled around her as

she looked in both directions. She jumped back when

thunder crashed only seconds after a flash of lightning.

The sky grew darker, and she sank back to her knees.

She should have waited until after the storm passed before

she came out here. To be here in the dark . . . She glanced

up at the ceiling that was decorated with what looked like

hieroglyphics, and she shivered. So much stone above her

in the darkness. She closed her eyes as shudders streamed

across her.

The darkness. She could not stay here in the darkness.

Jumping to her feet, she gathered up her book and the loose

pages. She had to get back to the house. Risking the

lightning was better than remaining here in the dark.

“Running her hand up his deeply tanned skin, she

whispered, ‘Open your heart to me.’ His arms enfolded



her to him as he whispered, ‘Open all of yourself to me,

Beloved of Thoth.’”

As the words to her story resonated through the small

temple, Darcy whirled to see Simon emerging from the

shadows in its depths. In his hand was a single page.

“She raised her arms and welcomed him against her

breast, and she knew all that was familiar would never be

the same.” He looked up at her as he walked toward her,

then continued to read, “Every day to come would be

different because of this man for whom her desire was as

powerful as a Nile flood. It was perfection.”

She should chide him for taking her book and tearing

out the pages . . . and reading it. Yet as she heard her words

in his deep voice, she could only listen and recall the vivid

images that had been in her mind when she wrote them.

Vivid images which made her feel alone as never before.

Now as his voice’s echo was swallowed by another

thud of thunder, those sensations exploded through her

again. She was once again standing as Meskhenet had stood

looking upon her lover within the darkness. Like

Meskhenet, she understood all she risked by remaining

here and was willing to jeopardize it.

Simon bent and placed the page where she had stacked

the others on the floor. Lightning flashed, emphasizing

every sharp angle of his face. She stared in astonishment,

wondering when Kafele had taken on his features.

Searching her memory, she could not recall how that had

happened. Now she could not envision Kafele except with

Simon’s eyes that were as green as Thoth’s and as

captivating as Meskhenet had found her lover’s.

“Welcome to Egypt,” he said in a hushed voice.

His words, so commonplace and so absurd, freed her

from the spell cast upon her by the story that haunted her—

the story she could not finish. As quietly, she asked, “What

is this place?”

“A folly built by my father years ago for my mother



who was even more enchanted with the East than he is.”

He smiled. “Maybe as much as you are.”

“The maze appears much older than your father’s

lifetime.”

“It is. Folklore suggests it was here even before

Rosewood Hall was raised, and it was the work of those

ancients who raised the stones in the woods.”

“A holy place?”

“So it’s said because of the spring which creates the

pool within it.” He went to the wall opposite the doorway

and lifted down some pieces of pottery. Coming to her, he

placed them carefully on her palm. “These were found

here.”

Darcy turned them over her hands. The edges were

not sharp, but eroded by their millennia beneath the earth.

“Your father’s workmen found these when the temple was

being raised?”

“My mother found them.” He chuckled. “She was

much like you, Darcy. She wasn’t afraid of getting her

hands dirty with work others would have considered not

proper for her station. She tried to identify them, but all

she could determine was they were old.”

When she handed him back the pieces, he set them in

the nook on the wall. Lightning brightened the interior. In

the thunder that followed, she heard rain splattering on

the statues outside the temple as it tried to find its way in.

The silk draperies kept it at bay.

Simon sat on the floor beside the single page. Holding

his hand up to her, he drew her down next to him. He took

her notebook and, opening it, reached to put the page within

it. As soon as he had, she snatched the book from his hands.

Again she held it to her chest. To protect it or for it to

protect her? She could not guess.

“You shouldn’t have looked at this,” she whispered.

“Why are you hesitant to have me read it, Darcy?” he

asked, his voice once again a low, deep caress. “I thought



you planned to have this book published.”

“Yes, I do.”

“But I can’t read it?”

“It isn’t finished.”

“No?” He gently took the book and opened it. He ran

his finger along the last line in the middle of the page. “‘It

was perfection.’ A lovely ending to your story.”

“It doesn’t end there.”

“Then tell me the rest.” He stretched out on the floor,

leaning on one elbow.

“I can’t.”

“I’ll share its ending with no one.”

She plucked the book from him and closed it. “Neither

will I, for I don’t recall how it unfolds from this point.”

Light caught her eyes. Not from the lightning still slicing

through the sky, but the fragile clouds of light that drifted

close each time she was tempted to open her heart to Simon.

Open her heart?

Meskhenet and Kafele had used those words in their

story. Were they her words any longer, or did they belong

to the characters who seemed to have more life than any

of the others she had penned?

Even as she watched, the two clouds took their place

near the roof. Her eyes widened when she saw the small

ball of light that had never moved from above her bed

until she came to Rosewood Hall.

“What are you looking at?” Simon asked.

She did not answer as the ball slid up through the

hieroglyphics and into the stone above it.

“They’re back,” he said when she remained silent.

“They?”

He pointed to the lighted clouds floating just below

the ceiling. “Our ghosts. I would offer to shoo them away,

but I don’t know how one rids oneself of a ghost.”

“Don’t,” she whispered. “Let them stay.”

“While you tell me the end of your story?” he asked,



his smile returning.

“I told you I couldn’t remember how it ends.”

He untied the ribbons of her bonnet, drawing it off

and leaving her skin quivering in the wake of his touch.

“Remember? Aren’t you making up this story out of your

imagination?”

“This is a tale Jaddeh—my father’s mother—told me

when I was very young.” She ran her fingers along the

pages. “I find I don’t remember the ending of the story.”

“They lived happily ever after?”

She shook her head. “No, I don’t believe they did.

This isn’t a fairy tale, but a story passed down through the

many generations of my father’s family. A cautionary tale,

I believe, although the ending eludes me.”

His hand on her arm turned her to face him. In his

eyes was the intensity that created fire in them when he

was deep in his research. As he sought the answer to a

puzzle that refused to give up its answer. Was that how he

saw her? As a puzzle hiding the truth from him? He knew

more of her secrets than anyone in England, and she knew

so little of him. A devoted son, an ardent scholar, a good

friend . . . and a passionate lover.

She looked hastily away, frightened by her own

thoughts. The tale Jaddeh had told was of the distant past,

not of this time when England was so far removed from

life upon the shores of the Nile. She could not let the

romanticism of two desperate lovers interfere with her own

life.

A single finger under her chin brought her face back

toward his. Slowly she raised her eyes past his beguiling

lips to his compelling eyes.

“Then tell me,” he whispered, sitting, “the ending to

the scene on the final page. The words you wrote are so

terse and unemotional after all the longing shared by your

lovers.”

“I don’t know what else to write.”



“Yes, you do.” His mouth brushed hers.

“Simon . . .” She arched her neck as his lips swept

along it. Thunder resounded around them. Or was it just

her heart beating with such anticipation of his touch?

“Tell me . . . Show me . . .” he whispered against her

ear. He drew her back onto the temple’s floor. “Share your

sweet kisses with me.”

His lips covered hers. The gentle, lingering touch

vanished as his mouth pressed eagerly into hers. As he

kissed her again and again, his breath growing ragged

against her, the strength of his desire flowed through her.

It washed away every bit of common sense warning her

this yearning was a dangerous madness.

When his mouth slid to the valley between her breasts,

directly over her necklace, she gasped in shock at the

powerful sensations rolling through her. She swept her

arms up around him, bringing him over her. She could not

deny him—or herself—the satiation of this hunger that

seemed to spring from some unknown recess far within

her soul.

Each breath she took brushed her against his hard body

until she wanted him all along her. When she heard him

whisper something not in English, she froze and pulled

away, staring at him.

“What did you say?” she whispered.

“I want you so much.”

She shook her head as she sat up. “No, you didn’t say

that. I heard you say something else.”

“What?”

“I heard you say mahbjb.”

“What?”

“It means beloved in Arabic.”

He chuckled. “I don’t speak Arabic, although I’ve

encountered a few words in my research. You must have

misheard me.”

“No. You said mahbjb and then . . .”



“What?”

In his curious gaze, she saw the craving for her had

not dimmed. “You said Thoth.”

He laughed with a freedom she never had heard in his

voice. “Now I know you’re jesting with me.”

“And you’re belittling me yet again.” Darcy jumped

to her feet and picked up the pages of her story. Her furious

exit was ruined when she faced the heavy rain beyond the

sheer curtains. Standing by the door, she did not move as

she heard him stand and walk toward her.

His breath teased the wisps of hair at her nape when

he said, “Don’t go.”

“I will get wet if—”

“Don’t go because you think I was belittling you. I

wasn’t. I vow that to you. Don’t go. Stay here with me.”

When his mouth stroked the back of her neck, she

gripped the pages. His arm curved around her waist as his

hand rose to cup her breast. A shiver of excitement raced

through her at the caress of his strong fingers. Trying to

forget what they had shared, she had not put the wonder

of his touch from her mind . . . or her body which ached

for him. The rush of sensations, tantalizing her into

recognizing the depth of her need, softened her against

him.

One of his fingers brushed her pendant, and the

lightning still dancing overhead surged through her. Why

was she resisting what she wanted as much as he did? She

had dreamed and waited . . . She did not know how long

she had waited for this fantasy to come true. As Meskhenet

had wanted Kafele, Darcy wanted Simon now.

Letting the pages fall from her fingers to drift to the

floor and flutter about on the breeze, she turned to meet

his mouth. She wanted to sink into the sea-green depths of

his eyes and discover each emotion hiding there.

She met his mouth eagerly. She wanted every bit of

the ecstasy he offered. More than wanted . . . she needed



the satisfaction only he could give her to appease the

craving which preyed on her very soul. As his tongue teased

hers, his fingers stroked her sides through the few layers

of silk separating her skin from his. Her arms reached

around his back, yearning to pull him against her so she

could savor him filling the heated emptiness developing

within her.

She murmured, “Help me learn what I must to give

you this pleasure.”

“You know already.” His tongue brushed her ear, and

she moaned. “You have known for so very long. Just open

your memories and let them guide you.”

His words were confusing, yet seemed to make

complete sense. She reached into her mind for those places

she had not dared to explore, the very deepest and oldest

memories she had.

“What is that Arabic word you spoke?” he asked.

“Mahbjb.”

“Beloved?”

“Yes. Do you want to learn more of my first language?”

“Your native tongue?” He chuckled and framed her

face with both hands. “Let me feel your native tongue

against mine.”

She curved her hand around his nape. Breathing

deeply of the hot, smothering closeness of the room,

although it should not be so with the breeze beyond the

temple, she paid no attention to the oddity. All she wanted

was to discover the heat within him. His auburn hair sifted

over her fingers as she steered his mouth toward hers.

Tugging her tight to him, he slowly, methodically,

explored every inch of her lips. The tip of his tongue teased

the corners which tilted upward in a delighted smile. When

they softened beneath his sensual assault, he tested the

slick planes of her mouth, leaving a liquid fire in his wake.

When he sat once more on the floor, he pulled on her

hand. She shook her head, but put her finger to his lips



before he could ask the question glowing in his eyes. She

plucked the pins from her hair to send it cascading along

her back in a river as ebony as the Nile on a moonless

night.

He tugged her down to him and pressed her back

against the floor. His mouth over hers revealed his fervid

longing, and she let it flow into her, leaving her with an

excruciating need that even his kisses could not satisfy.

When his hand curved up over her breast, teasing its very

tip, her fingers stroked his back, loosening his shirt beneath

his sedate coat. She slipped her hands up beneath it,

delighting in his warm skin.

He shrugged off his coat even while his mouth

continued to scatter kisses across her face and along her

neck. As his lips reached the top of her prim blouse, he

undid the buttons with a speed that suggested he had waited

too long for this moment. His tongue delved into the hollow

between her breasts, and she knew she had waited too long

as well for this splendor, so lusciously uncharted and yet

so familiar.

She gasped at the rapture blazing from the moist fire

along her skin. As he had branded her heart with a craving

for him, his fervent kisses were claiming every inch of

her. It took all her strength to pull away from him enough

to reach for the hook at the back of her skirt. A quick

motion loosened it and sent her dark skirt swirling like a

sun-chased shadow across the floor. As she stepped out of

its black puddle, she slowly began to undo the remaining

buttons on her lacy blouse.

Her eyes watched his follow every motion of her

fingers while she unbuttoned her blouse. She could sense

each breath he took, fast, shallow, eager. Delighting in the

hunger in his gaze, she smiled. Several buttons still

remained closed when she raised her arm to undo the pearl

buttons at her left wrist.

With a growl, he grasped her waist and brought her



down beside him once more. Pressing her back against

his hard arm, he whispered, “Leave some of the pleasure

for me. I’ve waited for this moment.”

He undid the last buttons and drew her blouse off. As

he gazed down at her lacy undergarments, she reached up

and loosened his shirt. She wished they wore far fewer

clothes because she wanted to be against him, skin to skin.

When he lifted her pendant over her head and placed

it atop her notebook, she said, “But I’ve always worn that.”

“In the past, but this moment is just for this moment.

I don’t want to share it with the past.”

She looked up as he did at the clouds of light glowing

near the ceiling. Had the colors become brighter, or was

the day growing darker? She lowered her eyes to discover

his gaze waiting to enfold her. With a breathless whisper

of his name, she followed her longing back into his arms.

He untied her petticoats and loosened her corset,

tossing both aside. His fingers settled on the silk garters

that held her black stockings in place. With care, he drew

them down off her legs. He frowned when he saw the still

discolored bruise on her right knee.

“Don’t think of it now.” She opened his shirt and ran

her fingers up his strong chest. How could she have

understood Meskhenet’s longing from the very beginning

of the story and not known how wondrous caressing his

bare skin would feel until she met Simon?

When he tossed her stockings aside, she entwined her

legs with his, exulting in the prickly wool against her bare

skin. She wanted to enjoy every sensation they could share,

so she never would forget again.

He brushed his lips along the top of her chemise, and

a soft cry of longing escaped her lips. She looked up at

him in abrupt dismay and put her hands over her mouth.

“Do you think,” he asked as he drew the strap of her

chemise down over her shoulder, “I want you to hide

anything from me? Let me be a part of your pleasure as



I’ll be a part of you.”

“But if someone comes here—”

“As long as that storm rages outside, we can give

ourselves to the one within. No one will venture near the

maze until the rain stops.” He gave her a roguish grin as

he reached to lower her other strap. “Why else do you

think I waited through the past few fair weather days before

I lured you here?”

She smiled as she sat up to draw his braces and then

his shirt off. “I’m so glad this storm didn’t delay any

longer.”

“I wouldn’t have been able to wait much longer.” He

reached for the ribbons on her chemise. “And I shan’t now,

mahbjb.”

She smiled at the name he spoke as if he had done so

often. As he drew her undergarments from her, he paused

and guided her fingers to the buttons at the top of his

trousers. She hesitated, then was caught anew by his gaze.

It invited her to throw aside her proper ways and give

herself to wanton passion. That invitation she could not

refuse.

In quiet awe, she discovered every inch of his male

body, first with her eyes and then, letting her longings guide

her, with her fingers. Her mind was abuzz as he pressed

her back onto the floor again. She savored his bare skin

against her. It was all she had imagined and all she had

hoped for and so much more.

Now the smothering heat came more from within her

as he held her to his body that was covered with a fine

sheen of perspiration. As if the temple had been transported

to the sultry banks of the Nile. Each inch of him was an

individual caress, sending uncountable thrills spiraling

along her as her yearning threatened to overpower her

completely.

Seeking again between her breasts, his tongue set her

skin aflame, and she became a wildfire roused by



unstoppable winds of passion. He sought along the upward

curve to the rougher skin of its tip and drew it into his

mouth. She moaned as the heat within her escalated until

she was sure she was about to melt in his arms.

Pushing him onto his back, she tasted his skin’s

textures. The curve of his ear was soft, the line of his jaw

unyielding, tiny whiskers rough against her lips when she

sampled the length of his neck. She tried to ignore his

eager fingers, but she was aware of them inching along

her legs. When she teased the ruched skin on his chest,

she could feel as well as hear his rapid heartbeat.

Lower, she followed the contours of his intriguing male

body, delighting in every texture and flavor. More brazenly

than she had touched him, she explored with her mouth.

His almost anguished gasp of her name sent renewed

craving through her. Never had she imagined the simple

touch of her lips could offer him so much pleasure.

“Enough,” he groaned.

“Enough?” She was puzzled by his command when

he writhed beneath her touch.

Instead of answering, he rolled her onto her back and

rose over her. She quivered with uncontrollable desire as

he plunged deep within her. The pain she had expected–

the pain she had been warned a woman must endure– never

came. The sense of having shared this before vanished.

Nothing had been as wonderful as this. Through her blurred

eyes, she saw his satisfied smile as she clung to him, happy

for one, short moment simply to be together. Then the

craving surged through her anew, insisting upon satiation.

When she discovered how her movements could match

his, eliciting the passion governing both of them, she

gauged the growing need so very visible on his face. Faster,

more acutely than she would have believed possible, the

yearning overtook her. Hearing his gasps close to her ear,

she vanished into rapture, surrendering herself to the

ecstasy she wanted to share only with him . . . forever.



***

Darcy rose and went to the fireplace in her bedroom.

She had brought Simon here after dinner and, after they

reveled in their passion again, had fallen asleep in his arms.

She had believed she would be safe there, safe from the

dreams that had haunted her all her life.

Sitting by the hearth, she hid her face in her hands.

Less than a trio of heartbeats passed before she heard

footfalls behind her. Strong hands settled on her shoulders.

“How long can these night horrors last?” she moaned.

“It was as if it were happening again.”

“Darcy,” Simon whispered in her hair as he knelt by

the low stool. “I don’t know how to comfort you. Maybe

if you tell me what you dream . . .”

“I hear something falling. Something heavy, and then

there is silence. I can’t breathe. I try to shout, but my shouts

are smothered within darkness. It’s so dark.” She

shuddered. “It’s always so dark. I want to escape, but I

can’t. When I try to wake up, the terror won’t release me.

How long can this continue?” Spinning, she flung her arms

around him. “Oh, Simon, how much longer can it torment

me?”

“Only as long as you allow it to.” His thumbs under

her chin brought her face up to him. “You need to stop it.”

“I don’t know how.”

He smiled and held out his hand. “You didn’t know

how to be my lover when this morning dawned. Now you

do.”

“There’s so much more I want to learn.”

She went with him to the shadowed bed. Lying beside

him, letting his kisses ease the shivers of fear and replace

them with eager quivers, she traced the varied planes of

Simon’s face before reaching his mustache.

“It’s so soft against me,” she said with a laugh.

When he smiled, and she enjoyed watching the muted

signs of passion on his surprisingly expressive face. For



so long, he had been completely in control. Now he seemed

to want to free his emotions as much as she did. “Is that

good?”

“Oh, yes.”

He laughed, nestling her against his chest. Her fingers

entangled with his through her long hair. He laughed again

as she tried to stifle a yawn and failed.

“It is not yet midnight, but I hope that’s fatigue. I hope

I’m not boring you.”

“Not boring. I spent too much time last night working

for my employer who makes me toil night and day.”

“I’m sure he appreciates what you do.”

Sliding her hand across his bare abdomen, she said,

“I believe he does.”

“And I hope you appreciate what he does for you?”

He stroked her with an eagerness that thrilled her.

“More than words can say.” She smiled. “All the way

back to their beginnings.”

“Then I guess you’ll just have to show me, won’t you?”

As she gathered him to her again, her eyes were caught

by the lighted clouds glowing near the ceiling. They floated

closer and closer, merging into a single cloud, before

drifting apart again. She forgot them when he tilted her

mouth beneath his. For tonight, she wanted to forget the

many mysteries in Rosewood Hall and think just of this

pleasure for as long as it could be hers . . . this time.

This time? Where had that thought come from?

She had no time to discover an answer as she gave

herself to passion and the man she loved.



Fourteen

~~~ “You must go.”

Meskhenet nodded, but held up her lips for one final

kiss. Never had the moon been so swift in its passage across

the sky. Never had the sun been so eager to lift its glowing

face above the eastern edge of the world.

Savoring Kafele’s kiss, for she knew she would never

again, she blinked back tears. A Pharaoh—or even a rich

man like Usi—could have wives and concubines, but that

privilege was not granted to women. Even if it was, she

could not imagine Kafele accepting such a place in her

life. He wanted her to be his and only his as she wanted to

belong solely to him.

“It is wrong,” she whispered when he lifted his mouth

from hers. “The scales of Thoth will be out of balance,

and the heart of Ra must be broken. We are meant to be

together, not apart.”

“It is wrong, but it is the way it must be.” He ran the

back of his hand along her cheek. “I shall never forget this

night.”

“If there is a way—”

He put his finger to her lips. “No, beloved. You must

not be so rash as you were tonight and the day when you

came here to see me. Pharaoh might forgive you, but Usi

never will. He has the power to make you wish you never

had even seen me.”

Meskhenet nodded. Kafele was right, even though he

had not spoken of what brought the most fear to her heart.

If Usi discovered her night here, he would focus his rage

and vengeance on Kafele.

She touched his face once and then hurried back to

the river where the small boat was waiting for her. As she

stepped into it, she looked back. A shadow in a shape she

knew now as well as her own stood against the fading

stars. She should have guessed Kafele would watch over



her while she returned to the Pharaoh’s palace.

Dipping the oar into the water, she pushed away from

the shore. The sounds of frogs and the river’s current

followed her across the water. She tied up the boat on shore

near the gate to her garden. From here, she could not see

Kafele on the other side. She did not need to see him. He

was there. Even if they never could as much as speak alone

ever again, he would always be there to watch over her.

He had not had to say that. She knew it to be true.

As Meskhenet walked through her garden, she heard

a strange sound. Someone was wailing in grief. She ran

into her private chambers. Her bodyservant was in a ball

on the floor, sobbing.

Meskhenet hurried to her, but paused when she heard

a man’s voice say, “May I express my sorrow at your loss?”

“Loss?” She whirled to see Usi in the doorway to her

most private sleeping chamber.

He walked toward her as if he already had become

her husband and had the privilege of being within her

chambers. When his gaze slithered along her, she wanted

to order him to leave. She silenced those words when he

stared at her feet.

She looked down and saw the damp river mud on her

sandals. Fighting back her despair, she lifted her head.

She regarded him without emotion. She was the Pharaoh’s

sister. If she wished to take a walk along the shore just as

dawn was arriving, no one could dispute that other than

her brother the Pharaoh.

“Did some omen wake you early?” Usi asked. “Some

omen of sorrow?”

“Say what you have to say.” She kept her voice steady,

but it was not easy.

“I am so sorry to tell you of your sister’s death. The

Pharaoh has suffered a great loss with not having her as

his wife.”

Meskhenet’s pose shattered. “Ahwere? Ahwere is



dead? That is not possible! She has not been ill. Was there

an accident?”

“It is not for me to say. You must go to your brother

and comfort him. He will share with you what he knows.”

She started to go to the door, but Usi’s hand on her

arm halted her. He pulled her back to him. When she

opened her mouth to protest, he pressed his mouth over

hers. She tried to push him away, but he ground his lips

down into hers. She did not want him to kiss her, and she

did not want him destroying the warmth left by Kafele’s

lips.

Breaking free, she said, “You are not yet my husband,

Usi.”

“But I am.”

“What?” she choked.

“The Pharaoh and the priests have deemed it to be so.

With the sunset, you were my wife.” He fingered her hair.

“Tonight, you will welcome me to your bed.”

“I cannot be married to you. If Ahwere is dead . . .”

She bit back a sob as she spoke the words she wanted to

denounce as a lie. “I am the next oldest. It is my honor to

be my brother’s wife.”

“Our marriage was consecrated before your sister’s

body was discovered.”

Meskhenet refused to listen more to this serpent who

seemed to be taking pleasure from her grief. Pushing past

him, she went out into the corridor. She hurried toward

her brother’s room. Onuris might be her only hope of

learning the truth . . . and being done with Usi. ~~~

***

“It’s done! This is the final page.” Darcy rolled the

page out of the typewriter and set it on top of the pile

beside it. Over seven hundred pages of manuscript, tracing

so many words—both common and esoteric—back to their

roots, was completed. The past weeks had been a delight,

for they spent hours here working together . . . and then



the nights in each other’s arms. If Reverend Fairfield had

been surprised when she remained at Rosewood Hall

instead of taking his money and leaving, he had kept that

to himself.

As she came to her feet, she saw Simon bent over

another book. She laughed and went to him. Closing the

book, she set it on the table.

“It’s done, Simon. Give yourself some time to enjoy

that before you begin on volume two.”

“Done?”

She laughed again. She should have guessed he would

still be so lost in his studies he would fail to notice the

typing had stopped. Kneeling beside his chair, she said,

“It’s done, Simon, and it is excellent. You have made the

subject of etymology interesting even to me.”

“Even to you?” He ran his thumb along her jaw. “You

know you have a mind that is filled with as much curiosity

as mine. It’s a shame you didn’t have a chance at a better

education. If you’d been born a man instead of a

woman—”

“You wouldn’t want me doing this.” She stretched up

to meet his lips.

He stood, drawing her to her feet. Her eyes widened

at the unadulterated desire on his face. It had not lessened

after they became lovers, and she was enthralled by the

depth of his yearning for her. She raised a single fingertip

to outline his sensuous mouth. Even such a chaste contact

escalated the longing within her. His mouth covered hers,

fueling the brisk fire of her impassioned breaths. His hands

swept up her back, pressing her to him as if he needed to

relearn every inch of her.

A throat was cleared, and Darcy looked over her

shoulder. She stiffened as she saw Hastings and Reverend

Fairchild by the door. Both men were frowning.

Simon did not seem bothered by their expressions as

he announced, “The manuscript is finished.”



“And you were celebrating its completion,” his father

said dryly.

“Among other things.” Simon smiled at Darcy and

held out his hand. She slipped hers into it, hoping he did

not notice how it trembled.

A foolish wish, for he glanced at her, his smile

faltering. He squeezed her fingers gently, and she

understood what he did not say. He would not let anything

diminish his pleasure with finishing his book or with her.

Reverend Fairfield said smoothly into the silence,

“Congratulations, Simon. That is a great feat.”

“Thank you.” He chuckled. “We should have the

manuscript to Caldwell long before the deadline.”

The vicar’s glance at the pile of papers on the desk

sent a sudden chill along Darcy’s spine. “An

accomplishment indeed,” he said, but his voice was brittle.

She thought back to her first meeting with the vicar and

how she had believed he was jealous of Simon’s work.

Maybe she had not been wrong, as Simon insisted. “Don’t

you agree, Hastings?”

“It’s good news.” Hastings clapped his son on the

shoulder, but the motion almost knocked the older man

off his feet. His color was a sickly shade of gray, and Darcy

took his arm and sat him in the chair where Simon had

been reading. Nodding his thanks to her, he added, “I must

say I had my doubts about you ever finishing the book on

time, but you have proven me wrong, son.”

From the corner of her eye, Darcy saw the vicar’s

mouth straighten with fury. She turned to look at him, about

to ask him what was amiss, then saw he was smiling. Had

she mistaken his expression?

“This calls for a celebration,” Reverend Fairfield said.

“I believe you keep your good brandy in the other room,

don’t you, Simon? Shall we drink to the success you

deserve?”

Simon hesitated. “I don’t know if Father—”



“Nonsense,” Hastings said, struggling to regain his

feet. With his son’s help, he did. “I shall not miss this

chance to toast you and your success, Simon.”

“Will you join us, Darcy?” asked Simon.

She was about to say she would, but noticed how the

vicar’s eyes narrowed as he glanced from Simon to her.

His smile remained, but it was a stiff smile.

“Go ahead,” she said. “I need to put my typewriter

away.” She faked a yawn. “It has been a long day, and I

need to rise early tomorrow to post the manuscript. I bid

you all a good night.”

Darcy stood where she was until the men had gone

out of the office. Pulling a cover over her typewriter, she

gathered up the manuscript. She might be misjudging the

vicar horribly, but she could not mistake his venomous

expression when he had looked at it. She would not risk

anything happening to Simon’s hard work. No one would

suspect it was in her portmanteau at the back of her

dressing room. She would find a way to explain to Simon

without driving a wedge between him and his cousin,

whom he seemed to trust.

Going upstairs, she hurried to her room to hide the

pages. She placed them carefully in the box. In amazement

she stared at the top page. She had not typed it, for the

words went at an angle that revealed the paper had not

been rolled evenly into the typewriter. Even if she had not

seen that, she would have known she had not typed it. She

would have remembered:

“This book is dedicated to my beloved Darcy. With

you things I thought impossible are becoming possible

again.”

Tears filled her eyes as she pressed her fingertips to

her lips. She had not guessed Simon would do something

so wonderful. A twinge cut through her, for she had ruined

what he meant to be a surprise. She would thank him when

he came to her room tonight.



Smiling as she thought of how she would show him

her delight with the dedication, she readied herself for bed.

She had no idea how long Simon would stay to celebrate

with his father and cousin, but she knew he would return

here as soon as he could for a most private celebration

with her.

One hour passed, then another while Darcy sat and

tried to read. She rose, setting the book on her chair. She

went to the window. Leaning her elbows on the windowsill,

she listened to the night breeze whispering through the

trees. She yawned, then sneezed as the lace on her

nightgown brushed her nose. Even after an afternoon of

rapture in Simon’s arms, she was eager for more of his

caresses. Her fingertip outlined the small panes as she

delighted in the memory of Simon’s touch. Each time they

were together, they discovered new ways to express their

rapture.

She picked up her notebook from her bed and sighed.

She wished Meskhenet’s story was not taking such a

horrible turn. Instead of writing of sorrow, she wanted to

tell of joy and love and making the impossible possible.

A motion caught Darcy’s eye. “No!” she gasped. In

the bright moonlight, she saw a figure she could recognize

as easily as Meskhenet recognized her lover.

Just past the terrace below her, but within the arc of

light from the house, was the thing that had chased her

through the garden. Here it stood, gazing up at the moon,

its arms raised. She heard nothing from beyond her open

window. It simply stood and reached up as if to grasp the

sky. She looked up, too, and saw the moon was full. Did

that mean something to it?

“Who cares?” she whispered. “Let him do whatever

he wishes.” Maybe she should alert Simon, but if he

confronted this thing, she was unsure what might happen.

Another movement below interrupted her thoughts.

Someone was on the terrace. One of the creature’s



henchmen?

A flash of silver glinted in the moonlight. Was that

Hastings? She had her answer when he turned, revealing

his face.

The creature turned toward the house. It waved its

arms. She frowned. Was it trying to lure someone out into

the garden? Was it trying to lure Hastings out into the

garden?

She gasped when the creature turned and walked into

the night. Hastings stepped down off the terrace. She called

his name, but he did not turn.

Darcy pushed away from the window. Going out there

was insane. Yet to stay when Hastings was walking right

toward that creature . . . She must stop him before he

reached the wood. She shuddered as she imagined the

creature’s evil hiss near her ear.

Pulling her wrapper over her nightgown, she slipped

her feet into a pair of soft shoes. She looked out again and

saw the creature now visible as a shifting shadow near the

rosebushes. Was the thing waiting to ambush Hastings as

it had her?

A bright light flashed in front of her, and she held up

her arm to guard her eyes. Looking cautiously over it, she

realized it was the ball of light floating right in front of

her. She raised a hand toward it, for it had never come so

close, but it edged away.

“What are you trying to tell me?” she asked.

She got no answer, although she had not expected any.

“I’ll be back as soon as I halt Hastings.” She took a

step toward the door.

The light flared more brightly again.

“I know it’s dangerous out there, but he is Simon’s

father.” Her voice broke. “Simon loves him so much

because Hastings is the only family he has left. I will not

cause Simon to suffer more by standing here and doing

nothing while Hastings might be walking into trouble.”



She stepped around the light. It chased her, trying to

get in front of her. She threw open the door and rushed out

into the hall. It did not follow. When she reached to close

the door, she saw no sign of it.

Darcy did not have time to figure out why it had

approached her and acted so oddly. She ran to Simon’s

door, on the off-chance he might have come upstairs and

stopped there before coming to join her in her bed. He did

not answer her knock. The corridor was deserted. She

hurried down the stairs. Where was Fraser? The foyer was

empty, so she rushed to Simon’s office.

Darcy was astonished when she discovered his office

was empty. She whirled. Her wrapper struck a stack of

books, scattering them across the floor. She waited for

Simon to come through the door to see what was causing

the noise.

When the hallway door remained closed, she threw

open the French door and rushed outside, calling Hastings’

name. No one answered. Not from the garden nor from

the house.

A motion deep in the garden drew her eyes in the

direction of the maze. A glint of silver sent a cramp into

her stomach. That must be Hastings. It moved, and she

saw what could have been a lantern.

It took every bit of her willpower to force her feet

down the terrace steps. Wet grass clung to her wrapper.

She scanned the garden. It was empty. Where was

Hastings?

A glow was fading into the woods beyond the maze.

Then, closer, she saw another one. A lantern. Was Hastings

following the creature?

“Hastings!” Her shout must have reached him, but no

reply came back. If he happened upon the creature and its

companions in the wood, she feared what might happen.

He was an old man, and his heart was weak. The very

sight of the creature could bring on a fatal attack.



Darcy looked back at the house. The only lights

burning were the ones in her room and the one in Simon’s

office. Had he returned there?

She ran back up the steps and opened the door. The

office was as empty as it had been before. Throwing open

the other door, she called as loudly as she was able, “Simon,

where are you?”

Her voice echoed up through the grand staircase at

the front of the house. She waited a minute, then another.

No answer. She called again, and again she got no answer.

It was almost as if everyone had vanished.

Slowly she walked back out to the terrace. A suspicion

she did not want to have taunted her. If Simon was part of

the cult in the woods, he might be there. She could not

believe he was a member of the group led by that thing.

Maybe he was chasing after his father to save Hastings

from what awaited in the wood.

She paused by the wall, wishing she could be certain

Simon was in pursuit of his father. Then, she would be

able to remain here, safe from that creature. But Simon

had not believed her when she spoke of what was among

the trees. Maybe he had no idea what he was about to

confront.

Darcy was down the stairs and crossing the garden

before she could persuade herself to return to her room.

Wishing she had found someone—anyone—to help her

stop Hastings from walking into madness, she hurried past

the rosebushes. She saw a light ahead of her and shouted

his name again. The light continued toward the wood

without pausing.

Then, it vanished.

She gasped. Had Hastings heard her and doused the

lantern to keep her from following? Had he encountered

the beast or one of its followers? Or, and she hoped this

was what had happened, was the light concealed by the

trees at the edge of the wood?



Only her determination to protect Hastings kept her

from turning back when she reached the wood. The

bobbing of the lantern she guessed was Hastings’ had

reappeared, not so far away, and she might be able to reach

him before he encountered someone else.

She feared it was too late when she heard chanting in

that strange language. Simon should be here. He knew

many dialects, so he might be able to guess more than the

pair of phrases that sounded like Latin. She frowned. Even

as little as she knew of the language, she could recognize

it as Latin, but the words were strung together like nonsense

sounds.

“Hastings?” she whispered beneath the voices. He

would hear her only if he was nearby, but he must be close

because his lantern had come this way.

The lantern appeared ahead of her to her right. She

crept closer. Her breath sounded like a shout in her ears.

Her wrapper snagged, and she yanked it loose. Material

ripped, and she held her breath. Had anyone heard that

strident noise? She could not risk being found. Then the

creature might fulfill its threats.

Seeing the lantern only a few feet from her, she dared

to whisper, “Hastings?” The lantern halted, and she slipped

through the trees as swiftly as she could. “Hastings, stop!

You must stop.”

She froze when the trees thinned, and she realized she

had followed the lantern to the edge of the clearing with

the stone table. Backing hastily into the shadows, she

sought another way to reach him.

But her eyes were drawn back to the clearing which

was lit by smoky torches. A score of people congregated

there, each wearing some sort of mask. Some appeared to

represent animals. Others were as hideous as the creature

who had chased her toward Rosewood Hall. They were

chanting and dancing in wild abandon around a collection

of torches by the tables.



She wanted nothing to do with them or whatever they

were doing. Pulling her gaze from them, she saw the lantern

still had not moved. Was Hastings watching, appalled, too?

Nobody seemed to be looking in her direction,

although it was impossible to tell with the strange masks

they wore. She edged toward the lantern. There still might

be a chance she and Hastings could flee unnoticed. Once

they were out of earshot, she would warn him about the

beast who had ambushed her among these trees.

Darcy put her hand over her mouth to silence her gasp

of dismay when she entered a tiny clearing. The lantern

was sitting on a stump, abandoned. If Hastings had carried

it here, he might have left it when he realized it could

draw attention to him.

She started to pick up the lantern, then drew back.

She should take a lesson from Hastings. If she moved it

now, the light would be a beacon to alert those in the

clearing to her movements. Where was he? She would

never find him without this beacon. The best thing she

could do would be to return to the house and search it

from attic to cellars until she found Simon. Together, they

would look for his father. It was what she should have

done from the beginning, but she had been too afraid of

losing this single clue to Hastings’ route.

Before she could take a step, her arms were seized

from behind. She screamed in her terror and outrage, and

the forms in the clearing halted in midstep. A sweaty hand

pressed over her mouth, silencing her.

A cloth gagged her. Struggling to escape, she heard

laughter. Cruel, triumphant laughter. She fought harder to

escape. This could not be happening. Not again! She had

to flee before that thing came near her again.

Her efforts were as futile as before. Still on her feet,

she was shoved back against a tree. Pain exploded through

her head, and the lights swelled and waned in front of her.

She must not lose consciousness. She must not.



A knife appeared out of the darkness. As it was held

in front of her eyes, it was slowly lowered so its tip rested

against the wrapper button directly over her heart. This

message needed no words.

Someone grabbed her wrists. Her hands were bound

behind the tree, and she moaned as her arms strained not

to be torn from her shoulders. Another rope was looped

around her middle. When it was tightened, she could not

draw a breath. She sagged against the tree as her ankles

were lashed to the trunk. She tried to see her captors, but

they were lost in the shadows beyond the lantern’s feeble

light.

Suddenly the fresh sweetness of air filled her lungs,

and she realized the rope around her stomach had been

loosened. Her relief vanished when a man who wore a

mask that made him look like some kind of bird ran his

fingers along her face. She twisted her head away, but he

pinched her cheeks between his broad hands. When his

tongue stuck through the mask and brushed her ear, she

shrieked. No sound but a groan slipped past the gag.

The man pulled back and looked beyond her. Through

the mask and in the flickering light of the torches, she

could see terror in his eyes. He backed away, bowing his

head.

Darcy moaned as the creature—the thing—stepped

around the trees, each step as measured as a ballet dancer’s.

Its every appalling aspect was exactly as she remembered.

She should have insisted Simon heed her, and . . .

She closed her eyes as horror surged through her. What

if Simon was hidden behind one of these masks? He had

not been in his rooms or his office. He had not answered

her frantic calls in Rosewood Hall. Was it because he was

here? She wanted to deny that, but was unable to

understand his surprising lack of curiosity about her

previous ordeal. He had discounted her descriptions of the

creature out of hand instead of tracing down every detail



as he did with his words.

Before her stood the beast, alive, real, and undeniably

male in his brief loincloth which revealed the well-oiled

muscles of his body. This was not Simon, for pale, curly

hair twisted across this creature’s chest. She could not tell

if it was white or blond.

The man-beast stepped closer. She stared at the

monster’s dark sockets where his eyes should be. Its

distorted nose led to a mouth too wide for any human’s.

Rope-like scars twisted in malignant patterns along the

mask’s cheeks.

It is a mask. It is only a mask. She repeated those

words over and over silently. Her fear made her more

vulnerable to this beast, and she must not give it more

advantage over her than it already had.

He leaned toward her, and the disgusting sibilant voice

came from beneath the mask as he whispered, “I warned

you to stay far from here, but you swiftly slipped back

through the trees. Do you remember what I said would be

your fate if you returned?”

She kept her chin high with the little dignity she had

left.

“Answer me,” he hissed.

She arched her brows. How did he expect her to speak

when she was gagged?

“Answer me.” The mask turned, and a man leaped

forward to squeeze her cheeks painfully again. The creature

ordered, “Answer me. Do you remember what I said would

be your fate if you were to sneak into our woods once

more?”

She nodded, and the man’s painful grip eased.

“But yet, you returned.” The creature gave a wild

laugh. “Just as I said she would.” As his followers began

to chant in excitement, he edged closer to her again and

lowered his voice so only she could hear his disgusting

whisper. “But you returned too soon. We aren’t ready for



you this night. You should have remained at Rosewood

Hall until you were summoned.”

She shivered. She did not want to be a part of whatever

this madman and his cult were planning.

He put his hand up toward her face, and she cringed

away. “You will be silent unless I ask you a question,

Darcy.” His voice drew out her name in his sickening

whisper. “If you do not cooperate, you will necessitate us

killing you now. That would be a shame.”

She nodded as she tried to calm the pulse crashing

through her skull so loudly she had no chance of

recognizing his voice.

When the gag was pulled away, she coughed and

coughed. She gasped through her coughing, “Please loosen

the ropes so I can breathe more easily.”

“You will be silent, or you will have no need for air,

Darcy.”

She listened to how he stretched out her name and

knew he enjoyed saying it. With a shudder that ached across

her shoulders and down her bound arms, she wondered

how he had learned her name. Terror riveted her. This

creature must hide the face of someone she knew. Someone

from Rosewood Hall? From Halyeyn?

“Who are you?” she whispered. “What have you done

with Hastings?”

Instead of answering, the creature took a bowl from

one of his sycophants. The man with the knife came

forward and put it once more against the button in the

center of her chest.

The beast raised the bowl to her lips and ordered,

“Drink.”

She snarled the most vicious curse she had ever heard

in Egypt, then repeated it in English before clamping her

lips closed.

The creature snapped an order, but the man holding

the knife did not shove it into her chest. Instead he put it



in his belt. He forced her mouth open with one hand and

held her nose shut with the other. When the bowl was held

to her lips, she had no choice but to swallow the bitter

liquid while she struggled to breathe. She choked and

gagged and winced as it burned her stomach.

The man with the knife laughed, and she heard more

laughter from the shadows.

Her nails cut into the bark, but she kept her head high.

“If that was poison—”

“You needn’t worry about that, Darcy,” the creature

said. “If I wanted you dead, you would have been dead

before now. This is simply another warning to stay away

until you are invited to join us.”

“Join you? I would rather die.”

His voice did not change as he said, “Joining with us

is your fate, Darcy. Your very life is necessary for us. You

bring us what we need to go on.” He made a motion which

the other man must have understood. The gag was stuffed

into her mouth again, and the bushes rustled as his

followers edged through them, taking the torches with

them.

As her eyes adjusted to the dark, she stared in horror

at the monster. He was not leaving with the others. When

he took a step toward her, his naked muscles glistening in

the moonlight, she tried to shift away. She could not move.

He said nothing. Had he lied to her? Was he waiting

for her to die in front of him?

She blinked, and her head was abruptly as light as the

breeze. His silhouette wavered before her eyes. She blinked

again, looking to her left. The trees were wavering as if

they had become liquid. Leaning her head back against

the tree, she fought to make her eyes focus on the moon

that looked as if it were reflected in a rippling stream.

He walked toward her. Plucking the gag from her

mouth, he stepped back. She wanted to scream, but her

voice came out in a soft mew. When he loosened the ropes



binding her arms, she folded to the ground. She clutched

her head, trying to make a single rational thought. Nothing

lingered long enough for her to grasp it, as her thoughts

spun like everything around her.

Long fingers on her ankles were untying the ropes

before she was more than barely aware she was being

touched. Those long fingers slipped up along her leg, and

she tried to pull away. Her limbs worked no better than

her eyes.

“Such a waste,” he hissed. “You could have done better

than Simon, Darcy, but you shall serve me well.”

“No.” Her voice was no more than a whisper.

“What spirit! If the prize was not so dear, you would

serve me in a far more intimate way.”

She thought she heard him laugh a very human laugh,

but vivid flashes of pain exploded in her head. The

undulating earth came up to her as she collapsed. The laugh

sounded again, but it was connected to nothing.

Darcy was not sure how long it was before she was

able to raise her head. Silence filled the wood, and the

moon had set.

One thought formed in her mind. She had to find

Simon! When he saw the welts on her wrists from the rope,

he would have to believe her. And the beast had spoken

his name. Hadn’t he? She was sure he had. She had to

warn Simon about this creature before Simon became its

captive, too. That thought revolved through her aching

skull. Pushing against the ground, she started to rise. Again

she crumpled.

Slowly she began to realize she had been drugged by

whatever was in the bowl. How long would she be this

weak? She shivered, for the night’s chill was deepening.

She managed to rise to her knees. As she looked at the

trees in front of her, they telescoped into darkness and

returned out of focus in a kaleidoscope that changed every

time her eyelids rose or fell.



Darcy groped for the tree behind her. Leaning on it,

she pushed herself to her feet. She swayed, then clutched

the tree more tightly. She needed something solid to keep

her from spiraling out of reality.

She closed her eyes as the creature’s voice echoed

through her head. He had no interest in killing her . . .

now. But he intended to use her in some way which she

was sure would strengthen his leadership over the people

who had gathered here. She had to get to Rosewood Hall.

Where was Hastings? Had he eluded the creature and

its followers, or was he drugged senseless somewhere

nearby? Or—and she did not want to think this thought,

but could not stop it—was he dead?

“Hastings?” she called out, her voice barely louder

than the rattle of the branches overhead.

A light moved in the trees, but she would not be so

foolish again. She could not find and protect Hastings on

her own. She needed help. She turned her back on the light

and reeled from one tree to the next. Her shoulder struck

one, and she groaned, but did not slow.

The hard surface of a road cut through her soft slippers,

startling her. Where was she? With care, she looked in

both directions. She wanted to cry out with relief when

she saw the front gate of Rosewood Hall ahead of her. She

must have gotten turned about in the woods while following

Hastings.

She lurched toward the drive leading to Rosewood

Hall. Something rattled behind her. What was it? Her mind,

slowed by the sapping drug, did not give her an answer

until the carriage was almost upon her. She tumbled to the

roadside.

The carriage slowed. With a gasp, she pushed herself

back to her feet and forward, holding out her hands. She

did not worry about what a sight she must be in her torn

wrapper and tangled hair. “Help me,” she pleaded. “I need

to get to Rosewood Hall.”



The carriage door opened, and a hand appeared to help

her in. She stretched out her hand for it, but it remained

beyond her fingers as the darkness seemed to rise up from

the ground and encompass her.



Fifteen

Meskhenet . . . Kafele . . . Meskhenet . . .

“Beware of what you know is true.”

“Do not be rash. Think with care before you take

action.”

“I love you, and I want to be with you forever.”

Forever . . . Meskhenet . . . Kafele . . .

***

Darcy tried to find her way past the unseen line

between dreams and waking. The terror within her refused

to release her as she opened her eyes. Hearing moans, she

peered through the dim light. She saw no one. The moans

were not hers, although her head ached with a dull

throbbing.

She started to stand, but something metallic clanked

and pain scored her right ankle. Dropping back to the stone

floor, she leaned her head against a wall. Something sticky

seeped through her hair, and she pulled away in horror.

Where was she?

An endless chorus of moans rose and fell. Her eyes

began to adjust to the faint light, and, in horror, she stared

at the crowded room.

Not so much a room as a cell, for rust-encrusted bars

sliced the window which was so small she could not have

squeezed through it. To her left, a door was clasped with

heavy iron as if to keep out some atrocity . . . or keep it in.

Creatures, for there was no humanity in them, crawled

around the chamber. Each of them was chained to the wall.

She would not have been able to silence the screams

clamoring in her throat if one of those . . . things had come

closer. Most were female. Few had decent clothing, and

several crawled through puddles on the floor.

Where was she?

Raising the hem of her nightgown, she saw her right

ankle was encircled by a rusty manacle. She was bound



like those creatures.

Where was she?

And how had she gotten here?

Slowly she stood. She swayed as her head threatened

to escape her shoulders. She leaned her hand on the wall,

then snatched it away from the slime which had oozed

into her hair. In disgust, she pulled away. The chain caught,

toppling her. Her cry of pain and outrage was lost beneath

the moans in the room.

Pulling herself up to her knees, she jerked on the chain.

It was securely attached to the wall. She sat back on her

heels.

Where was she?

Darcy stood again and moved the single pace she could

in either direction. Even on tiptoe, she could not see

anything through the window except a tree and sunlight.

There was no clue to where she was.

Horror raced through her. That monster near the maze

was her last clear memory. She had been a fool to follow

Hastings alone. In retrospect, she knew she had been

baited. But why?

A screech came from the opposite side of the room,

and she cringed. This was as appalling as the monster. A

hand settled on her shoulder. She screamed.

“Shut yourself up, dearie,” snapped the woman who

wore a simple blouse and skirt the same limp color as her

dishwater hair. She bent and unhooked the chain from the

wall. Holding the links as if she were an organ grinder

leading a monkey, she pulled on them in a silent order.

“Take it off me. It hurts,” Darcy whispered. She was

afraid any sound would create renewed shrieks from the

others.

“Just come along, dearie.” The woman tugged on the

chain.

Darcy considered arguing, but she did not want to be

left in this oozing hell with beasts which had lost every



sign of their humanity. Lurching after the woman, she lifted

her nightgown up to keep it out of whatever pooled on the

floor. Her head spun on every step. When she was led

through the door, the woman locked it with another iron

key.

In shock, Darcy stared. They stood in a wide, tiled

hallway. Benches were spaced along the wall which

smelled of fresh paint. Again the woman jerked on the

chain.

“That hurts,” gasped Darcy.

“Then do as you’re told.”

She was tempted to snap back she would cooperate if

she knew what was going on, but said nothing while the

stooped woman led her along the corridor. From beyond

the doors along the wall, she could hear more pitiful

sounds.

“What is this place?” she asked.

The woman mumbled something.

“I didn’t hear what you said.”

Opening a door, the woman shoved her forward. Darcy

fell to the floor. The hard stones cut into her knees, and

she heard material rip. Dampness from the floor mixed

with the blood dripping along her legs.

She stood and stared at this strange room. The tiles on

the floor continued up the wall and across the ceiling.

Mildew blackened the grout between them, and spider

webs along the ceiling were filled with insect carcasses

and dust. Several buckets of water were set in one corner,

and a bench topped by a single, threadbare towel leaned

precariously against the wall in front of her. The water

appeared clean, but the buckets were coated with

something she would not want to get close to in order to

discover what it was. A pair of windows, no wider than

her forearm, were set high on one wall. Iron bars blocked

what little light seeped through the filthy glass.

“What is this place?” Darcy asked, fighting not to be



ill.

“You’re at the asylum, dearie,” said the woman.

“Asylum?” She whirled to face the woman. “What do

you mean?”

“It’s simple, dearie.” The woman snapped the chain

onto a ring on the wall. “You were brought here to rest

your brain.”

“I’m not mad!”

“Of course you don’t believe that, dearie. Nobody in

here believed that when they first arrived. Then they

learned how mad they truly are.” The woman reached for

the ribbons at the collar of Darcy’s nightgown. When Darcy

slapped her hands away, she said, “Listen, dearie, do as

you’re told, or I can make sure you end up with more

bruises than you have already.”

Backing away a half step, she whispered, “There’s

been some mistake. I’m Darcy Kincaid, and . . .”

“I know what your name is.”

“If you know my name, please contact Rosewood Hall.

They’ll tell you that I’m employed there.” Desperation

crept into her plea. “They’ll tell you I shouldn’t be here.”

“Dearie, who do you think sent you here?”

“There has to be a mistake.” She could not keep the

panic from her voice. “No one there would send me here.”

“Really?” The woman chuckled shortly. “Now are you

going to get out of that nightgown, or do I have to show

you what we do to bad ladies who don’t cooperate?”

“What are you going to do to me?”

“Nothing, if you behave.”

Darcy wanted to snarl at the woman, but feared any

reaction would label her mad. Longing to dismiss this as a

nightmare, she knew it was all too real. When the woman

reached for the ribbons on her torn nightgown, Darcy could

not keep from backing away again.

The woman’s voice grew cold. “If you don’t let me

take that off you, you’re going to learn right now how we



treat those who don’t behave.”

Darcy loosened the nightgown. Curses, which Jaddeh

had told her were a thousand years old, filled her mind as

the woman watched every motion. The tattered garment

slipped to the wet floor, and the woman kicked it away.

“Go ahead, dearie.”

“Ahead?” Darcy whispered.

“Take off your smallclothes.”

“No.” She put her hands over the laces of her chemise.

The woman struck her across the face. When her head

hit the wall, tears exploded into her eyes, but Darcy did

not let them fall. The woman ripped the silk from her.

Darcy cried out in horror, but nothing halted the woman

until she reached for the jeweled pendant.

Darcy batted her hands away. “Don’t touch that.”

“You must take it off.”

“No!”

“If you don’t, I shall—”

“If you touch this, I’ll claw out your eyes.” She smiled

fiercely. “Or maybe Thoth, the ibis god, will do that. You

risk inciting the ancient gods by trying to take it from me.”

Superstitious awe filled the old woman’s eyes. She

said nothing for so long Darcy wondered if she had

forgotten how to speak. Finally, the woman said, “Stand

there.”

Before Darcy could react, cold water was poured over

her head. She shivered as she tried to reach for the towel

on the bench. Her hands were knocked away. She stared

at another woman who was standing by the door. This

woman was as large as Simon but far broader. Slate gray

hair hung along the sides of her face, but her smile held

Darcy’s eyes. Her smile and the small whip she held.

“This the one who’s been causing all the trouble, Mrs.

Rale?” the huge woman asked.

“She doesn’t seem interested in cooperating at all,”

said the woman who had doused her with water. “I think



she should learn some manners.”

The huge woman stroked the whip eagerly. Stepping

forward, she smiled as Darcy edged away. “She’s scared.

She’s not as stupid as some of them.”

“After all, Miss Johns, she got herself a job at

Rosewood Hall. I hear she’s seduced the younger Dr.

Garnett, too. Heard he hasn’t been quite right since the

accident that killed his mother and sister.”

Darcy listened as they gossiped as if she could not

understand them. She started to protest.

Miss Johns raised the whip.

Darcy cowered away, trying to protect herself before

they drove her truly mad. She thought of Mrs. Rales’ words.

The other inmates had not thought they were mad when

they first arrived. Then they faded into madness. Or had

they been pushed by these horrible women?

Miss Johns’ eyes twinkled as she let the leather whip

slither along Darcy’s wet shoulder. “You have a lot to learn

about keeping your mouth shut, girlie. If you don’t—”

The door opened. Ripping the towel out of Mrs. Rale’s

hands, Darcy held it between her and the man in the

doorway. Thinning, black hair was long behind his large

ears. His lips were compressed in a tight line. He glanced

at her through thick glasses and looked away as if she

were of no consequence.

“I didn’t realize it took two nurses to tend to one

inmate.” His voice was as icy as the water splashed over

her head.

“This one’s not following orders.” Miss Johns scowled.

“No?” His gaze settled on Darcy. She raised her chin,

even though nothing stood between them but the ragged

towel. “Mrs. Rale, dress her and bring her to my office. I

suggest you find something else to do, Miss Johns.”

The huge woman grumbled and tossed a gray,

shapeless garment at Darcy. It resembled the ones she had

seen on the poor creatures in the other room.



“You heard the doctor,” said Mrs. Rales, shoving the

dress into Darcy’s hand. “Put it on.”

“I need my undergarments,” Darcy returned in the

same tone.

When Mrs. Rales stepped toward her, Darcy raised

the garment against her as a shield. The material strained

as Mrs. Rale snatched it away and pulled it over Darcy’s

head.

Mrs. Rale sneered, “Forget your ladylike airs here.

No one cares what a madwoman wears.” She chuckled as

Darcy tried to pull the too short garment past her knees.

Darcy was pushed toward the door. The chain caught,

and the iron tore into her ankle. Behind her, she heard

laughter and a click. Mrs. Rale held the end of the chain in

one hand. With the other, she motioned for Darcy to go

out. That was one order Darcy was happy to obey. She

hoped the man who must supervise this asylum would listen

to her.

She was ushered into an office which was not so

different from Simon’s. It was well decorated. Dark

burgundy draperies had been drawn to cover the windows,

so she had no idea if it was day or night outside. With her

head aching and blood oozing from her knees and her right

ankle, she was grateful when the man pointed to an

overstuffed sofa. She watched as the chain was locked to

a ring set at the base of shelves holding thick books.

She shivered. Why hadn’t Simon come for her? Her

hands clenched. If something had happened to Hastings,

Simon might be so focused on his father he assumed she

was busy taking his manuscript to be posted. If Hastings

had not returned to Rosewood Hall either, maybe a search

was underway. Her burst of hope vanished. Nobody would

think to look for her here. How many hours had passed

since she followed Hastings into the wood?

As soon as Mrs. Rale went out, the dark-haired man

stated, “I am Dr. Berger. I’m in charge of this asylum. You



should remember my name. Dr. Berger.”

“Dr. Berger, you don’t need to repeat it. I’m not

insane.” She rubbed her hands together, then halted when

he glanced at them. “If you’ll contact Dr. Simon Garnett

at Rosewood Hall, he’ll assure you I’m not insane.”

He folded his hands behind his back and peered at her

through his thick lenses. “I have been in contact with

Rosewood Hall. I can assure you we don’t incarcerate

someone lightly.”

“If you have contacted them, then why am I still here?

Didn’t Simon tell you I’m sane?”

“I was told by Dr. Garnett that you’ve shown

increasing signs of agitation in the past few weeks.”

“Of course,” she cried, leaping to her feet and ignoring

the clank of the chains. “I’ve been working hard. Simon’s

manuscript needs to be in London by month’s end. The

work has—”

“Taxed your fragile, feminine system,” he finished

smoothly as he put his hands on her shoulders, forcing her

to sit. When one slid beneath the thin fabric of her gown

and stroked her bare skin, she shrieked and tried to shove

his hand away. He chuckled as he clamped his fingers on

her shoulder and said, “You’re going to need my personal

attention, Darcy. I shall do everything necessary to bring

you back to health. You, of course, will cooperate.”

“No! Not with this!” she spat as she fought to break

his grip. She moaned when his fingers twisted through her

wet and tangled hair and forced her head back.

“You don’t know what you’re saying.” Amusement

tilted the corners of his lips as his other hand moved from

her shoulder to settle on her knee. “I’m your doctor, Darcy.

I want only to help you.”

She slapped his bold fingers away, but groaned again

as he tightened his grip on her hair.

When he released her suddenly, he said, “It’s such a

shame.”



She did not want to play his sadistic game, but she

needed to get word to Rosewood Hall. “Please send a

message to Simon. He will tell you the truth.”

“Dr. Garnett was very honest with me, for he is deeply

concerned about your strange behavior.”

Her stomach cramped. “If you sent a message to him,

then you should know I’m as sane as—”

“Anyone in here,” he said with a laugh. “Who do you

think told us of your recent idiosyncracies?”

“Simon told you . . .” A horror, greater than any other

today, filled her as Dr. Berger so matter-of-factly spoke of

Simon sending her to this place. It was not possible.

Something was wrong—terribly wrong—and it was not

her mind.

She had thought Simon cared for her. How sweetly he

had wooed her with kisses and caresses! With ease, he

had convinced her to stay at Rosewood Hall to help him

finish his precious book. Now it was finished . . .

“At first,” said Dr. Berger, “he thought your tales of

lights near the maze were just nightmares. Then, he feared

there was more to your tales.”

“They aren’t tales. They’re true.”

“I’m sure you think so.” He patted her head, but his

caress along her face was anything but fatherly. When she

pulled away, he went to the door and called, “Mrs. Rale,

Miss Kincaid is ready to go to the private room we have

arranged for her.”

Darcy looked from one face to the other. There was

menace in his words. What did he mean? She stood as her

leash was unlatched from the wall.

“My dear Darcy, we shall help you,” Dr. Berger said.

“You needn’t worry about that.”

“If you touch me again, I’ll scream so loud they’ll

hear me in Halyeyn.”

“Touch you? Are you hallucinating again?” Dr. Berger

laughed. “Go with Mrs. Rale, my dear. You’ll learn soon



we mean only to help you.”

Trying to retain as much dignity as she could when

she was being led about like a dog on a chain, Darcy

stepped past him and into the hallway. A door was opened

only a few paces away. When she was shoved inside, she

hit the opposite wall. Putting out her hands, she realized

she could span the tiny cell. Her dressing room at

Rosewood Hall was larger. A single breath told her it had

not been cleaned in weeks.

“You’ll stay here and be quiet,” ordered Mrs. Rale.

“Here?”

“Sit on the floor and be quiet.”

Darcy grasped the woman’s drab sleeve. “Would you

sit on this floor?”

“Just shut up!” Mrs. Rale hit her again.

Darcy reeled back. Before she could straighten, she

heard the horrifying click of a key. Her manacle had been

hooked to another ring on the wall.

“No,” she moaned. “Don’t leave me here.”

“If you make a peep, you’ll feel more than my hand.”

Mrs. Rale closed and locked the door behind her.

Darkness was smothering. She screamed, clawing at

the door. She could not stay here in the dark. She would

die if she was left here alone. She had to get out of here.

Now! Nothing that had been done to her, not even her

grandmother’s machinations, had been this cruel.

Someone had to let her out. She could not stay here.

She would smother in the darkness.

Her pendant banged against her arm. Lifting it, she

ran her fingers along the green-eyed god. “Thoth,” she

cried, “why is it so many believed in you when you’ve

brought me nothing but ruin?”

She received no answer then or as the hours passed.

When her throat was raw and she could no longer make a

sound, she sagged in sleep. Asleep, this nightmare was

horrible, but, when she awoke, it would be worse.



***

She could not breathe.

The darkness was stifling, pressing down on Darcy so

she could not draw in a single breath.

Pain and darkness . . .

Nothing left but pain and darkness and knowing she

had failed. The lives in this time had nearly run their

measure. Not only her life, but the lives of the ones she

loved.

She tried to breathe, but there was no air. Just dust

from shattered mortar and broken rock.

She had been warned. She should have listened.

Pain and darkness . . .

Where was the light that appeared each night and

hovered over her until the sun rose? Was it lost in this

ebony labyrinth as well? She looked for it, but saw only a

darkness blacker than the inside of her eyelids. Her only

escape now was death. When he designed this trap, he

would have left nothing to chance. Except she would be

the one to spring it, continuing the parade of death

overtaking everyone she loved.

Patience. She should have heeded the warning to be

patient, but how could she when so much was at stake?

Pain and darkness . . .

No, she could not let the darkness win. She might have

only one breath left, but she would use it to shriek out her

defiance to those who had betrayed her.

She screamed. From somewhere, she found more air

to pull into her lungs. She screamed again. And again.

And again.

“You are not alone.”

Darcy grasped onto that small voice. Maybe she was

going mad just as the doctor and his cruel nurses wanted.

She did not care.

“Who is it?” she asked.

“You are not alone.” A soft glow strengthened near



her right shoulder.

She bit back a sob of relief. Light. Wondrous, lifegiving,

mind-saving light. As the glow became the compact

ball that had guarded over her for all her life, she

whispered, “Thank you for not abandoning me. If I’d

listened to you . . .”

The light pulsed like sunshine, and a comforting

lethargy flowed over her. It was as if someone very dear

had put consoling arms around her. She could not recall

being held by her mother, but Jaddeh had cradled her often

while telling the old stories and soothing her night fears.

This sensation of being within the warmth of family was

all the comfort she needed to hold onto her sanity. She

was not alone in the darkness.

***

Darcy knew it was day only by the thin line of light

edging the bottom of the door. If that had been her only

source of light, she would not have survived this torment

with her mind intact. Her special light had been her

salvation , coming each night when the light vanished from

beneath the door. She had lost count of the number of times

the pattern had been repeated.

She raised her head as the line of light vanished at the

same time a key rattled in the lock. Were they letting her

out? She shuddered. Taking her out of this nauseating closet

might mean more attempts to steal her lucidity.

Mrs. Rale opened the door. She was carrying a bowl,

and Darcy held out her hands. This was the first food

brought to her in more than a day. The nurse laughed and

tilted the bowl. Soup poured out onto Darcy’s hands.

With a cry, she jerked them back. She shook the

burning soup off her hands, wiping it against her gray dress.

Tears fell down her cheeks as she cradled her hands on

her lap.

“You’d best learn some manners, Miss Kincaid,”

sneered the nurse. “You have to learn to wait your turn.”



“My turn?” she moaned, fearing the guardians of this

asylum were as deranged as those imprisoned within its

walls. “There’s no one else here.”

“Are you so sure of that?” She laughed. “I saw a few

rats before you were put in here.”

Darcy swallowed her groan, not wanting to give Mrs.

Rales more pleasure. The nurse slid the bowl into the closet

and slammed the door, locking it.

Groping for the bowl, she could not hold back a sob

as her sore fingers dipped into the hot liquid again. She

picked up the bowl, glad the soup was not hotter.

Otherwise, she would not be able to hold the bowl.

She took a sip and gagged. Any meat in it must have

been rancid. She almost set the bowl back on the floor,

then realized she could not leave food—even this

disgusting broth—where it would lure rats to her.

“You need to eat,” she whispered. “Otherwise, you

will become too weak to fight them.”

Battling her captors to hold onto her sanity was her

only goal as time seemed to have forgotten her. She was

never let out of this closet. Although she was offered the

chance to visit Dr. Berger what she guessed was each

afternoon, she refused. She knew she would be kept in the

solitary prison until she relented, but her freedom was not

yet worth what he wanted from her.

To hold onto the mind they longed to steal from her,

Darcy spent her time talking to the ball of light. She found

herself retelling Meskhenet’s story in hopes she would

discover the end of it. That one dream remained. She would

escape this place and find a way to Egypt. She would not

stay in England where everyone she had dared to trust

eagerly betrayed her. First her grandmother and now Simon

had turned on her.

The sound of the key in the door brought up Darcy’s

head from where she was staring at her special light. It

was an odd time for them to come, for their routine had

not varied once. Had they gotten tired of waiting for her to



break? What new horror were they ready to inflict on her

now?

When the door opened just as the ball of light vanished,

she cried, “Hastings!”

He stared at her. She leaped to her feet. The chain on

her ankle caught.

As if she had not spoken, Dr. Berger stated, “I can

understand your concern, Dr. Garnett, but I can’t, in good

conscience, release her. She refuses all help. She clings to

her delusions. This paranoia could become dangerous.”

“Darcy dangerous?” He laughed with the same

condescension as Dr. Berger had shown her, but she noticed

Hastings’ face had not regained a healthy complexion. It

still was gray. Maybe it was nothing more than the odors

and horror of this asylum. “You’ve seen the papers I have

brought to you. You must release her, for she doesn’t belong

in—” His nose wrinkled in genteel distaste. “—this place.”

Darcy wanted to shout Dr. Berger was far from sane,

but said nothing as Miss Johns squeezed her bulk into the

closet to remove the manacle from Darcy’s ankle. Raw

skin beneath it seeped blood, and she winced, but continued

to hold her head high. Hastings held out a wool cloak, and

she wrapped it around herself, glad for its warmth and its

smell of fresh herbs.

She was free to go, but she hesitated, torn between

snarling out insults at Dr. Berger and flinging her arms

around Hastings. She did neither. All she wanted was to

return to Rosewood Hall and reason.

Not that she intended to stay at Rosewood Hall any

longer than it took to pack her things. She would have the

carriage brought around and order Nash to take her to the

railway station. Then she would buy a ticket on the next

train to . . . She was not sure where she would go, but it

would be away from Rosewood Hall and Simon, who had

consigned her to this nightmare. Once she had been his

fool. That would not happen again.



Sixteen

“Let’s go, Darcy,” Hastings said quietly as he turned

toward the asylum door.

Dr. Berger began, “Dr. Garnett, I insist—”

“If you question the authority of the papers I brought

you,” Hastings replied, “I suggest you call at Rosewood

Hall tomorrow afternoon.”

Dr. Berger began to retort, then clamped his lips tightly

closed.

Hastings put his arm around her shoulder as she limped

along the hall.

“Thank you,” she whispered. “Thank you for coming

to save me.”

“You should thank Andrew.”

“Reverend Fairfield?” She had not guessed the vicar

would play a part in helping her be released.

“Yes.” Hastings looked straight ahead at the door to

the outside, and she knew he was as eager as she was to be

done with the asylum. “He called at Rosewood Hall to

speak with me and urge me to come here with all speed.”

A pulse of guilt surged through her. Simon had told

her how he trusted his cousin, even when she had been

uncertain. She might never be completely comfortable with

Reverend Fairfield after his offer to pay her to leave

Rosewood hall, but she now, like Simon and his father,

was in the vicar’s debt.

“The reports Dr. Berger sent to Rosewood Hall didn’t

inspire any confidence in his ability to help you,” continued

Hastings when she did not answer.

“Help me?” Her bare feet slowed on the cold tiles.

“Hastings, I’m not mad!”

He gave her shoulder a paternal pat. “Of course you

don’t believe so.” Not giving her a chance to reply to that

unexpected comment, he asked, “Are you hurt anywhere

but your lower limb?” Color climbed up his cheeks, not



from health but from embarrassment.

Darcy drew the cloak more tightly around her as they

walked outside, so it concealed her bare legs. The stones

in the walk were warmer than within the asylum. “I am

otherwise fine.”

She gazed up at the setting sun, closing her eyes as

she let her skin absorb the light she had been denied. She

did not care if she ruined her face with a bronzing. Let

Grandmother Kincaid despair at how easily Darcy’s skin

darkened in the summer. Today, she was going to soak up

this light until she had her fill.

Hastings’ hand tugged her toward the carriage. She

reluctantly stepped beneath some trees beside the road.

Wishing he had brought an open carriage, she sighed.

Nash looked at her, then quickly away. The coachman’s

neck grew ruddy above his color.

Climbing into the carriage, she rested back against

the cushions. She had forgotten anything could feel this

wonderful. After long hours of sleeping on a stone floor,

she would never again take such comfort for granted.

Hastings sat beside her, taking care to keep his coat

from brushing her. His nose wrinkled, and she wanted to

apologize for the odors she was sure came from her. She

remained silent.

As the carriage rolled down the hill from the asylum,

Darcy prayed this was not a dream. She did not want to

wake to find herself within that dark netherworld again.

“I’ll have your clothes returned to you after they have

been laundered,” said Hastings, keeping his gaze focused

on the front wall of the carriage.

“No need. They aren’t wearable.” She trembled, trying

to shove all the appalling images from her mind.

“But you’ll want your precious necklace returned.”

“I have it.”

“You do?” He looked at her directly for the first time

since his shocked stare when her cell door was opened.



“They didn’t take it from you?”

Her lip curled in disdain. “They tried.”

“I’m pleased you defied them. It shows me that you

have some of your wits still about you.”

Glancing out the window at the village below, she put

her hand against her cheek. The price of her defiance had

been high, but she was now free of the horror. She drank

in the sight of the simple houses and the bright autumn

colors and every other aspect of the commonplace scene.

Only now, when she was free, could she admit how she

had feared she never would see anything but darkness for

the rest of her life.

As the carriage went up the road leading to Rosewood

Hall, Hastings said, “You must understand, Darcy, Dr.

Berger discharged you into my custody only because he

knows I’ll monitor your medication as I have my own.”

“Medication?” She repeated in surprise, for she had

not been given any powders at the asylum. If she had, she

would have tossed them away. “Hastings, I’m fine. I can

assure you I have all my wits about me. Once I have a

bath and a good night’s rest, I’ll be as good as ever.”

“Will you?” He smiled, a cool smile like Simon wore

when she first had arrived at Rosewood Hall.

Wondering why everything brought Simon to mind,

she wanted to ask Hastings how his son could have

condemned her to that nightmare. Hastings might know,

but, even if he did not, what would he say except she had

needed to go there? He obviously believed sending her

there had been justified.

She had escaped from the asylum. Now, unless she

was as mad as they thought she was, she must escape

Rosewood Hall. How could she stay with a man who had

foisted that heartless torture on her?

Fraser was silent as he opened the door to let them

into the house. Darcy was surprised he stared at her. He

did not offer to take her cloak, and she was glad because



she did not want to let anyone see the shapeless, gray dress.

She guessed her face was close to the same color.

Darcy was aware of every eye watching her as she

climbed the stairs on bare feet and hurried to her rooms.

She was thrilled to see a bath waiting, then realized

Hastings must have ordered it before he left. Had he told

Mrs. Pollock where he was going? If so, everyone in the

house would know by this time that Darcy had been

incarcerated in the insane asylum. She did not want to

think of the servants belowstairs laughing at her misplaced

trust in Simon.

With a sigh, she wondered why it mattered. She had

been betrayed by someone she trusted. Again. Slipping

off the shapeless garment, she threw it aside and stepped

into the tub. The warm water climbed along her legs,

embracing her. Her right ankle stung, but she did not care

as long as the manacle was gone. Leaning her head back

against the tub, she stared up at the ceiling.

She wished she could cry, but even sobs would not

banish the disgusting memories of what had happened.

No amount of wishing could undo what had been done. If

it had been only Dr. Berger and his unmerciful staff . . . It

had not been.

Simon had consigned her to that hell.

Deliberately.

Simon had chided her about seeing the lights, calling

them her imagination. Yet, he had not denied they existed,

only that they were swamp gas. He had teased her about

the clouds of light until he, too, had seen them. Not once

on the nights when Simon had skulked into her room to

hold her and bring her ecstasy had he questioned her

behavior. Then he had wanted only to touch her, to lure

her into the savage longing, to satisfy that craving as one.

“You even dedicated your book to me before you sent

it off to Mr. Caldwell,” she whispered. But had he? She

had not asked Hastings if Simon had posted his manuscript



in time to meet his deadline. Without her to correct any

mistakes on the typewriter, for he always checked her typed

pages to look for errors either he or she had made, he might

not have been able to finish the manuscript. By now, it

was too late . . . for so many things.

When the water was growing cold, Darcy scrubbed

the asylum’s filth away and washed her hair until it

squeaked. Wrapping a towel around her head and another

around herself, she went into her bedroom. She sat at the

dressing table and stared at the woman in the mirror. Even

after her bath, she could see scars of her incredible

experience in her eyes and etched along her face that was

thinner than when she had last sat here. She began to brush

her hair, letting the slow strokes take all her concentration

so she did not have to think of anything else.

When her hair was smooth and dry against her back,

she rose to dress. She was not startled to see a clean

nightgown and wrapper on the bed. Glad to have something

other than that horrible gray gown, she pulled the

nightgown over her head before buttoning the wrapper.

She saw something else on the bed. Her notebook.

With a sad smile, she wondered why she had believed she

could write a story of true love. She might love Simon

with all her heart, but she no longer could guess if he loved

her.

Opening the book, she turned to the final page with

writing. She frowned as she scanned it. She could not recall

putting this section of the story on paper, but the

handwriting was hers. Was she truly mad? Or had what

she had suffered caused her to forget? Or . . . She had no

idea what another alternative might be.

She began to read,

~~~ Meskhenet heard Usi’s heavy steps following her,

and she wondered how he could be so bold as to approach

the Pharaoh’s private chambers without an invitation. Even

Meskhenet should wait upon her brother’s pleasure for



her company before she came here. But she had to talk to

him. He would tell her the truth about what had happened

to Ahwere.

She heard a strange silence ahead of her. There should

be many voices from within her brother’s chambers, sounds

of music and gaiety. His advisors, the priests, his servants,

his concubines. All of them should be busy with the

Pharaoh’s work and making certain his life was as

wondrous as the son of a god deserved. Something was

wrong. Something was wrong. Something was terribly

wrong. She began to run along the hallway, calling her

brother’s name.

No answer came, and she understood why when she

stopped in the doorway to the Pharaoh’s antechamber.

Bodies were strewn across the floor, each one contorted

in the agony that had accompanied their final breath.

“Onuris!” she cried, hoping her brother would, by

some miracle, answer. She wove between the corpses to

go into her brother’s most private chambers. With a moan,

she leaned against the wall when she saw him lying in his

bed next to his favorite concubine. Neither moved as they

stared lifelessly at the ceiling.

She longed to sink to the floor and sob. She could not.

She must find the one who had dared to come into the

palace and do this abominable thing. She needed to see

that person pay the price of this heinous deed. Rushing

back into the antechamber, she shouted for the palace

guards to come to her. They must find the murderer so

Pharaoh’s laws could bring justice. She ignored the

anguished thought that no earthly justice could return the

breath of life into her brother. His justice would now come

on the scales of Thoth.

“No need to call the Pharaoh’s guards,” Usi said as he

came into the room. A smile eased onto his lips. “I have

sent them to find the murderer.”

“You?” Her grief gave her the freedom to show her



hatred for him. “You may give commands in the Valley of

Thoth, but not in the Pharaoh’s palace.”

“Onuris is dead.” He walked past her and ran his

fingers along the cotton panels decorating the walls.

“Poisoned with so many of his trusted servants. But it is

the way of Egypt to continue, and there must be a Pharaoh.”

He faced her. “That is why I give orders within the

Pharaoh’s palace.”

Meskhenet stared at his triumphant smile. She had

known him capable of so much in his grab for power, but

she had not guessed he would dare this. Her voice shook—

with both sorrow and fury—as she said, “You will never

be Pharaoh.”

“I already am Pharaoh.”

“By what right do you claim the throne?”

“By marriage to the Pharaoh’s closest living relative.”

Meskhenet choked back her next question. Her brother

had written his own death sentence when he signed the

agreement for her to marry Usi. His own death and so

many others.

“I can claim the throne for myself!” She raised her

head. “I am of Ra’s blood. You are not.”

“Do you believe the priests will accept you as their

Pharaoh when they have already pledged their loyalty to

me?” He walked toward her. “Our children will be

Pharaohs after us.”

“I will give you no children!”

His lips twisted. “Then you shall die, too. A barren

wife is worthless to a Pharaoh.” He seized her and forced

her into his arms. “But you will give me children,

Meskhenet. Many children and much pleasure.”

She could not escape his cruel mouth. Her fear that he

would rape her right there among the corpses was eased

when voices sounded in the corridor, coming swiftly

toward the antechamber.

He released her and went to the door to receive those



who had forgotten their vows to her brother. Inching toward

another door, she paused when Usi called her name.

Reluctantly, at his command, she walked toward where he

held out his hand to her. She would obey him until she

could find a way to make him for pay for his treachery.

“You asked who might have done this?” Usi asked,

his eyes flicking from her to the guards who were listening

avidly. “Maybe you can help us answer that question.”

He thrust something toward her. A sandal. A sandal

with the emblem of Thoth atop it.

“No,” she whispered. “No, you cannot do this.”

“So you recognize this sandal?”

“I am not sure.” She fought to regain her composure.

“Many wear such sandals with the gods’ images.”

“In the Valley of Thoth?” His victorious smile

broadened. “I think it is time we searched to find who has

the matching sandal. Then we shall have our murderer.”

He looped a hand around Meskhenet’s nape and kissed

her roughly. “Forgive me, dear wife. I will return to our

marriage bed to begin the dynasty that shall follow us.”

Meskhenet did not answer. She wanted him to leave.

Then she would find a way to warn Kafele. She was not

certain how, but she must break the promise she had made

him never to return to the far shore. If she did not, then he

would die for Usi’s crimes. ~~~

“Oh, my,” murmured Darcy. When had this story taken

such a dark turn? She could not remember Jaddeh telling

her such a tale. If her grandmother had, Darcy doubted if

she would have been able to sleep.

She dropped the book back onto her bed. It was her

handwriting, but she could not remember writing it.

Everything that happened in it was as new to her as if she

were reading it for the first time. Putting her hand to her

head, she wondered if she had been lying to herself in the

asylum. Maybe she was insane.

No! She was sane. There must be an answer to this, if



only she could find it.

Darcy heard steps in the outer room. Only one person

came unannounced into her rooms, although Simon had

violated that trust when he had banished her to the asylum.

She lowered the light on the gas lamp and sat again at the

dressing table, where the shadows would conceal her face,

for once glad for the dark clinging to the corners. She

squared her shoulders as she watched in the mirror as he

walked toward her.

“Father told me you were home,” Simon said, but did

not touch her. He sat in the chair within the bay, his face

now half-hidden as well. “I hope you feel rested.”

“Not really.” She picked up her comb and began

running it through her hair, untangling the knots the brush

had missed.

“Odd.”

At his terse answer, she paused. She did not turn, for

she doubted if she could maintain her feigned serenity if

she looked at him. “Why?”

“When I lamented the fact you weren’t here when I

couldn’t find the typed manuscript, Father reminded me it

had been better for you to go.”

“Could not find it?”

“It vanished. I fear there is no chance of getting the

typed version to Caldwell on time.”

“Is that all you worried about?”

“Of course not. I’ve been concerned about Father. He

has been fretting about you in the wake of your distress

over what you persuaded yourself you saw in the woods.”

“I didn’t need to persuade myself about anything. What

I saw was real.”

He frowned, and his voice became cold. “You’re testy

tonight. I thought you’d at least have the decency to come

to the office when you arrived back here. I thought you’d

want to know if the manuscript was on its way to London.”

“You obviously were mistaken.” As I was to believe



you care for me as much as you do your book.

“Maybe I should leave.”

“Maybe you should.”

She closed her eyes as he walked to her dressing table.

Please, she begged silently. Please just go away so I can

believe you really loved me . . . before you condemned

me to that place.

When his hands settled on her silk wrapper, tears filled

her eyes, but she blinked them away. She stood and flicked

his fingers off her shoulders. She did not look at him as

she walked out into the sitting room, where a single light

was turned down low, and toward the door.

He followed. “What’s wrong with you, Darcy?”

“I thought it was quite obvious.” She whirled to face

him. “At least, it should be obvious to you. After all, you

were very willing to give Dr. Berger a list of what was

wrong with me. Have I changed so much since you last

saw me?”

His scowl drew lines in his face as he walked closer.

“What’s wrong with you? You are acting crazy.”

“What do you mean?” she whispered, suddenly afraid.

Her breath caught in her throat. He could not be thinking

of sending her back there . . . could he?

“What do you mean?”

She put a chair between them, not wanting to let his

seductive touch snare her in his web again. “If you’d

wanted to dismiss me, Simon, you needn’t have gone to

such lengths to do so. I’m leaving in the morning, so you

needn’t worry about me intruding on your safe little

sanctuary here ever again.”

His eyes widened. “What in perdition are you talking

about? Can’t you make sense just once tonight?”

“Wasn’t that what this was about? That I have no

sense? I can’t think of a better way to prove that than by

condemning me as insane.”

Simon caught her hand before she could open the door.



Spinning her into his arms, he asked, “What are you talking

about? I’m the one who’s been insane. Do you know how

long these nights have been without you? I posted my

handwritten manuscript, but it gave me no pleasure. I’ve

tried to be patient while you went to call on Lady Kincaid

and mend—”

“Call on my grandmother? Why would you think that

was where I was when you knew where I was?”

“I was told you were at Kincaid Fells, and I was

astonished when your grandmother arrived here today

without you.”

“Grandmother is here?” She stiffened.

“Haven’t you seen her?”

“No.”

“I can send for her.”

“No!” She could not see her grandmother when she

was in such an unsettled state.

“Darcy, you should let her know you are here.”

“I don’t want to see her! Why are you persisting with

this?”

His eyes widened. “I am suggesting it only because it

might heal the wounds between you.”

“No!” She struggled to calm her voice as she asked,

“Does she know what’s happened?”

His fingers tightened on her arms. “What has

happened? I can see from your expression, you weren’t at

Kincaid Fells. Where have you been?”

“You don’t know?”

“I wouldn’t ask if I did.”

Darcy tried to answer, but the words clogged her throat.

Dr. Berger had said—and she could not have been

mistaken, because he said it more than once—Simon had

sent her there. If he hadn’t, then . . . She sank to the chair

and stared up at him.

“Darcy, say something,” he said, kneeling beside her.

“Even if you must say you really are leaving, at least say



that. I’ll hate hearing the words, but I need to know where

you’ve been. Something appalling has happened to you. I

see that in your eyes. Where have you been?”

She closed her eyes and slowly opened them. She did

not want to think she was foolish to believe his honest

entreaty, but she was. Quietly, she said, “You’re right.

Something appalling has happened to me. Someone made

a mistake, an appalling mistake. I’ve been at the asylum

on the other side of Halyeyn.” She shuddered and grasped

the chair’s arms, fearing the very words would throw her

back into the living nightmare.

“No!” He shook his head, his eyes wide. “That’s

impossible.”

“Is it?” She lifted her wrapper to reveal the cuts and

bruises on her right ankle. “I was shackled to the wall in a

place I wouldn’t believe could exist beyond the

underworld.”

He stood, now the one who was speechless.

“Answer one thing for me now, Simon. Please.”

“Anything.”

“Did you send me there?”

“Me?” His face lost all color. “You think I would send

you to such a place?”

“I was told you did.”

“And you believed that?” Cupping her face, he tipped

it up toward him. “Darcy, I vow to you on my eternal soul

I never would do such a thing. You must believe me. You

were lied to. Just as I was, it seems, when I was told you’d

left a note explaining you were going to visit your

grandmother to heal the rift between you.”

“A note? I left you no note. I was abducted, and, when

I awoke, I was at the asylum. If Reverend Fairfield hadn’t

discovered where I was and sent your father there to

retrieve me, I’d still be there.” She laughed without humor.

“Of course, Hastings believes I was there rightfully,

because he insists I take the medicine Dr. Berger gave him



for me. I would sooner eat arsenic.”

His voice hardened, and his eyes glistened with a fury

more powerful than any she had ever seen there. “I’m going

to find whoever did this to you.”

Knowing she might regret the words, but needing to

speak the truth, she said, “I think it was the monster in the

wood.”

“Don’t start on that—”

She stood. “You don’t believe me, do you? You think

I’m as mad as they say I am.”

“I don’t think you’re insane, but I don’t know what

that thing you think you saw has to do with this.”

“Because the night before I woke up in the asylum, I

was captured by those fanatics again.”

He kept her from turning away. “What? You told me

you wouldn’t go back into the wood alone.”

“I didn’t. I went to stop your father from going into

the wood. I saw him following after their lights. I tried to

save him, but I was the one who needed rescuing.”

“Why didn’t you ask me to go?”

“I looked for you. I called for you. You didn’t answer.

Where were you?”

He frowned. “I was in the house all evening.”

“But I called to you! You didn’t answer.”

“I had a celebratory drink with Father and Andrew.”

His forehead rutted in deep thought. “We decided to have

another celebration the next evening after dinner when the

manuscript was on its way to London. I went with Fraser

to select the wines for the meal. I must have been in the

cellar when you were looking for me.”

“Who would have known that?” she asked, wondering

if this was the clue to point to the man behind the hideous

mask. Then she wondered if she really wanted to know

the truth.

“Anyone in the house. Darcy, you shouldn’t have gone

alone.”



“I know that, but I feared for your father.” She shivered.

“That beast was there with his voice like a snake’s. They

forced some drink down my throat. Nothing is clear after

that.”

“Who has been so bold?” He frowned. “Someone

should have seen them. The servants are aware of

everything that goes on here.”

Darcy laughed harshly. “Don’t you think I’ve asked

myself that a thousand times while I was interred alive in

that place? Someone overheard our conversations when I

spoke to you of the lights I’d seen, because the doctor at

the asylum knew of what I had said.” She hesitated, then

whispered, “How long have I been gone?”

“Ten days.”

“Only ten days?” she whispered.

He drew her into his arms. “It seemed like a lifetime

while you weren’t with me. You must stay within

Rosewood Hall until the truth about these people in the

wood can be uncovered. Something is going on. This group

of people may be nothing more than smoke to conceal the

truth.”

“You believe me?” She gripped his arms.

A knock forestalled his answer. When she tensed, he

smiled and opened the door only far enough so he could

demand, “What is it?”

A maid’s voice said, “I’m bringing tea for Miss

Kincaid. It contains her medicine. Dr. Hastings wants her

to drink it before she goes to bed.”

Darcy whispered, “No, I shan’t drink it.”

Simon smiled swiftly before turning up several of the

lights and opening the door. He took the tray and said,

“Bring another pot for me.”

“Yes, Dr. Simon.”

Closing the door, he set the tray on the table in front

of the sofa. Darcy sat, and her wrapper rose to reveal the

red marks on her ankle. She tugged it back down. He cursed



and drew up her sleeve to reveal the stains of other bruises,

then tilted her face which she had kept cloaked in shadows.

“Which one hit you? I shall—”

She grasped his hand. “Help me close that horrible

place. Please. No one should have to suffer what one does

within its walls.”

“Tomorrow we shall go there with the constable.”

“Thank you.”

He sat beside her, holding her arm. “Darcy, nobody in

Rosewood Hall will make you drink medicine you don’t

need.”

“Your father believes I need it.”

“I’ll speak to him of that in the morning.” He settled

back on the sofa and drew her unbruised cheek down to

his shoulder. “You’re safe now.”

“Am I?”

“They won’t hurt you again. I promise.”

His face jeweled through her unshed tears as she

whispered, “Thank you.”

“Just don’t believe I’d ever hurt you like that.”

“I didn’t want to believe it, but that place . . . I couldn’t

think clearly.” She sat up. “I must leave. I don’t want to

wait until morning.”

He scowled. “Leave Rosewood Hall? At this hour?”

“The train for London—”

“Doesn’t depart until midday tomorrow. Even if you

walk to the coaching inn and take the public coach to the

railway station, you’ll be waiting for hours before the train

leaves.”

“But I can’t stay here. They—He—The creature said

he wasn’t finished with me. I have to go. Now.”

“That’s not possible. In the morning, I will—” Again

a quiet rapping interrupted him. He went to collect the tea

tray he had requested and put it next to the other one.

Silently Simon picked up the teapot from the first tray

and walked to a window. He poured the tea out. Taking a



cup from the second tray, he filled it with tea from the

other pot. He handed it to her. Pouring himself a cup, he

sat beside her.

When she hesitated, he lifted his cup and took a hearty

swallow. “Tastes fine.”

She raised her cup to her lips. “You’re right. It tastes

all right.” She set the cup down. “If I’m going to

leave—”

He picked up her cup and handed it back to her. “You

look hollow with hunger, Darcy. Drink this, and I’ll order

some sandwiches sent up here.”

“No.” She put her hand on his arm. “Don’t go until

you promise me you’ll stay with me tonight—”

“Gladly.” He smiled.

“And you won’t keep me from leaving tomorrow.”

“In the morning, I will book passage for us to London.”

“Us?”

“It’s time I call on Caldwell to see if he can read my

writing.” He refilled his cup and drank again.

“The typed manuscript is here.”

“What?”

“I brought it up and hid it here because I feared for its

safety.”

“Why?”

She wanted to tell him the truth, but she could not

accuse the vicar when Reverend Fairfield had been the

key to her freedom from the asylum. “Does it matter? It’s

safe in my dressing room.” She stood. Her stomach

grumbled with the demand for food, so she drained the

cup and set it back on the tray. “I’ll get it for you.”

“No.” He put his cup next to hers and drew her back

down to sit before gathering her into his arms. “Forget the

manuscript.”

“Forget it?”

“Right now, I don’t want to think of anything but you,

mahbjb.”



She breathed in his masculine scent as his mouth

slanted across hers. For a moment, fury clamped around

her, as she thought of the hours they had lost. Hours that

could have been filled with this luscious passion. Like the

vicar’s glance at Simon’s manuscript, which she must have

misconstrued, it no longer mattered.

Her fingers stroked up his chest. When they reached

the top of his unbuttoned shirt and slipped beneath it to

curve over his shoulders, he tightened his embrace. Then

he pulled back as he yawned.

Chuckling, she stood and held out her hand. “I think

I’ll take that as a hint it’s time for us to go to bed. We have

a long trip in the morning and much pleasure to catch up

on tonight.”

“That’s an excellent idea,” he replied.

When she swayed against him, he turned her to face

him. Lifting her hands to clasp at his nape, she smiled. “I

thought it was one of my better ones.” She stifled a yawn

and laughed. “Now see what you have started.”

“I haven’t started much of anything yet, but I plan

to.” Sweeping her up into his arms, he carried her into the

bedroom. As she turned down the gaslights, he shouldered

aside the draperies. A fresh breeze billowed into the room

when he raised the window slightly as she had asked him

to do each night. Then he closed the draperies to leave

them in a cocoon where no one could intrude.

Putting one knee on the mattress, he leaned across the

bed. He laughed as she tugged him down atop her. He

undid the buttons on her wrapper, and his eager fingers

swept along her filmy nightgown.

“I thought you were angry at me,” he whispered.

She quivered as he teased her ear. “I was.”

“Yet you chose this nightgown, knowing it would bring

only one thought into my head.”

He did not give her a chance to explain it had been

waiting for her. He kissed her and kissed her and kissed



her until she quivered beneath him. When she yawned

again, he leaned back on the pillows and drew her against

him. With her head cradled on his shoulder, she stared up

at the ceiling. His soft, slow breaths marked the moment

when he fell asleep.

She waited for sleep to come to her. She had expected,

after long nights of fearing what waited beyond the

darkness, she would fall into a deep sleep first. As she

gazed at the spot where her guardian light always appeared,

she saw it was again joined by the soft clouds. She frowned,

although the motion took almost all her draining energy.

The clouds were so faint she might not have seen them if

she was not looking closely.

Maybe they were weakening because she and Simon

were leaving Rosewood Hall, and they could not travel

along. Maybe . . . More than once, she thought of sitting

up and looking at them more closely. Each time the thought

failed to goad her into action. She simply rested her head

against his shoulder. They would rest now. Later . . . With

her head against him, she closed her eyes and drifted away

on the dream of him.

***

In the light of the single gas lamp left burning by the

bed, a cloaked figure slipped through the door with the

ease of someone well familiar with the room.

“Simon? Darcy?”

The two lying close together on the bed, his arms

cradling her, did not move.

With a pleased chuckle, the cloaked man raised one

of Darcy’s arms, then the other, drawing off her wrapper

to leave her draped only in translucent fabric. He lifted

her up to sit, and her head fell forward, her chin resting on

her chest just above the Thoth pendant. He tried not to

stare at her firm breasts, for she was not for him. She had

had her chance, but it was too late.

He pulled a knife from beneath his cloak and sliced



through her long hair, leaving it curling on her shoulders

at a length more appropriate for an ancient Egyptian queen.

With a laugh, he tossed the shorn hair atop Simon’s face.

He lifted Darcy from the bed.

With her head lolling against his chest, he stretched to

blow out the flame in the gaslight. The soft whisper of the

open gas valve remained an audible warning. Her limbs

drooped around him, but she would wake and face her

fate. Her lover would not be so lucky.

“Sleep forever in death,” he murmured.

He skulked out of the room with his prize. The door

shut behind him with a barely discernible click, leaving

Simon entombed with the gas seeping out of the open line.



Seventeen

Darcy tried to find her way past the unseen line

between dreams and waking. The terror within her refused

to release her as she opened her eyes . . . to darkness. For

as long as it took for her to draw in a frantic breath, she

thought time had collapsed and she was back in the asylum

on the hill. She had not escaped. Hastings’ coming to

arrange her release had been just a dream. Falling asleep

in Simon’s arms was no more than a fantasy.

But she was not there, for she could not hear the moans

of the other inmates. She was lying on a thin blanket instead

of stone. The floor was cool beneath her outstretched feet,

but she was not in the closet cell which she had feared she

would never escape.

Then where was she?

Water dripping.

The stench of waste thick in the air.

Pain.

She groaned as she moved. The sound echoed strangely

around her. Putting her hand against her forehead, she

stifled another moan of pain. Cramps erupted in her

stomach. She drew up her knees and cradled her aching

head against them. Her stomach roiled as she gulped in

mouthfuls of the fetid air. She thought of Meskhenet’s story

and the corpses of the poisoned attendants. Had they felt

like this? Slowly her stomach calmed, and she pushed aside

the tendrils of panic.

Raising her head, she moaned. It was dark. So very

dark. And in the darkness . . .

“Help me!” she shrieked. “Simon, where are you? Help

me!”

“Meskhenet.”

The voice was no more than a breath. Had she even

heard it, or had it been the echo of her scream tricking

her?



“Help me!” she cried again, hiding her face in her

hands.

“Meskhenet.”

Darcy’s fingers shook as she lowered them from her

face and opened her eyes. She stared at a pinpoint of light

only a few feet away. It could be just a trick created by her

own eyes . . . or was it her special light?

“Is it you?” she asked, rising to her knees so she could

flee if . . . She almost laughed as hysteria clamped icy

fingers once again around her throat. Flee? To where? She

had no idea where she was, and she could see nothing but

that small spot of light.

“Meskhenet.” The voice remained a breathy whisper,

but the spot of light widened.

“Who are you? How do you know Meskhenet’s

name?”

Light exploded around Darcy. As she cowered back,

trying to protect her eyes, a gentle hand brushed against

her hair as lightly as a zephyr. Slowly she raised her head.

Where the point of light had been was now a woman

draped in a glow that stripped all color from her face and

clothing. Her hair, which should have been ebony, was

bleached to a dim shadow that nearly concealed the dozens

of small braids falling onto her shoulders. When she raised

one hand toward Darcy, the light flowed along her fingers.

Darcy lifted her own hand. She inched her fingers

forward toward the woman’s.

“Meskhenet.” The woman’s lips did not move, but the

voice came from her direction.

Their fingers touched. That light became a bolt of

lightning that seared through Darcy. With a cry, she tried

to pull her hand away from the woman’s.

“Meskhenet, do not fear me.” This time, the woman’s

lips formed each word. As her fingers closed around

Darcy’s, the fearsome electrical pulse eased. The light

around the woman diminished, bringing her features to a



normal color, but enough luminescence remained for Darcy

to see.

“Why are you calling me Meskhenet?” she asked the

woman.

“It is your name. What else would I call you?”

She shook her head. “My name is Darcy Kincaid.

Meskhenet is a character in an old story Jaddeh told me

when I was a child.”

“You know what is true. You may have forgotten, but

the truth seeks you, Meskhenet.” The woman put her other

hand over Darcy’s.

Again that shock raced through Darcy, but, as she

stared at the woman, memories flooded out of her head.

Not her memories, but those of another lifetime. Scenes

of a pampered life in the Pharaoh’s palace.

Not just the sights, but sounds of wind rustling through

palm fronds and the aroma of sweet blossoms and baking

bread. Voices, laughing and someone singing, filled her

ears. She slowly turned her head and saw the Nile flowing

just beyond a low garden wall. Even as she watched, a flat

barge was rowed against the current. The day’s heat, borne

on a sultry wind, raised sweat on her brow and dripped

down her back.

She yanked her hand out of the woman’s and shook

her head. Was she becoming as mad as they had tried to

convince her she was?

Cool, soft hands framed her face, lifting it so she

looked directly into the woman’s eyes. Not believing her

own words, but unable to deny the truth, she whispered,

“Ahwere?”

“You do remember, Meskhenet. I am your sister

Ahwere.” She smiled. “To be more accurate, I am Ahwere’s

ka, the part of her that is eternal.”

“But it’s only a story Jaddeh told me. Meskhenet and

Ahwere are part of tale to entertain a child.”

“Your grandmother in this time told you the story to



help you recall the truth of the life you once had. She was

sent by Thoth to direct you to the truth when you once

again walked along the waters of the Nile. Then you were

taken away, and Thoth could not reach you again.”

Darcy put her hand over the pendant. “Why would

Thoth want to reach me?”

“What do you remember, dear sister?”

Darcy quickly told the woman the story she had been

trying to complete. The woman’s smile faltered when

Darcy spoke of the treachery that had left Meskhenet’s

sister and brother dead, but she motioned for Darcy to

continue.

“There is no more,” Darcy said. “I don’t remember

how it ends.”

“Yes, you do. You don’t want to recall it, for one never

wishes to revisit the moment of one’s death.” She smoothed

Darcy’s hair back from her face in a motion so familiar,

tears of joyous reunion fell down Darcy’s face. “But you

must know the truth, dear sister, or what once was shall

be again. You have been given a chance to redeem a great

wrong done against you. If you let it slip through your

fingers, you will never have this chance again.”

“But I don’t remember it.”

Ahwere’s fingers touched Darcy’s temple. “Yes, you

do.”

She could not breathe.

The darkness was stifling, pressing down on her so

she could not draw in a single breath.

Pain and darkness . . .

Nothing left but pain and darkness and knowing she

had failed. The lives in this time had nearly run their

measure. Not only her life, but the lives of the ones she

loved.

She tried to breathe, but there was no air. Just dust

from shattered mortar and broken rock.

She had been warned. She should have listened.



Pain and darkness . . .

Ahwere’s fingers moved away.

Darcy opened her eyes. “Is that the death you speak

of? Meskhenet’s death?”

“Yes. You rushed to save the one you loved, and you

sought him in the place where he did the work he loved.”

“In the tomb Kafele was building for my—for

Meskhenet’s brother.”

“For our brother, Meskhenet.” She smiled sadly.

“I wanted to warn Kafele.” She rose to her knees and

fisted her hands by her sides. “Usi intended to accuse him

of the murder. I had to get to him. I had to.” She moaned

as the terror rose up within her again. “No, I don’t want to

remember the rest.” She reached out to grip Ahwere’s

shoulders, but the ka held up her hands, keeping Darcy’s

away, and shook her head.

“The rest, Meskhenet. You must remember all that

happened.”

“Why won’t you tell me?”

“You know better than I, Meskhenet, for I was dead

and was being judged worthy of entering the underworld

before you met your end.”

Sitting back on her heels, Darcy stared at her hands.

She closed her eyes as she did when she tried to think of

the next words for the story . . . her story. “It was easy to

slip out of the palace. Everything was in such a hubbub as

word of the murders went from one mouth to another. No

one doubted it had been poison, and there was much

speculation about the execution of such a murderer.

Horrible speculation.” She shuddered, then taking a deep

breath, went on, “It was even easier than it had been before

to cross the river. No one took notice of a small boat.”

“So you went to warn Kafele.”

“Yes.” She raised her eyes to Ahwere’s shadowed ones.

“The sandal was his. I recognized it, and I knew Usi

intended to place the blame on him. I had to warn Kafele.



He must flee from Egypt—and take me with him. We could

go beyond the great falls and live among those who resided

on the banks at the Nile’s birth. But when I went to his

home, he wasn’t there. I knew he must be at the tomb. I

went there. When he wasn’t outside, I went in. I hadn’t

gone far when . . .” She moaned as she collapsed onto the

floor.

The nightmare haunting her all her life had been the

moments at the end of Meskhenet’s life. In her hurry to

save Kafele, she had triggered one of the traps he had built

to keep tomb-robbers from the Pharaoh’s sarcophagus. The

roof had crashed down on her.

More tears—these of an unspeakable loss—rained

down her face as Ahwere’s fingers gently stroked her hair.

Trembling, she grasped the ka’s hand. “Tell me,” she

whispered. “Tell me what happened to Kafele.”

“I do not need to tell you what you know, Meskhenet.

Even though we both were dead before Kafele’s ka left

his body, we know what happened.”

She closed her eyes. She knew as if she had witnessed

it herself. Usi would have exacted some cruel death on

Kafele. With her gone, Kafele would have had no one to

speak on his behalf. She shivered. If Meskhenet’s body

had been found, Usi could have blamed Kafele for that as

well.

“If only I had waited . . .” Darcy whispered.

“That was not in your nature then, dear sister. Is it

now?”

She almost said yes, then shook her head. She had

blundered into the wood after Hastings instead of waiting

for help. Again she had been doomed to the darkness she

had feared she could not flee. But this time, she had escaped

with Reverend Fairfield and Hastings’ help.

“If I’m Meskhenet and you are Ahwere’s ka, then . . .”

“You were not reborn into this time alone, my sister.

Do you recall what Kafele called you the first time he



held you in his arms?”

“Yes. Beloved of Thoth.”

Ahwere brushed her hand against Darcy’s cheek again.

“He was and he is a man of much wisdom, for he could

see the future even when we lived so many millennia in

the past. He knew, even then, Thoth did not want to take

you to his judgment so soon. You should have lived many

more years.” She smiled. “Now you are living again. Your

face is different, but I have seen my dear sister within you

as I have watched over you.”

“You? You are the light over my bed?”

“The ka has a living presence that cannot be doused

like a fire with the coming of death. It continues to glow

with its life force until Ra sinks for the last time into the

western desert.” Ahwere folded her hands in her lap. “I

waited long for you to return from your wanderings to

seek a new life. Now you have your chance for it, but be

wary, Meskhenet. Do not repeat your mistakes, for you

will not be given another chance.”

“Repeat my mistakes?” Cold struck her as if a blizzard

blew out of the darkness. “Are you saying there are others

from the past in addition to Kafele and Meskhenet who

are alive in this time?”

“Do not repeat your mistakes, for you will not be given

another chance.” The light around Ahwere began to

contract, folding her image as if it were a photograph.

“No!” Darcy cried, jumping to her feet. “Don’t go! I

have so many more questions to ask you. Who are the

others in my story? Who are they now?”

The light vanished, and she sank back to sit on the

floor.

“Don’t leave me in the darkness again,” she moaned.

“Now I know what evil it holds.”

***

Lifting her head off the damp floor, Darcy strained

her ears. There it was again. Some sound other than the



drip of water and the skitter of what she guessed were

rats.

She sat as light edged around what must be a door. It

was too bright. She covered her eyes and moaned.

Laughter, triumphant laughter, filled the space around

her. She blinked, forcing her eyes to adjust to the light. In

disbelief, she stared at two men. Hastings and Reverend

Fairfield, but not the well-dressed men she was accustomed

to seeing. Both wore strange, flowing robes of what looked

to be Egyptian cotton. Hastings wore some sort of circlet

on his head, and the vicar had on a wig to make his blond

hair as black as one born along the Nile.

Slowly coming to her feet, she drew the ragged blanket

over her shoulders. She was about to thank them for finding

her yet again, but her words went unsaid when the vicar

laughed again.

He pointed to her and said, “There she is, Hastings.

You see what she is wearing. She is not of this time or

place.”

Darcy looked down at herself. She was wearing no

more than the seductive nightgown she had found waiting

on her bed. With a gasp, she pulled the blanket around

her, even though it was damp and filthy. She reached behind

her back to pull her hair forward to drape over her, but

found nothing.

“See,” continued the vicar. “She may claim to have

English blood, but she wears her hair tonight as the queens

of Egypt have for centuries.”

Darcy touched her cropped hair. “Did you do this?”

“Yes.” Reverend Fairfield smiled. That smile might

have turned many heads, but it only turned her stomach.

“I did it all for Hastings.”

“For Hastings?” She looked at Simon’s father.

Hastings was weaving like a drunkard, and for a

moment she feared he had swallowed whatever sleeping

potion she had. Noticing his tremulous hands, she knew



he was weak with whatever had caused his heart to betray

him before. She hurried to him and led him to a bench she

could see in the light from Reverend Fairfield’s lantern.

“How are you faring?” she asked. “You shouldn’t be

in this chilly place.”

“I shall be doing fine soon.” He ran his hand along

her waist. Through the blanket, she could barely feel his

touch, but his eyes gleamed with lust.

She stepped back. “Hastings, what are you doing?”

“I told you,” Reverend Fairfield said, “she would be

coy at first. That is their way.”

“Whose way? Women?” she asked, facing him.

“Yes, but the most coy, for they have the most to offer,

are the handmaidens of Thoth.”

Darcy gripped the blanket more tightly. Sure she had

misunderstood him, she asked, “What are you talking

about?”

He reached beneath the blanket, grasping her arm when

she would have backed away. He pulled out her pendant

and dropped it onto her chest. “I’m talking about this.”

“I repeat—What are you talking about?”

“She truly is coy, Hastings. She knows what she has

to give and she knows what she can withhold.”

The old man wheezed, “But the time is wrong. You

said when the moon waned and grew full again. By then,

I’d be stronger.”

“That was the plan until that virago swept down upon

Rosewood Hall.” His mouth twisted.

Knowing he spoke of Grandmother Kincaid, Darcy

started to laugh. She halted when the vicar turned to her

again. His eyes burned with a fanaticism she suspected

had nothing to do with his living at the church in Halyeyn.

She backed away, but he caught her arm again.

He lowered his voice so it would not reach Hastings’

ears. “You were safely cached away until your grandmother

decided to call and drag you back beneath her thumb. I



couldn’t have Lady Kincaid causing trouble and asking

questions that would bring the law to Rosewood Hall, so I

sent Hastings to have you released.”

“Cached away? You—You—” she stammered. She had

misjudged him. Not when she distrusted him earlier, but

when she had forgiven him for his assistance in freeing

her from the asylum. She steadied herself enough to say,

“You sent me to the asylum!”

With a smile that never should have been on the face

of a clergyman, he said, “You needed to stay in Halyeyn,

and you were determined to leave as soon as the manuscript

was finished.”

“You bribed me to leave.”

“Knowing that you’d be stubborn and stay.” He

chuckled. “That was my one error. Instead of trying to

chase you away, I should have offered you a place in my

household.”

“In your household? Doing what?”

His smile became taut. “What you have done for Simon

beyond typing his manuscript.”

“You can’t believe I would have come to your house

to—to—” She could not even give voice to the abhorrent

thought.

“I knew you’d decline, because you fancied Simon

being in love with you, even though I was honest when I

told you that he’ll never care for anyone again. Putting

you in the asylum guaranteed you wouldn’t leave before

you were needed.”

Astounded by his treachery, she asked, “Needed for

what?”

The vicar spoke loudly enough for the old man to hear.

“Listen to her, Hastings.” He circled her like a cat taunting

its prey, and she turned to keep facing him. “She knows

very well she has sucked every bit of life out of your son.”

“Where is Simon?” she asked again.

He leaned toward her, lowering his voice again so she



could barely hear it over Hastings’ wheezing. “He’s dead.”

“Dead?” she gasped. “What did you do to him?”

“Me?” He pressed his hand over his chest. “You’re

the handmaiden of Thoth. You decide which person shall

live and which shall die.”

She grasped his arm. “Stop the nonsense! Tell me what

has happened to Simon. What have you done to him?”

Again he prowled around her, his smile broadening.

“You’re wasting time, Darcy. Not Darcy, though, is it?

What was that name you told me she has, Hastings?”

“Meskhenet,” he choked out, pressing his hand to his

chest.

Darcy took a step toward him, and Reverend Fairfield

halted her again. Trying to shake his hand off her arm, she

ordered, “Release me! Hastings is obviously ill.”

“You’ll stay where you are.”

“How can you say that? He is ill. Do you want your

uncle—”

“Hastings is my father.”

“Father?” She wondered how many more surprises

awaited her tonight.

He laughed coldly. “You look surprised, Darcy. I

thought Simon would have told you the truth.”

“How could he? He believes you’re his cousin.”

“He believed. I told you, Darcy. He’s dead.”

Her fingers tightened on the blanket, unwilling to

believe him. She would know in her heart if Simon was

dead, wouldn’t she? “What have you done to him?”

“I told you, Darcy. He’s dead. It’s unwise to blow out

a gaslight and not turn the gas off.”

She edged back away from him as she shivered with

sobs. The vicar’s triumphant smile was one she had seen

before—when she read of Usi claiming the title of Pharaoh.

If she held the ka of Meskhenet, Simon must be, without

question, Kafele, for he had been wondrously familiar from

the very moment she saw him.



Another shudder cramped through her. Andrew

Fairfield had within him the evil ka of Usi, the chief

architect. That left for Hastings only Pharaoh. The gullible,

trusting Pharaoh who had not seen the serpent within his

garden. She wanted to denounce the vicar, but she did not

want to betray what had happened here before he opened

the door.

But one question she had to ask. So much that had

happened in the past was happening again. “Have you been

poisoning Hastings?” she asked. “Have you been the

reason for his failing health?”

“Poison?” the vicar asked with what appeared to be

genuine amazement. “Why would I poison my own

father?”

“That is a question you can answer far better than I

can.” She would not believe his protestations. There had

been too much talk of poison, both in the past and in this

time.

Reverend Fairfield went to Hastings and drew the old

man to his feet. “She took the life force from your son

when she became his lover. The scales must be balanced.

Take that life—that young and healthy life—back from

her.”

“How?”

“Hastings!” she cried. “Don’t listen to him!”

The vicar gripped her hair, twisting it so tightly around

his hand a moan of pain burst out of her. Tearing the blanket

from her shoulders, he grasped the pendant. “See this,

Hastings. She wears the symbol of Thoth, the god who

possesses the Book of Thoth with its spell for eternal life.

She has been sent here for you.”

“Simon . . .” He coughed.

“She wasn’t meant for Simon. She’s meant for you.

Take her, and she’ll give you Thoth’s spell of eternal life.

She should share it with you.”

“Hastings.” She ignored the pain as the vicar twisted



her hair again. “Hastings, listen to me. He’s lying to you.

He wants Rosewood Hall and everything in it for himself.”

It was the one clue holding the whole of the story together.

As Usi had aspired to possess the grandest palace in Egypt

and the Pharaoh’s throne, the vicar wanted Rosewood Hall

and its wealth.

Reverend Fairfield chuckled with disdain. “She’s

trying to trick you. If she doesn’t share with you that life

she has taken from Simon, she can keep it for herself. It

was your son’s ka. It should be yours, not hers.”

“Hastings, please don’t heed him,” she begged.

The old man glanced at her, then ordered, “Go,

Andrew.”

“But — ”

“Go. She’s mine. I will have this done as it should be

done. Privately.”

“Forget your English puritanism. She is of Egypt. Take

her now.”

“No,” Hastings said. “This must be done correctly.

You have told me that.”

“Ready yourself.” As Hastings nodded, then coughed

hard again and again, the vicar turned to Darcy and smiled.

“You could have been mine, and then you wouldn’t be

here.”

“Why would I want to be yours? I love Simon.”

His hand struck her cheek, knocking her back against

the wall. “That was your first mistake, and it may be your

last as well. I’ll tell you farewell now, Darcy.” He let her

name hiss through his teeth.

“You,” she cried, holding her hand to her throbbing

cheek. “You’re the monster of the wood.”

“I knew eventually you’d see the truth.” He raised his

hand again. “When it is right in your face.”

She cringed away as she stared at his long fingers, a

legacy he shared with his father and Simon. “Why did you

create the monster?” she asked, able to be daring for she



had little to lose now. Simon . . . No, she must not think of

him now. She must think of saving his father from the

vicar’s treachery. But if Simon was already dead . . . No!

Not now.

“Hastings has believed he’s dying since the first time

I met him. Now, with my help, he finally is.”

“You are poisoning him.”

He laughed. “I’m trying to get him what he thought he

wanted. But, at this late point, the old fool has changed

his mind, so I offered him the cult as a way to escape

death.”

“Even as its rigors were killing him.” She thought of

the wet shoes Hastings had worn when he slipped on the

stairs.

“But then you, dear Darcy, arrived with your exotic

beauty and that necklace.” He flicked his fingers against

her pendant. “The story of Thoth serves me well. Hastings

will probably die making love to you in an effort to regain

his youth. Then you’ll die because no one comes into these

cellars.”

“You beast!” She swung her fist at him.

He caught her wrist and shoved her to the floor by

Hastings’ feet. “Hastings, enjoy yourself.” He pulled the

door closed, and she heard the bar drop back into place.

She ran to the door and pounded on it. Even if she

screamed, no one would hear her. Turning, she faced

Hastings, who wove toward her.

She grasped his arms. “Hastings, you must heed me.

He was lying to you. I’m not Thoth’s handmaiden. I’m

Darcy Kincaid, your son’s secretary.”

“You wear Thoth’s pendant.”

“It’s a common emblem in Egypt.”

“But you are Thoth’s handmaiden.” He reached for

her, then fell to the floor. With a moan, she bunched up the

blanket and put it under his head. Not that it mattered.

They both were doomed to die here.



As the lantern sputtered, she clenched her hands at

her side. She would not fear the darkness in this room. It

was the darkness within a man’s arid soul she needed to

fear.

When Hastings moaned, she bent over him and

whispered, “Don’t try to talk or move. Help will be here

soon.” The lie was the most acrid she had ever spoken.

Or was it a lie?

Darcy stood as she heard someone lifting the bar. The

door swung open, and she fought to prepare herself for

what torment Usi’s ka was about to inflict on them now.

“Locke!” She stared at Hastings’ valet. “How did you

find us?”

“Dr. Hastings used to come down to this section of

the cellar to make wine. When I discovered him missing,

I thought he might have wandered in here again.” Regret

and grief filled the valet’s voice. “He has been going often

to places of his younger years. I think he’s seeking his

youth again.”

“Hastings needs help right away.”

He pushed past her and knelt by the old man. “Who

did this?” He scowled. “You?”

“Of course not! I wouldn’t lock myself in here. It was

Reverend Fairfield.”

“He did this to his own father?”

Remembering how her grandmother had told her one

could have no secrets from one’s own servants, Darcy

swallowed her surprise and nodded. “Did you see him?”

“Yes. He was going out on the terrace with a glass of

Dr. Simon’s best brandy.”

Snarling her favorite curse, Darcy went to the door.

“I’ll send someone for Dr. Tompkins.”

“And send some footmen down here to take Dr.

Hastings to his rooms. It’s too cold here for him.”

She nodded, pausing. “My grandmother . . . Where is

she?” Explaining all of this to her grandmother would take



too much time, for Lady Kincaid would heap

recriminations on her and ask so many questions that

Reverend Fairfield might learn of their escape. Then he

would make his own.

“She is asleep,” Locke assured her.

“Just asleep?” She glanced at Hastings, wondering if

the vicar had included her grandmother in his scheme to

see them all dead. Her grandmother was spiteful and

narrow-minded, but Darcy realized with a pulse of

amazement that she deeply cared for her. Love? No, that

would be too strong a word, but Lady Kincaid was the

only relative she had in England.

Running along the narrow corridor, Darcy sprinted up

the first staircase she encountered. She was amazed to

come out into the passage under the front staircase. Ringing

for the servants, she quickly sent a half dozen footmen

down into the cellars and another into the village for the

doctor. She ordered a pair of maids to her grandmother’s

chambers, telling them only to make certain her

grandmother was alive.

“Come with me,” she added to the housekeeper and

the wide-eyed butler who were staring at her in

uncharacteristic silence. “Simon may need your help.” She

did not want to voice her fear that it might already be too

late.

The moonlight sent a pink sparkle onto the stairs, but

she was not relieved the night had not yet passed. Gas

could kill swiftly. Tearing open the door of her room, she

choked and pulled it closed. Her rapid orders sent Mrs.

Pollock and Fraser scurrying to turn off all the gaslights

along the hall. Below she heard doors being opened, and

windows were being slid up on both floors.

Fraser pulled off his coat and draped it over her

shoulders. Only then did she recall the flimsy nightgown

she wore. When she thanked him, he said, “Miss Kincaid,

if you wish to stay here—”



“No.” She opened her door again, stepping aside to

let any gas out. Waving her hands, she took a deep breath

of fresh air and ran into her room.

The teapot was where they had left it. The vicar must

have arranged for both pots to be laced with the sleeping

powder sent from the asylum, so he could abduct her and

kill Simon.

She could not silence a sob as she ran into her

bedchamber. It was dark with the draperies drawn. She

groped for the knob on the gaslight. She twisted it as far

as it would go. The hiss, so like the monster’s voice,

vanished. Choking, she lurched to the windows where Mrs.

Pollock was already pushing aside the draperies and raising

the panes.

Moonlight splashed into the room. She took a deep

breath of fresh air, then rushed back to the bed. The

silhouette of a motionless form brought her to her knees

beside the bed. She heard Mrs. Pollock weeping behind

her.

Putting her head down on the blanket, she whispered,

“Simon, I’m so sorry. I never meant any of this to happen.

If I’d left when you asked me to, you could have focused

on your book. Maybe he wouldn’t have seen you as a threat

to him.” She stretched out her hand, wanting to touch him

just once more.

The silhouette collapsed beneath her fingers. With a

gasp, Darcy pulled back the covers. Pillows were bunched

up in the middle of the bed, and she saw where the sheets

were pulled toward the opposite side as if someone had

crawled off the bed.

She looked at the far side of the bed and the window

which she always raised before going to bed. Had it saved

Simon? But, if it had, where was he?

Ignoring Mrs. Pollock’s questions, she ran around the

bed to the window. She shouldered aside the draperies,

half-hoping she would find Simon here and fearing she



would.

She found nothing. Where was he? A footman burst

in to say Simon’s bedchamber and his office were both

empty. Where was he?

Behind him a maid announced her grandmother was

hale and awake and demanding to see Darcy.

“Not now,” Darcy replied. “Tell her not now. I need

to . . .”

She stared out the window. A light! Out by the maze.

Darcy clutched the molding. That light had drawn her

out of Rosewood Hall before, and she had been captured

by that horrible beast in the wood. Why was Reverend

Fairfield going out there again? As she watched, the lantern

vanished. Not into the wood, but into the maze.

Pulling on the wrapper still hanging over the footboard,

she gasped when something flew off from it to land on the

floor. She bent and picked up a black wig. The one

Reverend Fairfield had been wearing! He had come up to

be certain Simon was dead, and now he knew Simon must

still be alive.

She looked out the window as a second lantern

twinkled in the darkness. Was that Simon? Was he

following his brother into the maze? She had to reach

Simon and warn him before he walked into the trap his

brother might have set for him once Reverend Fairfield

discovered Simon had escaped.

Do not repeat your mistakes, for you will not be given

another chance. Ahwere’s voice echoed in her head.

Meskhenet had gone to try to save Kafele without

getting help. Darcy could not make the same mistake.

“Send for the constable, Fraser,” she ordered. “Tell

him I’ll talk to him as soon as I return.”

“Return? From where?”

“The garden.”

Mrs. Pollock cried, “Don’t go out there, Miss Kincaid.

The people in the wood—”



“Are being duped by Reverend Fairfield.” She

squeezed the housekeeper’s trembling hands. “Go! Please.”

As soon as Mrs. Pollock rushed out of the room, Darcy

looked up at the ceiling. “I don’t know who or what you

are,” she said, “but I need your help now. Where are you?”

The clouds of light thickened near the ceiling.

“Can you help? Can you help me find Simon?”

She watched the clouds drift toward the door, gathering

speed. She followed them, then halted when she came face-

to-face with her grandmother. Lady Kincaid was drawing

in a breath to puff up like a toad as she did each time she

was about to list all of Darcy’s shortcomings.

“Not now,” Darcy said. “I cannot stay and argue with

you now.”

Her grandmother stood in the doorway and did not

move. Outrage bristled from her gray hair and her pursed

lips.

“I will come back later, Grandmother,” Darcy said. “I

must go now.”

“Where?”

“I don’t have time to explain. I must go now.”

“Dressed like that?”

“What does it matter what I wear when if I don’t get

to Simon in time, he may be killed?”

Her grandmother sniffed. “What nonsense is this? Are

you asking me to believe another of your silly stories?”

Darcy pointed at the clouds of light waiting for her

just beyond the doorway. “Look at that and tell me this is

just a silly story.”

“Look at what?” Lady Kincaid turned and gasped,

“What madness is this?”

“That light, I assure you, is the least deranged aspect

of anything tonight.” She grasped her grandmother’s arm.

“Please step aside. I will explain later.”

Before Darcy could say more, the lights throbbed and

grew brighter. A glowing finger reached toward her



grandmother, who promptly swooned. Startled, Darcy

crouched next to her grandmother. Putting her fingers to

Lady Kincaid’s neck, she was relieved to discover a slow,

steady pulse. She had not guessed her grandmother would

faint so easily. Or was it just a faint?

“Did you do something to her?” she demanded of the

lights.

They flickered before beginning to vanish.

“No! No! I did not mean to suggest you had harmed

her. I am sorry.” She stepped over her grandmother and

held up her hands to the lights. “Please. I need your help.

If you abandon me, what happened before is certain to

happen again.”

The lights strengthened, and she knew her pleas had

been heard. As they moved, she followed them down the

stairs. She paused only long enough to send help to her

grandmother, then chased the lights out onto the terrace.

Straining to see them against the darkness, for their light

was feeble, she was not surprised when they moved steadily

in the direction of the maze.

Darcy did not slow as she entered the labyrinth. She

had followed the pages of Meskhenet’s story last time.

Now she had these lights to guide her. As she hurried

through the maze, she wondered if it had grown in size.

At the center of the maze, the moon reflected on the

pool, and the miniature temple was as white as dried bones.

She crossed the stepping stones and ran into the temple.

Without a lantern, she could not see beyond the arc of

moonlight by the entrance.

A hand grabbed her. She screamed as she was tugged

to the ground. When a gun fired, she tensed, waiting for

the fatal pain. The bullet struck the wall near where she

had been standing.

“What are you doing here?”

She looked at the shadow beside her, not willing to

believe her ears. “Simon!”



“Shh,” he ordered as he put his finger to her lips.

“You’re alive,” she whispered.

“I am now, but I shall not be long if that shooter has

his way.”

“It’s Reverend Fairfield.”

He stared at her, and she could see his shock in the

light from the clouds now hanging overhead. “You mean

my cousin tried to murder us?”

“Your half-brother.” She motioned the clouds away,

for they were alerting the vicar to where they were. The

gun fired again. Bits of marble rained down on her. “He

wants to—”

“Kill me. That’s obvious.” His jaw tightened. “And

you?”

“Yes, and your father.”

“Father! Is he—?”

“He is still alive.” She put her hand on his arm as he

coughed. “Why did you come out here?”

“You were gone, and I saw a lantern. When it did not

go into the wood, but into the maze, I thought it might be

you seeking a place to hide where you’d be safe.”

“Just what Reverend Fairfield wanted you to think.”

As if she had shouted his name, the vicar called, “Come

out. I know you’re in there.”

Simon motioned for her to say nothing, then he waved

his hand to order her to inch into the deeper shadows. She

had only gone a few inches when the gun fired, and a bullet

struck the stone right beside her. Shards pierced through

her wrapper, and she cried out in pain.

Something rushed past her. Not something. Simon. He

leaped out of the building and knocked the gun from his

brother’s hand. It bounced once on the stone and dropped

into the pool with a loud splash.

She jumped to her feet and ran toward the door. Maybe

it was in shallow water where she could fish it out.

Hearing a shout behind her and the thud of a vicious



blow, she saw Simon go down before Reverend Fairfield’s

fists. Simon fell back into the temple. He reached for his

brother’s leg, but the vicar put his other foot on Simon’s

throat, and Simon froze. Darcy bit back her cry of horror.

If the vicar jammed his foot down, Simon would be dead

before he could draw another breath.

“You should have spent less time with your books,

Simon,” he jeered.

Darcy looked around for a weapon. There was no time

to find the gun. She smiled grimly when she saw the iron

feather on Thoth’s scale. If it was not attached . . . She

lifted it with both hands and inched back into the shadows,

circling behind Reverend Fairfield.

Simon glanced once in her direction, then locked eyes

with his brother. “And you should have spent less trying

to turn my father and me against each other.”

Reverend Fairfield shrugged, his foot still on Simon’s

throat. “You made it easy. Him with his fear of death and

you with your fear of life. I’m only offering you what you

both have wanted since your mother and our sister died so

tragically.”

How much longer would Usi’s ka enjoy taunting

Simon as it must have Kafele? She took another step

toward them and began to raise the iron feather.

“Did you cause that, too?” Simon asked, his choked

voice warning Reverend Fairfield’s boot was pressing

down on his throat. “They stood in your way of getting

Rosewood Hall as well.”

“They were fools, and they got what fools deserve.”

He laughed. “What you and your silly Darcy—” He hissed

out her name as he had in the cellar.

She jumped forward and slashed down with the feather.

He was too tall. The blow glanced off the side of his head,

knocking him toward the back of the temple.

Simon scrambled to his feet and grabbed her arm. He

tugged her toward the door. Shoving her out onto the grass,



he pushed on the statue of Ra. She jumped to her feet as it

toppled. Before she could ask him what he was doing, he

ran toward the stepping stones, towing her after him.

A thunderous crash sounded behind them. She turned

as the statue rocked. She heard a man’s single shriek. A

single shriek which was muffled by the fall of the statue

crashing to the ground and shattering. Then there was only

silence. Beneath the statute, the vicar lay, dead.

Simon stared at the statue and the dead man. Darcy

thought he would speak, but he said nothing. Instead he

took her hand and tugged on it, leading her across the rest

of the stones to the pond’s shore. She turned to look back

at the temple. The statue of Thoth still stood in place, its

scale in balance.

“He was killed by stone, as Meskhenet was,” she

whispered.

“As Kafele was when he went to try to save her.”

She stared up at him. “How do you know that?”

“I’m not sure.” He rubbed his forehead. “It must be

the residue of the gas fumes.”

“It’s something different.” She pointed to the two

clouds of light. “Something very different.”

“We saw them before. What are they?”

“I suspect they are what remains from the kas of

Meskhenet and Kafele. The part that isn’t within us.”

“You expect me to believe that?”

“I know it’s incredible, but it’s the truth.”

“It isn’t as incredible as this love I have for you.” He

drew her into his arms. “Andrew was right. I was afraid to

live, but you gave me back my life. A life I want to spend

with you. Will you forgive me for trying to chase you away

when I knew how easily you could capture my heart?”

She laughed before he kissed her with the passion that

had been theirs even before he first touched her. A passion

that would become more familiar as their lives in this

incarnation unwound.



As they walked back through the maze, she said, “I’m

afraid you will have to obtain my grandmother ’s

permission before we can wed. She will be in a foul mood

after her encounter with the ka lights.”

“Not even that will daunt me.” He twirled her into his

arms again, then looked past her.

She turned to see the two clouds had followed them.

They blinked several times, then wafted together as they

had when she and Simon had first become lovers. This

time they did not separate before they evaporated away.

Her eyes filled with tears, for she knew those small

remnants of Meskhenet and Kafele were together for the

rest of eternity.

“Can you explain that?” Simon asked, awe deepening

his voice.

“I believe so.” She slipped her hand into his and said

as they walked out of the maze. “Let me start at the

beginning, so you will understand it all.” She smiled as

she copied Jaddeh’s intonation each time she had told a

very young Darcy a story. “Meskhenet lived within a lotusscented

palace . . .”