Mr Impossible (41 page)

“
Now we
belong to you,” the boy concluded. “You are our master
and our father.”

At that moment, the
baby began to cry.

Rupert looked about
him. A baby. Women. A pair of adolescent boys.

He
was
the
father.

DAPHNE STARED
DOGGEDLY at the cartouches, but it was no use. She couldn’t
concentrate. She couldn’t remember what she’d been
thinking before she heard the tap and saw Mr. Carsington in the
doorway.

She remembered the
way he’d trapped her against that door on the evening after
their visit to Memphis.

The kiss, the
magical kiss. The tenderness and playfulness of it and the strange
discovery it was, as though no one had ever kissed before in all the
world.

Then all the
memories she’d tried to shut away came flooding back and left
her sick with longing.

She could have
borne the ache more easily if he’d been the lout he’d
pretended to be. But no lout could have restored her confidence as he
had done, and made her feel fully normal—even likable—for
the first time since her girlhood. A lout would not stand beside her
holding an umbrella to shield her from the sun. A lout would not play
with the baby, or sit up late at night telling the boys stories, or
let a mongoose use him for a playground. A lout would not be able to
make everyone about him love him.

Including me, she
thought.
Including
stupid me
.

“
Daphne.”

She looked up,
expecting to see nothing, because she was only wishing, and the deep
voice she heard came from her imagination.

But no, he stood in
the doorway again, head tipped to one side, because the space was a
few inches too short for him. The north wind had made a tangle of his
thick, dark hair. His eyes glinted with humor. She remembered how
he’d whistled in the darkness of the dungeon, laughing at
danger, as though it had been made purposely to amuse him.

Now she saw that
he’d been driving away her own darkness, day by day. And day by
day, she’d changed. Because of him, she’d become more
than she’d been—or perhaps more truly herself. Because of
him, she’d learnt to like and trust herself again. Because of
him, desire had become a pleasure, not a shame.

I love you, she
thought.

He gazed at her for
a long moment. Then his mouth curved lazily upward. “Ah,”
he said. “That’s better.”

“
What’s
better?”

He came inside the
cabin. He closed the door.

“
You know,”
he said.

“
You should
not close the door,” she said, while her heart thrummed, wicked
thing, in anticipation.

“
You look at
me in that
t’ala heneh
way,” he said.

“
I do not,”
she lied. The need beat in her heart and hummed in her veins:
T’ala
heneh. Come here
.

“
Then why do
I forget why I came?” he said. He sank onto the divan beside
her. “It was vastly important. But the expression on your face
made me forget everything.” He took up the notebook that had
slid from her hand when she saw him. “Perhaps it will come to
me by and by. What occupies you today? Or should I say whom? For here
is a pair of those pesky cartouches.”

“
Not a pair,”
she said tautly. The space was too small. They were too isolated.
Outside the crew launched into a love song. “They come from
separate places.”

As she and he did,
she reminded herself. Separate worlds. She needed to stay in hers, to
keep her distance. She knew this.

Yet she drew closer
and pointed at the page while she spoke, though it was unnecessary.
He could see well enough. The matter wasn’t complicated. “The
one on top is Ptolemy’s, from the Rosetta Stone. The one below
is Cleopatra’s, from Mr. Bankes’s obelisk.” She was
too close. His scent was in her nostrils and seeping into her brain
and making a haze there.

His gaze lifted
from the notebook to her face. She should look away, focus her mind,
or else he’d read in her countenance what she wanted, every
reckless thought, every mad feeling. She couldn’t look away.
She wanted to trace the angle of his jaw with her fingertips. She
wanted to lay her cheek against his.

“
You’ve
written letters over the signs,” he said.

“
Guessing
games,” she said. “Count the letters. Compare the
letters. To keep my mind occupied.”

“
Is it
working?” he said.

Think of Miles, she
told herself.
Think of all he’s done for you. Will you make
him pay for your weakness and folly? Say, “Yes, it’s
working
.”

“
No,”
she said. “It isn’t.”

“
Nothing
works for me,” he said. “It was stupid to come in here
and close the door. Everything in here is yours. The goddess scent of
incense. The scent of your skin. The smell of books and parchment and
ink.” He stroked his hand over the few inches of divan between
them. “This is where you sleep. I sleep all the world away.
That’s how it feels. I miss you.”

She came up onto
her knees and laid her fingers over his lips. She mustn’t let
him say another sweet word. She would start believing things that
couldn’t be true. Then, afterward, it would hurt even more. Men
would say anything, do anything. Even Virgil had changed his tune
with her when he felt amorous.

Outside, the
sailors sang of love. One voice rose above the others in a wail of
longing.

Love troubles my
heart; Sleep will not close my eyes; This agony tears my vitals; I
weep endless tears.

Alas, if only we
were together, I would not sigh, I would not weep.

He brought his hand
up and stroked down over the fingers covering his lips, down over the
back of her hand. He clasped her wrist. She let her hand slide down
and curl into his. Their fingers twined. He brought their joined
hands to his chest and pressed them over his heart.

“
Miss you,”
he said. It was the barest murmur, scarcely a sound.

She missed him,
too, missed the freedom they’d had in their tomb in Asyut: to
touch, to kiss, to give and take pleasure, to hold each other. To be
whatever it was they were when they were in each other’s arms.

She bent toward him
and touched her lips to his. He answered with a gentleness that made
her ache. She slid her hand from his clasp so that she could hold him
with both hands, cupping his beautiful face and looking into those
eyes, those dark, laughing eyes.

Even now the wicked
spirit lurked there, a glint of mischief in the darkness of heat and
desire. It made her smile, and she brought her smile to his mouth and
gave it to him. “Miss you,” she whispered. “So
much.”

She should move
away, but it was too late. She’d breathed the scent of his
skin, and got the taste of him on her lips, and felt the warmth and
strength of his hands. She pressed her mouth to his once more, and
all the longing she’d tried to stifle spilled from her in the
kiss she ought to have held back. Her hands slid to his shoulders,
and she clung when she knew she ought to let go. Later it would only
be harder.

But later was so
far away. Now all her world was him, and the long, tender kiss that
turned fierce in a moment. His arm went round her waist, and he
pulled her against his hard torso. She shifted into his lap, and
pulled up her skirts, and wrapped her legs around his hips. She was
shameless. With him she could be. She could do as she pleased. No
rules. Only to please and be pleased. She caught at his shirt, tugged
it up, and broke the kiss only long enough to pull the garment over
his head. She dragged her hands over his shoulders, his back, his
chest. He was as smooth and hard as marble but warm and vibrantly
alive. She’d never known anyone so fully alive as he. Outside
the men sang:

My heart is wrapped
in fire. Who burns as I do? Is there no remedy?

He caught the back
of her head and pushed his long fingers into her hair. He held her
away and looked at her. No words. Only the heat in his eyes and the
glint of wickedness and the hint of a smile. Then his hands slid
downward, and he undid the bodice fastenings, watching her face all
the while. She remembered the first time he’d tried to undress
her, against the door.

What are you doing?
she’d said, like an idiot.

Taking off your
clothes, he’d answered, clearly amazed at the stupidity of the
question.

Now she laughed
silently, recalling. He grinned, and she knew he remembered, too.

The bodice fell
away, and his hands were upon her skin, and her brain slowed and
thickened.

She pressed her
fist to her mouth to keep from making any sound. She had craved his
touch, his strong, clever hands tracing the curves of her breasts,
her waist and belly and hips. She hadn’t understood how
desperate it was, the ache, until now, when it swept over her like a
sandstorm, blotting out everything but the piercing need for him.

He pushed her
skirts up further and loosened the waist of his full trousers. She
trembled when the garments slid away, leaving them skin to skin. She
wrapped her arms about his shoulders and pressed her mouth against
his neck to keep from crying out when his hands moved up her thighs.
She drank in his scent, hot and male and his alone. At the first
intimate touch she screamed silently. If she could have done, she’d
have cried out her pleasure, her torment, and impossible,
contradictory demands.
More. No. Stop. Don’t stop. There. No,
there. Oh, don’t. Oh, yes, please
.

Laughter bubbled
inside her along with a sorrow all but unbearable.

Madness.

Wonderful madness.

Her teeth dug into
his shoulder, her nails into his back while his wonderful, dangerous
hands found every pleasure point, and streams of sensation, violently
sweet and hot, coursed through her.

The sailors’
drum was a distant echo, their aching song a counterpoint to the ache
within. She longed for him. To be his. To be together. To be one.

She slid her hand
down over his belly, and took his rod in her hand to guide it into
her. He made a choked sound and pushed her hand away. He shifted her
on his lap, and before she could tell him she couldn’t wait any
longer, he thrust into her. His mouth covered hers before she could
cry out.
Yes, oh, yes. Like this. At last
.

Outside, the
sailors sang:

O first and only
one of my heart Show at last your favor to me

am thy slave
eternally.

Thou art my lord
and master.…

Outside was the
wail of the pipes and the beat of the earthen drum.

Inside was an
all-consuming need to be joined, completely and forever.

She took him deep
inside her, wrapped herself about him, her hands moving over him, to
have as much of him as she could, though it could never be enough.

She rocked with
him, silently, to the music and beat only they two heard. Feelings
swelled, dark and ungovernable, and she let them take her. With him,
she would go anywhere. With him she feared nothing. With him she was
finally, truly alive.

She held onto him
as she’d done during the sandstorm. She let the pleasure rage
around her and inside her and between them until it shattered them
both. It brought release, and a quiet like peace.

* * *

“
WHAT ARE
THEY singing?” Rupert said later, when he could breathe again,
think again. They’d sunk down against the cushions and lay
there for a long time without moving. He held her still, close to
him, and she held him.

He ought to help
her get her clothes back on. Not a great deal to do. Put her bodice
back together. Straighten her skirts. Nothing else. No corset. No
petticoats. No drawers. He grinned.

“
Love songs,”
she said. “What’s so amusing?”

“
You,”
he said. “You weren’t wearing any underthings. I collect
you were expecting me.”

“
I haven’t
worn underthings in days,” she said. “It’s too hot.
We need to get dressed. It’s getting late. We’ll be
stopping soon for the night.”