Mr. Impossible

  This man did, though. He was writing mysterious messages in kisses upon her skin, along her collarbone and down, across her breasts, and down. He eased her out of his arms and onto the mat. Her clothing slid away from her body, and his mouth was there instead, the lightest of brushes, writing kisses over her skin.

  His lips told a long and complicated tale upon her belly, and then the kisses moved lower, and his fingers were there, too, tracing the contours of the most secret of her places. It made an ache in the pit of her belly to be explored and known so, a sweet, killing ache.

  She tangled her fingers in his hair because she must touch him, do something. The ache was everywhere, beating in her heart and making a strange current in her veins and thrumming over her skin. Oh, and there…the tiny flesh-bud, wicked thing…his thumb teasing…and then he took her in his mouth.

  Oh, no, you mustn’t. It’s…indecent…lewd. Wrong, surely. We’ll be damned for all eternity…. I don’t care. Let me be damned. Don’t stop. Don’t ever stop.

  Pleasure, almost unbearable, swept through her, wave upon wave of a dark joy. Again and again she trembled on the brink of ecstasy; again and again he carried her over. Until she could bear no more, not alone. She curled up, grasped his shoulders. “In me,” she gasped. “Be in me.”

  He came up onto his knees. She dragged her hands over his chest, down over his taut belly, and down to his virile member, immensely erect and hot to the touch. She stroked it, longingly, lovingly, and he gave a strangled laugh. “Ah, well, then, don’t be so shy,” he said. He set his big hand on her chest and pushed her down, and remained so for a moment, looking at her.

  She gazed up at him, and for that moment, in the darkness with its faint, flickering candlelight, it seemed she’d entered the underworld and this was no mere mortal who straddled her but a demigod.

  He smiled and moved into her, so slowly, so deliberately. Ah, but deep, deep, where she needed him.

  “Like this?” he said. “In you like this?”

  “Yes,” she said. She moved, taking him in deeper still. “And like this.”

  He moved inside her slowly this time, as though they had all eternity. Slowly she moved with him, relishing the heat and the rolling swell of pleasure. She was his and he hers for this time. She was in no hurry to reach the ending and the separation that must follow.

  He bent and kissed the top of her cheekbone, so tenderly she thought her heart would break. But her heart beat on, harder and faster. The slow pleasure swelled into pulsing need, and then she was lost again in the storm. But now he was with her, and the tempest was rich and wild and wondrous. She plunged into it with him in the same way she’d plunged with him into pyramids, into danger. The world lit up in showers of gold, and it spilled through her and around her, a happiness like a glimpse of a perfect hereafter. He gave a low cry, and shuddered once, and a liquid heat filled her.

  The storm slid away, and he sank down upon her, and she sank, too, into a welcoming quiet and peace.

  THE INSTANT HE returned to himself, Rupert knew what he’d done.

  This made twice he’d behaved like an adolescent with his first lover.

  The first time, he’d made a great hurry of the business, as though it was the only and last chance he’d ever have and death was coming in the next breath.

  The second time, he’d managed the bare essentials of pleasuring her, only to forget himself at the crucial moment.

  He’d not only fallen on top of her, great clumsy oaf that he was — and she lying on a thin mat, on a stony floor — but he’d spilled his seed inside her.

  Idiot, idiot. Great dumb ox.

  What if —

  Never mind. Worrying accomplished nothing.

  He lifted himself off her and scooped her into his arms. He slid up to a sitting position and arranged her upon his lap. She laid her head upon his shoulder, and he felt her breath on his skin. He stroked her hair, glistening ruby and garnet in the candlelight. His gaze wandered lower, and he saw ruby and garnet there as well.

  He smiled, forgetting his grievance with himself for the moment. That part had surprised her.

  She was a woman of experience, yes, but not very much experience and that little not very good.

  The thought restored his humor. It was like having all the benefits of a virgin without any of the drawbacks, he told himself.

  And as to his mistake — well, the damage was done and couldn’t be undone. He could only take care of her. This he was well-equipped to do. He relaxed, leant back against the wall, and promptly fell asleep.

  “WAKE UP! WAKE up!”

  A frantic whisper in the darkness. Someone shoving at him.

  Rupert quickly shook off sleep. “What?” he said. “What?”

  “Someone’s out there and I — Hush!”

  Rupert listened.

  Voices. Men’s voices. Their guards? He rose and started pulling on his clothes.

  “There are a number of them,” she whispered. “I went out to check on Hermione, because she was complaining again. I heard them outside. I don’t know if they heard her. But I know they’re looking for us.”

  “Well, it’s about time somebody —”

  Her hand clamped over his mouth. “I heard them because they were arguing — about whether to kill you or hold you for ransom. We have to hide.”

  Rupert pulled her hand away. He hurriedly wrapped the sash round his waist, found his pistol, and shoved it into the sash. “We can’t hide,” he said. “For one —”

  “Don’t talk, just listen,” she said. “That rumble you think is a whisper carries.” She pushed him. “Back. The in most chamber.”

  He didn’t know where “back” was. Either the candle had burnt out or she’d wisely extinguished it. The darkness was impenetrable. But she grabbed his hand and led, and she seemed to know what she was about.

  It didn’t take as long this time to get to the end.

  The dead end.

  “We’re going to be trapped,” he muttered. “Which is what I was trying to tell you. Unless you’ve discovered a secret passage.”

  “Not exactly,” she said.

  “Then what?” He felt the walls and found a recess.

  Then he remembered: the French diagrams she’d lectured about earlier. A shaft would be marked with an entrance, actual or symbolic, like this recess.

  She tugged on his arm. “Not the center recess. This way.”

  “We’re going to hide in a burial shaft,” he said. “That’s your cunning plan.”

  “There’s no other way out,” she said. “I explored the entire chamber earlier, because I’d read that some of the Theban tombs are labyrinths. This isn’t.”

  While she spoke, she was pulling him to the left. “Hurry,” she said.

  Rupert could hear the voices now, distorted, seemingly distant. But he knew they were not very far away. This was not like the interior of a pyramid. With torches or lanterns, the men would be here in minutes.

  He wanted to stand and fight, and he would have done, if he’d had some idea of the odds. But there was no way of knowing how many men there were, or how dispersed. Three might come inside while another ten or twenty waited outside. And if they killed him, what would become of her?

  “You’d better let me go first,” he said, though reason rebelled at the prospect: a narrow burial shaft, a small space at the bottom with room for a coffin and not much else, most likely. Anyone who wished them dead would have no difficulty arranging it.

  “No, let me,” she said. “I know where it is. Oh, do hurry. I can hear them. Get down. It’s safer to crawl. Someone’s excavated…ah, here it is. Can you feel it?”

  She caught his hand and curved it over the edge of an opening. “There,” she said. “It’s clear to the bottom. I checked earlier.”

  “I’m going first,” he said.

  THE SHAFT WAS steeply angled. Rupert went down backward, and half slid to the bottom. She followed closely, using the same method. The sepulchral chamber wa
s surprisingly large. But the floor was covered with rubble, and a disagreeably familiar smell signaled ancient dead in the vicinity.

  He’d no time to dwell on the dead, though. Mrs. Pembroke had hardly reached the bottom when he heard the voices. He pulled her back, well out of range of the shaft.

  A light shone where they’d been standing a moment before, and voices called down in Arabic.

  Rupert loaded his pistol.

  A new voice spoke, in French with a thick accent this time. There was nothing to fear, the voice said. He and his friends had come to rescue the English lady and gentleman. Since sunset, when the wind died down, everyone in Asyut had been looking for them.

  Rupert touched Mrs. Pembroke’s lips, signaling silence, and by cautious inches drew her farther away from the shaft — until they came up against a corner of wall.

  Nowhere else to go.

  He moved to stand in front of her.

  No sound for the longest time but his breathing and hers. The others, above, were listening, too, no doubt, for signs of life. But they must come a good deal closer to hear any.

  At last someone spoke. Then someone else. They seemed to be arguing. Rupert caught the words: Ingleezi, jinn, and afreet.

  Were they talking about him?

  Tom had used tall tales about Rupert’s supposed magical powers to persuade Minya’s kashef to cooperate. The boy had greatly embellished various incidents that had occurred during the journey upriver, citing these as “evidence” of his master’s close personal relationship with supernatural powers. Apparently, Rupert possessed as well a fearsome skill in administering “the eye” — the calling down of curses and calamities upon those who gave offense.

  On the other hand, the men might merely be continuing the argument about whether to shoot him or cut off his head, or debating whether to sell the English lady into slavery or rape and kill her. They’d mentioned demons only because such beings were known to haunt burial chambers.

  He turned and put his mouth close to Mrs. Pembroke’s ear. “What are they saying?”

  “The tomb is haunted,” she whispered. “Why climb down when the demons or hunger will soon drive us out? says one school of thought. The other fears we’ll find a way out. They seem —” She broke off because the row above them had ceased.

  Rupert heard movement at the top of the shaft, a rustling and scraping. Someone had decided to risk demons, evidently. He cocked his pistol.

  Even before he emerged into the chamber, the man was easy to see. He had a torch in his hand as well as being lit by the torches or lanterns above, but he hadn’t yet spotted Rupert and Mrs. Pembroke in the shadows. From the sounds of it, another fellow was close behind him.

  Rupert took aim.

  Then something flew past him, and the man crumpled to the floor.

  Mrs. Pembroke pressed a hard, irregular object against Rupert’s side. A chunk of rubble.

  She said nothing, but Rupert understood. He bent and picked up several chunks of rubble from the floor. When the villain’s associate started into the chamber, Rupert threw as hard as he could. The man fell.

  Someone called down.

  While those above called to their unconscious comrades, Rupert hurried to one of the bodies, grabbed the feet, and dragged him deeper into the tomb. Mrs. Pembroke did the same without being told.

  By gad, she was a wonderful female.

  Rocks instead of firearms. Near-silent destruction. Much more effective than shooting pistols — balls ricocheting off stone walls — and very possibly bringing the entire crumbling structure down upon their heads.

  Those from above would hear at most the clatter of rocks — which could be falling rubble. They couldn’t be sure what was below: their prey or hungry ghouls.

  Now several voices called for Amin and Omar.

  Under the noise, Rupert said, “If they come to —”

  “Help me get these two into the sarcophagus,” she whispered.

  “The sarc — What?”

  “I can’t kill a man in cold blood,” she said. “We’ve nothing strong enough to tie them with. It’s right here. The lid’s broken.”

  The men’s torches lay where they’d dropped them, one still burning feebly. It illuminated very little. At first Rupert couldn’t discern the sarcophagus. But she’d already started dragging one of the inert men. Rupert did likewise, guided by the sound of her panting.

  Getting the men into the coffin was easy enough. Keeping them in was another matter. Rupert heaved a few pieces of the broken lid on top. That at least would slow them down.

  He doubted they’d be considerate enough to remain unconscious until their friends gave up and went away.

  He doubted the friends would give up and go away.

  Maybe it was wiser to simply kill this pair now and improve the odds. A knife would do it quietly enough.

  Rupert’s entire being recoiled. He’d never yet killed anybody, and like her, found the notion of doing so in cold blood abhorrent.

  Then she said, “I was wrong.”

  He looked toward the sound of her voice. He could barely make out her shape against the surrounding darkness.

  “Behind the coffin,” she said. “There’s a hole.”

  Chapter 16

  THE PASSAGE WAS SMALLER AND MORE IRREGULAR than the shaft to the burial chamber. At some points Rupert had to crawl on his belly. It was also a great deal longer.

  At one point during the interminable journey, he called a halt for rest. “Are you all right?” he said.

  “Don’t waste breath being solicitous,” she said crossly. “We haven’t enough air as it is. And I don’t need to rest. Can you not go faster?”

  “Mrs. Pem — Dash it, I don’t even know your given name.”

  “Daphne,” she said.

  “Daphne,” he repeated. “That’s lovely.”

  “Ye gods, what does it matter? Will you please move?”

  “You need to rest,” he said. “You sound short of breath.”

  “I want to get out,” she said. “Now.”

  It was then he remembered her morbid aversion to closed spaces. He started crawling again, this time as fast as he could. She was probably near hysteria, with good reason. The tunnel was hot, and what air it held was stale and foul. He wanted to be out of it, too.

  He crawled on, hoping for fresh air at the end, if not light. Above all, he hoped they hadn’t leapt out of the pan into the fire.

  AT THE TOP of the burial shaft, Khareef discovered that brandy did not always give men courage. None of the others was willing to follow Omar and Amin down the shaft.

  It was too quiet down there, they said. Something bad was down there.

  “This place is evil,” said one coward. “The donkey is possessed.”

  A distance behind them, near the mouth of the tomb, the foreigners’ donkey continued its wild braying.

  “We made too much noise,” said another. “The English heard us coming and ran away.”

  “Where can they go?” Khareef said. “There is but one way in and one way out.”

  “What about the thieves’ hole?” another asked.

  Khareef laughed. “If they’ve found it, they won’t get far. It’s falling in. They’ll have to turn back.”

  “Perhaps it will fall on their heads.”

  “Then they will die.”

  “Duval will not be pleased.”

  “The woman was not to be harmed.”

  Khareef, like the others, was drunk. The mention of Duval sobered him. The woman was to be Duval’s hostage. For what purpose Khareef neither knew nor cared.

  He did know and care what would happen to him if he bungled this assignment.

  He grabbed a torch from one of the men and started down the shaft.

  The others squatted at the mouth of the shaft and waited.

  After a moment, Khareef’s voice wafted up, filling the air with curses. “Come down, you cowards,” he called. “Come down and help your brothers.”

&nbs
p; One by one, the men began crawling down the shaft.

  They found Khareef bending over a stone coffin. “See what the swine of an Englishman has done,” he said.

  It took two men to move the broken pieces of lid enough to get their battered and terrified friends out.

  “Why didn’t you call for help?” Khareef demanded. “These old women thought a ghoul had eaten you.”

  “Englishman,” Omar gasped. “Demon. Rocks.” He clutched his bloodied head.

  “The woman,” Amin said. “Fearless and fierce like a lion.”

  “She is only a woman,” Khareef said scornfully. “She threw rocks at you, as naughty boys do. The man is only a man. But you will all see, when they come out of this hole.” With his pistol he pointed at the thieves’ tunnel.

  He leant against the sarcophagus and waited.

  DAPHNE WAS NOT fearless.

  She was, in fact, on the brink of babbling in terror.

  She’d not altogether willingly or happily traversed pyramid and tomb shafts. Those, however, were spacious promenades compared to this roughly hewn tunnel. She doubted it was part of a tomb complex. It was more likely the work of robbers.

  They’d certainly done a great deal of work, because it seemed longer than any of the endless passages in the Pyramid of Steps at Saqqara.

  But perhaps it seemed longer than it was. She had no idea how far they’d gone when Mr. Carsington stopped again abruptly. She had an unhappy suspicion why he’d stopped.

  In the course of the last few yards, bits of debris and dirt had been falling on her head. Now the floor of the tunnel was rough with rubble.

  “Is it bad?” she said.

  “It isn’t good,” he said. “The way is blocked.”

  Judging by the sounds, he was shifting rocks.

  “Looking on the bright side, it’s loose,” he said.

  Bright side, indeed. The thing could cave in, burying them alive.

  “On the other hand,” he went on, “I can’t tell how far the blockage extends.”

  If she had to go back the whole long, suffocating way she’d come, she’d go mad.

  “The ancients dug into rock using primitive tools,” she said. “Surely we can make a way through loose rubble, using our hands and our knives?”