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Daughter of the God-King(93)

By:Anne Cleeland


“I love you.” He lifted her hand to kiss it, even though Bing could probably see the gesture. “I will be careful.”

In an attempt to take advantage of his soft mood, she wheedled, “May I stay a few days longer? Think of poor Bing and her new romance—it is the least you can do after encouraging her other beau to vanish. And perhaps we can find another free afternoon.” This said with a meaningful look.

“Unfair,” he protested, without giving her a straight answer. “As for now, we need to speak to Mademoiselle Bing, to obtain the measurements.”

“Are you going to the tomb tonight?” She was torn because she wanted to accompany him but she was very much afraid she would have to stop to be sick along the way.

“No more vodka for you,” he teased, again without answering the question, which gave her leave to believe he was indeed planning such a visit.

“Will you at least tell me if you find the secret chamber?”

He leaned in to whisper near her ear, his breath warm against her skin and evoking delightful memories. “Perhaps.”

“You are beyond exasperating, husband.” She fingered one of his buttons, deeply affected by his masculine nearness and longing to be abed again.

He laughed again—gratifying, how she had never heard him laugh before today but now he could not seem to stop. “And you are adorable—particularly when you are explaining to the priest that you would rather be my mistress.”

“I do prefer marriage, thus far.” She dimpled up at him. “And don’t call him a priest—he’s likely to be offended.”

“My mistake—although I think there is little I can do to redeem myself.”

She could only agree. “I can’t imagine a bridegroom has ever held him at gunpoint.”

“No—only angry papas, perhaps.”

She laughed with him, even though the effort cost her. Although she was unwell, she was determined to stay with him until they were forced to part. Moments like these were precious; she was soon to be packed off to some unknown place—somewhere where there were priests. I am unafraid, she thought; I would follow him anywhere, and after all that I have weathered these past few days, I am ready to rebuild somewhere peaceful—surely there are no more shocks to be sustained.

“Shall we speak with Mademoiselle Bing?”

“Yes,” she agreed easily, determined not to cling and complain as he led her toward her companion.





Chapter 38





The following day Hattie and Bing made their visit to the foreigner’s cemetery, a bleak enclosure located in the area behind the government compound on the east bank. The cemetery was no larger than the one at the church in Cornwall, only it was many levels more forlorn—consisting of grave sites that were nothing more than gravel and sand; as there were undoubtedly few visitors, there was little point to more than a cursory maintenance. Fortunately, due to its proximity to the Nile, there were several spreading willow trees that provided a measure of welcome shade and made the entire aspect a little less desolate.

As had been arranged, the two women met Drummond from the British consulate at the gate, and Hattie looked for his associate, hoping to verify the scar across his hand for Dimitry. The other man was not in evidence, however, as Drummond offered his sincere apologies for the consul’s failure to be made aware of the burial. “We believe their deaths were an accident, and those who may have been involved were too frightened or too remorseful to come forward.”

Frightened, concluded Hattie—the porter at the worker’s village was too frightened to tell her where they were until she did a little frightening of her own. Aloud, she assured him, “It makes little difference, Mr. Drummond—at least the mystery is solved.” And she privately held out cautious hope that no one would ever discover their misdeeds or their infamous bargain to take in an inconvenient child from the wrong side of the blanket. That she was someone lesser than she thought she was still stung, and it was fortunate that Dimitry had provided her with another role altogether to ease the shame of it.

Footsteps could be heard on the gravel path and the three looked to see another man approaching. With no little surprise, Hattie observed Baron du Pays, the French vice-consul whom she had last seen in her drawing room in Paris. Not a fortuitous turn of events, she decided—that he should reappear at this juncture and in this place. She dipped a graceful curtsey to hide her concern.

“Mademoiselle Blackhouse.” He greeted her, the pale eyes assessing her behind a cool facade. “We meet again—much to my delight.” He did not relinquish her hand and continued, “I deeply regretted the circumstances which required your immediate departure from Paris.”