Siren's Secret (17 page)

He pulled her to her feet, a roguish grin curving his lips and a satisfied twinkle in his golden eyes.

Olivia stood unsteadily, fragmented thoughts slowly returning but making little sense. When he let go of her hand she felt stripped bare. Where heat had been a moment before, a chill shook her body. He, on the other hand, appeared entirely self-possessed.

“That was informative,” she said. She must recover.

“Indeed.”

“Hmm.” What did that mean? She would need to think about it more later. She would need to think about it
a lot
more later. When she was in control again. When she could put her thoughts together. When her body didn’t tingle with life and this new confusing energy. She looked at the large volumes on the desk.

Perhaps there is something in there about this.

“I have to go to Mrs. Tisdale and make things right.” She didn’t realize she’d said it aloud or was standing motionless in front of the cabin door until Samuel helped her out with a gentle shove. She quickly rubbed her face dry and stepped forward.

He was there. Riedell. In front of her cabin. His forehead against the door, his voice coaxing and comforting. He turned when he saw her coming, and her spine straightened, making her two inches taller.

They faced each other like two gladiators. He stepped forward, purposefully.

“I know.” She stopped him before he could start, her voice haughty. “You love her. But I care for her too! And if you ever do anything to cause her pain I will rip your heart out, roast it, and feed it to the sharks … or albatross … or whatever vile creature is willing to eat it.” She poked his injured arm. “And this pain”—she poked the wound again—“that you feel”—poke—“in your arm? It will be nothing compared to what I do to the rest of you.”

He lifted a finger and poked her once, hard in the chest, forcing her back a step. Anger and determination were in every line on his face. “Agreed.”

Olivia grunted, then pushed him aside and went into the cabin after Elizabeth.

Olivia was convinced Mrs. Tisdale, now Mrs. Riedell, would not have noticed whether Olivia was actually present at her wedding. But her friend definitely looked lovely. Beautiful, in fact. Glowing from some mysterious inner happiness that wrapped her and her new husband in a bubble of unawareness. And with her dark, long, wavy hair loose over her shoulders, Elizabeth seemed not much older than Olivia. Strange how she had always thought of her as more motherly.

Kelley and some men rowed the newlyweds ashore in Algiers and escorted them into the city. They would have two days alone before the
Avenger
set sail again.

A number of Nuh’s former slaves left them in Algiers. The Americans stayed. The English found plenty of ships willing to bring them back home—ships protected by the British navy. Another mark against the Americans. They had very little government to speak of, and no military to safeguard their ships. Elizabeth had no guarantees against attack on the return voyage.

Olivia changed out of her good gown and back into her professor gear to help Andersen make rounds with his patients. He had acquired fresh supplies, so they changed all the bandages. Olivia gazed out over the ship’s rail, envious of Elizabeth and Nathan. She would love a bath in fresh water. It would have to wait another day. Stafford didn’t want her going ashore without him. He reminded her that she had a price on her head, and they didn’t know how far word of it had reached.

The time alone afforded Olivia the privacy to open her father’s letter. She had studied it for a while now, contemplating how to open it without breaking the seal. And then there would be the task of getting it closed again. She thought she had it all worked out. In the worst of cases, she would just explain her concern to her father.

Olivia sat at the small table, waving the letter in the air thoughtfully. Her father was not the problem. It was Stafford. She still felt guilty for breaching his trust in taking the letter in the first place. Of course, if Stafford had only told her about the letter, her snooping would not be an issue. And had she known about the letter, she would have had him open it, and none of this sneaking around would be necessary.

It took patience, but slowly she pulled a piece of thread under the dry wax until she succeeded in freeing the wax from the paper without breaking the pressed circle. Excited, she pulled out the letter.

There was a knock at the door. “Ollie? You in there?”

She jumped. Blast it. Stafford!

“Yes. I’m resting.”

“Are you hungry? Cook made a nice meal for us. You haven’t eaten all day.”

She
was
hungry. “Maybe later. I’ll help myself in the galley.”

He was silent. She knew he hadn’t left and stared at the door waiting.

“I’d enjoy your company,” he said, finally, his voice warm.

Olivia debated. Normally she found his company stimulating—on several newly discovered levels. But she had to use the opportunity. And part of her believed he just felt sorry for her with Elizabeth gone.

She moved to the door, torn. “I would enjoy your company as well. I’m just”—she searched for a good excuse—“awfully tired.”

“Do you want to open the door so we can at least talk face-to-face?”

“No!” She put her hand against to the latch, to prevent entry. “That is, I’m not decent. I was hot.” She stopped herself. “It’s really not appropriate to discuss my state of undress, Stafford.”

“You’re undressed?” He sounded interested.

“No! I mean partially.”

“What part?” He teased.

“None of your business. Go away.”

“I’ll bring you a tray.”

“No! Really. I’m just not quite hungry yet. I want to nap.”

“Nonsense. If you nap now, you won’t get any sleep later, and we have a long day in town tomorrow. Why don’t you come on deck and get some fresh air? It will wake you up and give you an appetite.”

“Thank you, but I think I really need a break from all the men.” At the silence, it occurred to her he might be offended, and hurried to explain. “I like them all. I just need time to contemplate.”

“Of course. If you change your mind, Andersen and I will be dining above deck. It’s too nice out to waste the evening.”

“Very well. Enjoy your meal.” She relaxed again as his footsteps went away. “Finally. Very persistent tonight, Mr. Stafford,” she spoke to herself.

The letter awaited. She went back to work. Carefully she lifted the envelope and slipped out two pages of Grayson’s script.

Dear Merryvale,

I trust you are in good health and continue to take care.

The dreadful news of Queensbury and Peel has not yet reached London. Once it does, gaining access to the star cone will be near impossible. Agents of Lampley have already tried to collect the cone, but I was able to prevent this. As you know, I am less than certain about the authenticity of Lampley’s interest in this project. However, as long as he provides funding, it will be difficult to remove him.

In reference to the astronomy link, it seems you were right. Over the past two years, a number of priceless astrolabes have been stolen or gone missing. Reports of these robberies have come in from Paris, Athens, Granada, and Constantinople. It appears likely you have found the maker of these particular devices. Why they are important, aside from their intrinsic value, we do not yet know. However, there have been deaths associated with the thefts. I urge you to be cautious.

With regard to Lady Olivia, I will do as you request, though I worry that our plans may put her in undue danger. Whoever has the key, controls the tomb. But whoever has the key, is also a target.

Godspeed,

Paul, Lord Grayson

Olivia held the letter with trembling hands—frightened, excited, curious, and confused. Queensbury and Peel? Her father’s exploration companions. What had happened to them? Was her father alone? This Lampley fellow clearly could not be trusted. Had her father wanted Grayson to send him the star cone? Olivia paused. If the cone was not secure, then Grayson had been awfully lackadaisical in allowing her free access to the museum. Or had that been deliberate?

She put the letter down to prevent herself from crinkling it, a sick feeling in the pit of her stomach. The correspondence had added to her questions, not answered them. Her heart pounded a runaway beat. She scanned the attached document. It was a creation myth of sorts copied from the tomb, with Grayson’s notes inserted.

Astrolabes were being stolen? What was important about these astrolabes? She thought her father and Grayson were searching for ancient scrolls and documents from the Great Library. For the
improvement
of mankind. This didn’t sound like an excavation to enrich the academic body. She tapped her fingers. What kind of knowledge were they after?

Olivia wiped her inking pen clean, admiring the instrument’s design. Instead of going through quills each week, she’d had metal fashioned into the shape of a quill. It worked wonderfully. She tilted it into her ink and meticulously copied the letter word for word along with the original Egyptian text and Grayson’s notes. She needed time to think. And to research. When she was done copying, she closed the seal and held it facing up over a lit candle. Carefully she softened the wax, and with her sewing needle, pressed bits of the indented Grayson seal into the paper, trying to cause as little disfigurement as possible. Then she put it aside and watched it dry, hopeful of her success.

She examined her work. “Sometimes I amaze even myself. Now to put you back where you belong.”

Olivia slipped from her cabin and approached Stafford’s door. She knocked. No answer. Good. She was about to try the door, when a sailor in the shadows at the end of the narrow hall greeted her.

“Feeling better, Professor?” he asked.

“Yes. Thank you. I was just a bit tired. Is the captain on deck?”

“Yes. Would you like me to get him for you?”

“No, that’s fine.” She moved to the door of the chart room. She would have to see if the connecting door was open to his cabin. “I’m just going to see if I can find a book.”

“Are you sure you don’t want to join the cap’n on deck? Have a bite to eat?”

“Oh, no. I don’t want bother anyone. We all need a little break from each other,” she explained.

He looked reluctant to leave. “As you wish. I better get back to work myself. Have a good eve, Professor.”

She watched as he reluctantly went on deck. Olivia closed the door to the chart room behind her and hurried to the connecting room. It swung open with ease. She climbed a chair and reached for the small, secret ship model and shook.

Silence.

Her chest froze in panic. She shook again. There was nothing inside. Gads. He’d either hidden the key elsewhere or had it on him. Either way, it indicated a decided lack of trust in her. How unforgivably rude not to trust her. She stood on the chair holding the small ship, wondering what to do next.

“Looking for something?”

At the sound of his voice and sudden arrival, the obvious clicked in place. “You had your man spy on me!” she accused, outraged.

He folded arms across his massive chest and widened his stance. “With good reason, it appears.”

“I beg your pardon.” She drew up to her full height, and looked down her nose, for once taller, thanks to the chair.

“You’re not pardoned, you deceitful thief. Did you read the letter?”

She gasped but recovered her outrage. “If you knew I had it, why didn’t you say so?”

“I was testing your honor and trustworthiness. Both of which I find lacking.”

All true. She just hadn’t wanted him to know it. “I read all my father’s correspondence. And you should have told me you had a letter for him, especially after I told you he might be in mortal danger.”

His arms unfolded as he stalked forward and snatched the letter. “You put my personal integrity at stake.”

“You put my father’s life at stake!”

“He put his own life at stake. And likely yours too.” Stafford was angry. With her and her father, it seemed.

She gasped. “Did you read the letter?”

“What?” He was affronted. “Of course not! Why? What did Grayson say? Have they deliberately endangered you?” Fury darkened his eyes in a frightening manner.

“No. I don’t know. I didn’t actually understand what the letter was all about.” She chewed her lip, thoughtful.

“Perfect. So on top of being hunted down, having a price on your head, and being a thief, you have to worry about your father and your late friend conspiring to injure you.”

She denied instantly. “No, no. It was nothing like that. Grayson simply said he did as my father requested, but was concerned it might put me in harm’s way.”

“Well you’ve sure as hell been in harm’s way,” he barked.

“Is there still a price on my head?”

“We can only assume.”

“That’s very unsettling.”

“It damn well should be, Ollie!”

“Stop yelling at me. It’s very upsetting,” she shouted. “And I need to think!”

“You should have thought more before you became a lying, conniving thief!”

She took a sharp intake of breath and released. “I’m nothing like that at all. I had to steal the funerary cone to save my father! He said it was a matter of life and death. Would you not do the same to rescue a loved one?”

He didn’t say anything.

“And then it was stolen from me, so I was fortunate to have the extra script to negotiate with. That’s the only reason I took Grayson’s translation. Heaven knows he can’t translate hieroglyphics to save his life.”

“Agreed. He’s dead.”

“And really, what would you think if the last man to see Grayson was carrying a letter to your father and he didn’t tell you?”

“That it was none of my business. And,” he said, “I wasn’t the last man to see Grayson. His murderer was. I take offense to any implication otherwise.”

“Oh, I never really thought you killed Grayson,” she said.

“Your confidence warms my heart.” He pulled the key from his pocket and put the letter back in the correspondence box. Then he pocketed the key again.