Siren's Secret (33 page)

“Where is it?” Olivia whispered.

“My back. In my hair,” Alex said, breath shallow.

“Let me go,” Olivia insisted. “Then flip on your side … fast. I can hold on.” Olivia wasn’t sure Alex had the strength left to move. “If you die, I die. Let go. Now!” Olivia said, her voice harsh.

Alex let go and flipped violently. They both heard the landing of the asp, followed by a sliding sound. The duchess reached under Olivia’s shoulder and helped to pull her to safety. “Careful. Remember, this room is slanted.”

She’d no sooner said the words when Olivia began to slip. Olivia grabbed for the edge and missed. Instead she caught Alex and pulled her down with her.

It wasn’t a room.

It was a funnel.

And it was steep.

Olivia slid on her back, reaching out. The slide narrowed into a turn at one point, then widened … as it dropped.

They both felt the steep drop at about the same time, their surprised wails echoing around them. It lasted for one very,
very
long breath.

In the darkness, Olivia didn’t know what she’d hit, but she was glad her feet had hit it first. Her hands went up to protect her face as the slide ended and she was airborne … until the next obstacle stopped her cold. Then she fell over.

She heard the duchess’s warning cry behind her. Somehow the woman didn’t land on her.

Painfully, Olivia lifted her head and pushed her hair out of her face. She was on her knees. With the men. There was light. She was so grateful for light.

Then she realized she was sitting on a rather warm body, her skirts enveloping the man’s face. A large hand grabbed her knee, under her skirts but over her cotton undergarments. She swiped at it, fidgeting over the assault, while it fought with her skirts and finally threw them up at her to reveal Stafford’s red face.

“Professor,” he cracked, sounding pained. “It’s not that I don’t like this position, but next time, perhaps we could choose a softer landing.”

“Gads, Stafford!” Olivia worried over the man, touching his head, cheeks, chest. “Are you all right? You made it.”

“You seem relieved.”

She smiled. “Yes! Oh yes!” She would have kissed him, but for the fact that her legs were spread scandalously across his chest and her father was helping her up. She turned to look for Alex. The duke had caught his duchess.

“I’ve got you, my love,” he repeated over and over, running soothing hands over her back and stroking her hair.

Alex was having trouble articulating. Her mouth kept opening, but nothing came out. Samuel grabbed her from Worthington. “Have you been bitten, Allie? What is it?”

She pointed. Then she found the second spear nearby, grabbed it, and threw with amazing force toward the passage she’d just exited. Samuel jolted as the spear landed deep in the floor. The snake hissed and squirmed violently.

“Disgusting,” Lampley noted, joining them.

“Snake,” the duchess said.

“Egyptian asp,” Merryvale corrected—until he got the cold glare from Alex. “Nasty snakes, they are …”

“Thank you, Alex,” Olivia said. “You were very resourceful.”

Samuel watched as the two women embraced, still recovering from their ordeal.

Alex asked what they had accomplished. He told her. Her eyes smoldered and she began to shake. “You had to pick a lock? That’s all?”

“Well, it wasn’t easy without you, my love,” the duke explained.

She looked at Olivia and mocked, “Simple! We merely make our own steps! Far less deadly. Egyptian asps? Oh, how interesting. Do you know their poisonous venom can paralyze and kill you in a
mere
fifteen minutes? So interesting.”

Samuel asked, “Was it bad?”

Alex indicated her knife assembly, currently empty. “I have no more knives left.”

“That was her wedding gift from Matthew,” Olivia explained. “It was quite useful.”

“A lock. You had to crack a lock,” Alex muttered, walking away to see the rest of the chamber, every now and then swatting the back of her neck as if something were there. Her husband followed and put his arms around her, pulling her against him.

“It looks like you forged a link,” Samuel said to Olivia.

“Yes,” she answered, staring at him. “But I wish you had been there.” Her fingertips subtly reached out for his.

“Uh, Stafford. My lady,” Lampley said. “Moreau needs you down at the other side.”

Merryvale grabbed Lampley by the scruff of his neck, guiding him firmly away. “My daughter needs a moment to recover, Hugh. Moreau can wait.”

Samuel wasted no time in taking advantage of the limited privacy. His fingers slid under the leather strap across her breast, his knuckles brushing strategically against a heaving curve under the thin material of her dress.

He swallowed hard.

So did she.

He drew on the strap, pulling her to him. His arms went around her and held tight as she rested her head on his chest. Samuel stroked her hair, gently sorting out the tangles.

“I missed you when we were separated,” Olivia confessed.

“My brawn or my brain?”

“Both.” She grinned up at him, a hand on his chest exploring with a featherlike touch.

“Huh. That’s progress.” His thumb stroked under her chin, lifting her face, as he threaded his fingers through her hair. The flickering torch posted nearby illuminated her skin and reflected in her eyes. He turned her away from the light, holding her, lightly caressing the planes of her face. His heart pounded under her hand, but he didn’t give into his desire. He planned to kiss her. He was waiting.

She looked him in the eyes. “Samuel?”

Her voice was husky and low. She’d finally said his name. It gave him strange satisfaction, as if a barrier had been broken, a victory had been won.

“Yes,” he acknowledged, pleasure filling him. “Can I do something for you, Olivia?” He lowered his head and brushed lips down the side of her neck, smiling as she shivered, wrapped her arms around his neck, and pulled demandingly.

“What do you want, Olivia?” he whispered in her ear.

“Samuel,” her gravelly voice begged. “Distract me, please.”

Softly, against her ear, “With pleasure, my love.” Then he took her lips, tasting her, absorbing her, filling his essence with hers, tortured by her scent, her feel, her shape, and—most of all—her damned brilliant mind. He smiled, lost.

He
loved
her.

If only she would let him.

He lifted his head to see her face in the shadows, relaxed and wanton in his arms, trusting him completely to give her what she wanted, to show her how it felt, to prove to her this emotion between them was more than friendship, more than lust, more than affection. He gently brushed back behind her ears the silky strands of her hair and cupped her cheeks before grazing his lips lightly over the curve of her smile. Then he could hold back no longer. He reached for a rounded curve above her thigh, slipped an arm around her back, and hauled her to him, making her feel how he felt for her.

She rasped his name again with hesitant surprise.

He plundered her lips.

Olivia held on, pressing desperately against him. The feeling of him, his body, his heat—it surrounded her, made her head spin and her heart ache. She gasped, awareness and emotion overflowing, confusing her.

She couldn’t get enough of him and she couldn’t understand it, but she demanded more. She loved the feel of rippling muscles under her hands, but even more, the knowledge that he would protect her no matter what trouble she fell into. He cared for her in a way no one ever had. It gave her courage.

Her nails raked under an opening in his shirt, loving the heat of his skin and the crisp curl of hair between her fingers. Her hand pressed into him, nearly clawing as she inhaled and pulled his head more tightly to her so
she
could plunder
him.

She’d forgotten where she was until Lampley nudged them both several times, finally shaking them out of their reverie. It was incredibly rude.

He cleared his throat. “I really must insist,” he said. Then, at their irritated looks, he sighed and walked away.

Olivia brushed down her skirts. “I feel better. Thank you.”

Stafford grunted, dissatisfied. “I would like to have my leisure with you, Lady Olivia.”

She lifted her nose at him and gave her hair a sassy toss. “Ladies don’t take their leisure in the manner you are suggesting, Mr. Stafford.”

He clasped a hand behind her head for a quick kiss. “In case you didn’t know this, Professor, you’re not much of a lady.”

She gasped, and he laughed. “You’re so easy. Come on.” He grabbed her hand. “The dead await.” He pulled her along to join the others. To Lampley, “Have you figured out what’s next?”

“It seems like the end. No doors,” Lampley said.

Olivia shook her head, perplexed. “It’s a tomb. There would at least be a sarcophagus.”

Moreau joined them, accompanied by his men. He held the funerary cone. “Lady Olivia. You’re back. Excellent. Your services are needed. The art on the end is of particular interest to me.”

“Lovely to see you too, Moreau,” Olivia said, following him. The duke and duchess were already there, staring at the image. They turned to Samuel for his reaction. He studied the pictures, then looked away, his face expressionless.

“It’s a story of an astrolabe,” Moreau explained. “And look, on the crown here is the same symbol as on our funerary cone. That is the astrolabe I want.

“What I would like to know, Lady Olivia, is what does the tale reveal, and is it among the treasures in this tomb?”

Olivia studied the large section of wall. The entire piece was framed by three rows of five-pointed stars. In the center shape appeared to be an astrolabe; within it was the image of a dark-haired Egyptian, working metal. Around this were vignettes of the inventor holding the six pieces and giving them to five people. Each of the five traveled far away—across water, over mountains, through desert, to what seemed to be very distant lands—though it could well have been as close as fifty miles from Alexandria. All those conditions existed. And in the ancient days, faraway was relative.

“Above each of these pieces of art is the same warning as before,” Olivia announced. “ ‘What you seek, you already have.’ ” She thought a moment and read the lettering along the bottom of the images, conveying her interpretation based on what she’d learned at the entrance of the tomb.

“This is ‘the secret men will die for.’ ” She walked backward to the other pieces of art on the walls. She pointed to the pictures of people engaged in life, noting, “ ‘The treasure without price.’ ” Walking to the last chamber, she indicated the image of a person reading scrolls, surrounded by what seemed to be a temple library. “And ‘knowledge of the ages.’ ”

“But where
is
the treasure?” Lampley demanded.

“Or the knowledge?” Merryvale asked. He knocked his hand once against the art, then again, before looking at his daughter knowingly.

They scrambled to find a latch to release the art until a crash got their attention. Olivia turned in time to see Alex lift her heel and slam her foot through the priceless ancient art a
second time,
causing it to splinter into bits.

“Stop!” Olivia shouted, running toward her.

Moreau leaped at her in outrage. Until he saw the result. They looked through to find a room behind the painted screen.

“Let me just clear this away for you,” Alex said.

Moreau stepped in front of her. “That will be enough, Your Grace. I don’t want you to be injured.”

Olivia debated whether he meant to do the injuring himself. “There must be a lever or release somewhere. Let’s look.”

“I’ve got it,” Merryvale said. “It’s dry. Careful.” He showed them how to fold open a latch that then allowed the wood screens to be opened like wall-sized doors. Merryvale gasped with awe at what was before him. The room of knowledge was a giant chamber cluttered with objects and instruments—some for learning and some that seemed for everyday use. But what awed him most were the walls. Embedded in the stone of all the walls were shelves filled with ancient scrolls.

“We did it, Olivia. We did it.” He touched the scrolls and codices reverently, walking slowly along the wall in wonder.

Olivia joined her father, her hand grazing the parched, dusty records. Gently, she slid one out from the top. Her father laid his jacket on the table and they unwrapped the outer material, which looked to be shreds of linen. Next they unfurled the scroll.

“Papyrus,” her father touched the scroll. “I’ve seen only one other very rare sample. The dry climate has protected it from rot”—he lifted a section of scroll—“and provided us with a miracle.”

Olivia read the symbols and explained it to him. “It’s a genealogy, Father. Of the kings. A proof.” She swallowed hard, moved by their find. Then they grinned at each other like schoolchildren up to mischief. Her father’s body shook with delight, and Olivia wiped the sudden tears filling her eyes. She’d done it. She’d discovered mysteries of the ancients. Accomplished something few in the world would ever do.

“Now what do you have to say to me, Merryvale?” Lampley said.

They looked up, all three a little dazed. Her father huffed. Then smiled reluctantly. “I still don’t approve of your methods.”

Lampley nodded. The two men seemed to have a truce of sorts for now. Olivia left them. Where was Stafford? He must see this. She wanted to share it with him.

Olivia rushed past some guards to find the man. He was in the room at the end. The astrolabe room. The room of the secret.

She didn’t join him. Instead, she stopped in the center room and went in, mesmerized as she stepped slowly around the giant slab of red granite. Her hand reached out before her and touched.

The sarcophagus.

Here lay the librarian.

Sarcophagus
—Greek for flesh eating. Horrific, how her mind worked. Thankfully the victims were already dead.

She slid her hand along the edge and stopped in surprise. Carved into the limestone cover was not just the librarian, but a couple. A handsome couple. He with the ornamentation of the Greeks. She with the look of an Egyptian. A mixing of cultures. They lay wrapped in a peaceful embrace, as if only down for a short nap, a smile on the woman’s face—
as if she had just made love.
She recognized the librarian’s necklace from the artwork, the astrolabe with the symbol of Lilith at the top of the necklace. Her fingers traced the lines to the place where their hands met and fingers entwined. She touched a ring on the woman’s hand.