His movements were efficient, hauling the body into a low dugout at the entrance of the fort. Pocketing the man's pistol, he checked briefly for additional weapons which he hoped would not prove useful in the coming hours. A pouch at the man's waist divulged several heavy coins and a cylindrical object wrapped in red silk. He shook his head with increasing incomprehension, as the soft folds of fabric revealed a child's kaleidoscope made from copper and inlaid with mother-of-pearl. Its fine markings of cherubs and angels were indisputably English, and about the last object in the world he'd expected to find on the corpse of a dead Egyptian. He ran a thumb over the detailed engravings and then held it up to one eye. A spill of changing patterns formed by colored glass pieces tumbled and fell as he turned the scope, clearly intended for the delight of a child.
Archer returned to Meredith a short time later. He needed a drink, and not water. Judging by Meredith's pallor, they both did. She did not stir from her place on the ground, watching as he reached for the leather bag of supplies and extracted another flask, this one filled with spirits.
Meredith glanced at him and silently accepted the flask held out to her. “Brandy,” he said.
“I would prefer whisky.” Montfort was close to the Scottish border, after all.
“That's unfortunate. This will have to do.”
Without a word, she tipped back the flask, exposing the paleness of her slender neck to his gaze. She let her breath out slowly as the liquid worked its way through her, warming her from the inside out. She put one hand up to her forehead, running her fingers over her brow as if to order her thoughts.
“Did you recognize the men who were trying to assault you?” he asked, still aware of the incongruity of the child's kaleidoscope now secreted away in his satchel.
“Strange question coming from you,” she replied.
“Really?” The one word came out in a growl.
“You know damn well what I mean. Let's first get to the question of your fortuitous appearance here this afternoon.” She settled back against the wall, and took another drink with a hand that shook.
“I find myself with a growing interest in antiquities,” he said with a straight face.
“You will have to do better, Lord Archer.”
“All right then, I have always wanted to return to Egypt.”
“You're a little long in the tooth for the grand tour.”
Archer winced dramatically.
“When you appeared at Rowena's wedding, as Rushford's friend, I knew ... I could tell ...” she said frowning and then trailing off. She handed him the flask, her hand now steady.
“Tell what?”
“I prefer not to dissemble, Lord Archer,” she said, forearms resting over her bent knees. “You appeared to me as nothing more than an adventurer, a bounder, someone who chooses to involve himself in one fiasco after another, as an amusement, like a child picking up one toy before discarding it for the next. Clearly, a man of your wealth and disinclination to devote himself to his estates or Parliament finds himself battling boredom to an unconscionable degree.”
Archer sat down in the dust beside her. His gaze locked on hers as the two of them stared each other down. “Quite the character assassination on such short notice. I spent all of a day and a half with you and your wards, Julia and Rowena, at Montfort. Hardly enough time for you to come to such an astonishing conclusion. I should feel offended,” he added mockingly.
Meredith let out a breath. “Don't bother. Why should my regard mean anything to you? We are but acquaintances, ships passing in the night, to use a trite phrase,” she said, making it doubly clear what she thought of their association. “And I already gave you my thanks at the wedding. Both Rowena and Rushford told me of your intervention on their behalf,” she said. Her voice took on an edge of formality.
He knew his old friend Rushford had told Lady Woolcott very little regarding his involvement with Whitehall and would divulge even less about Archer's own past. Lady Woolcott would have learned that he was the only living son of an illustrious family whose fortunes he largely ignored, preferring to waste his time on escapades of capriciousness and daring endeavors, including a tour in the Royal Navy, which took him away from England for months at a time. And when he did deign to make an appearance, he was known for his ability at cards, his love of sailing and his discretion in his choice of lovers.
“I do recall, vaguely,” he drawled. “Your words of thanks positively warmed my heart.”
“You see. This is precisely what I mean. You take nothing seriously, making a mockery of the dangerous situation in which my Rowena found herself. As a man bereft of family, I shouldn't expect much else.”
“I take it you prefer men of a more serious, sober character.”
“My preferences in that regard are moot, Lord Archer.”
He watched Meredith speculatively, neatly categorizing all the surface details of her life. Eighteen years earlier, she had escaped France, more precisely, escaped Faron, taking two little girls with her and protecting them from the threat that had overshadowed the rest of their lives. They had been kept all but under lock and key, for reasons Meredith had chosen to keep to herself.
The silence between them lengthened. He tipped his head back to take in the night sky; the constellations were as thick as a forest of lights. A thin moonlight illuminated the fortress, limning them in a ghostly light. “Very well then. I shall attempt to keep to a sober mien and subject matter, although, I suppose you do not wish to speak of itâof sober matters,” he said. “I mean of the men this afternoon. And who may have sent them.”
“There is no need.” She paused.
“I believe there is.”
“He is dead.”
The words had the ring of finality. She glared at him, her eyes a cloudy gray, willing the wish a reality.
Faron's unspoken name wavered between them like a noose. She had been his lover, once. It was an image that Archer could not banish, and it settled firmly in the forefront of his mind. He acknowledged that he had trouble thinking around her, his responses suddenly a foreign country to him. He had never experienced even a frisson of jealousy in his life and now he'd rather put hot pokers in his eyes than imagine Meredith Woolcott with Montagu Faron.
There was something seriously wrong. His first lover flashed in his mind, the young widow from Kent. That was the first and last time he had struggled with want, with need. In the intervening years, he had learned to control desire with the finesse of a master, long having played its strings. He studied Meredith's pure profile, the slender nose, the sharp cheekbones above the wide mouth. Touching her, he knew from experience, was inevitable, sensing that she would not turn away with false innocence. She stared at him for a moment, flushing under his intense regard, and he knew exactly what she would look like after making love. The image of her, warm and tousled, made his mind go blank. The desert night faded away beneath a vision of flesh damp with exertion and desire fulfilled.
Determined to break the mood, he reached for the leather bag. “Are you hungry?”
She shook her head. “No, thank you.”
“Then perhaps you should sleep.” Archer didn't need to add that he would play the sentinel.
“Impossible. I'm as tightly wound as piano wire at present.” She had killed a man but looked little the worse for it.
“I'm not surprised. All the more reason you may wish to talk about it. The men who tried to attack you this afternoon. A mere coincidence, you believe?”
“Murad may have taken a bribe. And led them here.”
“That's one possibility.”
She leaned her chin on her forearms, staring into the night, not answering him directly. “While we are discussing coincidences, Lord Archer, what of your presence here? You have yet to answer my question,” she said. “A mere coincidence?”
What could he tell her? She would not be readily mollified, despite the fact that he'd rehearsed for such an eventuality. The woman was formidably intelligent, the daughter of one of England's estimable scholars and a scholar in her own right. “I will be honest with you,” he lied evenly. “Lord Rushford, knowing my penchant for travel, asked that I keep watch over you, as a favor. He assumed that you would protest if you knew in advance.”
She looked at him doubtfully.
He continued regardless. “He asked that I accompany you, as a guide, if you will, on your travels. I haven't been to Egypt in some time... .”
“Without informing me? For protection?” Her lips thinned. “I have been looking after myself and my wards for many years now. I do not require protection, no matter how well intentioned.”
“A woman traveling on her own is unusual and some might say she invites trouble.”
Raising her head from her arms, she sniffed in an unladylike fashion. “Oh, please, Lord Archer. You as a chaperone? You will have to do better or not try at all. This is clearly not the kind of adventure you habitually seek, hiding out in a dusty corner of Egypt with nothing more than a flask of brandy and a spinster in your sights. Hardly up to your usual standards.”
“Of which you know plenty, given your earlier assessment, or shall I say assassination, of my character.” Mockery laced his tone. “Besides which, I advised Rushford that I could hardly apprise you of these plans after your rather chilly reception at Montfort. I had my doubts that you would accept my offer to accompany you on your travels. You seemed to develop an aversion to my presence.”
“A response you are not accustomed to from the fairer sex, I take it.”
He smiled broadly. “I never thought of it that way, Lady Woolcott.” The waning moonlight stroked the dark red of her hair, engraving her lashes shades darker than her hair. He tried to convince himself that she was not the most beautiful woman he'd ever seen. It was an objective assessment, for he had seen a great many beauties in the world, and in close quarters.
“I'm sure you haven't.” Her voice was brittle, dismissive. Uncoiling from her position, she stretched her legs out in front of her, the fabric of her trousers tracing the contours of her long legs. She would be beautiful naked, he decided, glancing at the defined muscles, so unlike the rounded lushness of most women of leisure.
“Choose not to believe me, then,” he said with practiced ease. “You may send a telegram to Lord Rushford, if you seek proof. He will tell you that I only have your best interests at heart.” Crossing one booted foot over the other, he added, “I was going to introduce myself at Shepheard's earlier this week, as a matter of fact, as I had seen you in the breakfast room, but you were a veritable flurry of activity and I didn't wish to interrupt your endeavors. You were clearly intent upon visiting every museum, curio shop and ruin within miles of Cairo.”
She raised her eyebrows. “Why did you wait to make your presence known, Lord Archer? I find myself awaiting your answer with interest. The fact is that you followed me here to Rashid, clandestinely, waiting for precisely what I don't know before you felt compelled to make your presence known.”
“And a good thing I did.”
“Don't fancy yourself a hero, Archer. I acquitted myself ably without your intervention.”
It would have been churlish of him to remind her otherwise. “My apologies then,” he amended. “I should have made my presence known earlier. It was inexcusable of me.”
She was addressing him coolly, clearly not eager to let go of formalities, determined to make this far harder than he'd imagined or hoped. He'd rather she railed at him. Accused him. Cursed him. Anger would give him a way in.
He thought for a moment before saying, “Lord Rushford told me of your upcoming paper to be delivered at Burlington House next month. Quite an accomplishment. Few women, or men for that matter, have the opportunity to address such an august organization. Of course, I am not a member.”
Her eyes lost some of their wariness. “Thank you. It is indeed quite an honor to have been invited to give a lecture to the Society. That is one reason I chose to visit Egypt to do additional research and finalize my investigations.” In the pale light, her face took on a faint glow, as she warmed to her subject.
“The title of your paper, if I might be so bold to inquire?” he asked, playing along. “It has to do with the Rosetta stone, if I'm not mistaken.” It was already proven that the usual flattery would not go far with this woman. Good thing, because he hadn't a sliver of a sonnet in his repertoire.
She eyed him with suspicion. “You hardly seem the type, Archer.”
“The type?”
“The scholarly type.”
He placed a hand over his chest. “My dear Lady Woolcott, you wound me to the quick. My Latin and Greek tutors at Eton still sing my praises these years later.”
She smiled and the effect was cataclysmic. Archer felt a tightening in his groin, wondering how he would survive the night. Sunrise was a scant five hours away, he lied to himself.