Mr. Impossible

  “She still has the copy,” Carsington said. “It isn’t so beautiful, of course, and lacks the illustrations. But she’ll persevere. She’s dauntless. I’ve never known a woman like her, not remotely like her. Did you see her last night, when those fellows were coming at us, that great lot of ruffians? She turned and cocked her pistol and fired, just as sure as you please. Got the fellow in the leg, too. Not that I was surprised, when I’ve seen her courage again and again. From the very start.”

  He launched into the story: how Daphne had gone down into a dungeon of the Citadel to get him when no one else would help her…the murders in the second pyramid and the pluck she’d displayed then…the tour of the Pyramid of Steps at Saqqara, which had involved miles of narrow passages and during which she’d uttered no complaint — quite the opposite.

  “I vow, she might have been at the Egyptian Hall in Piccadilly or making a tour of Stourhead,” Carsington said. “If she was uncomfortable, she took no notice — and you ought to know it was ninety degrees at least inside that pyramid, and the air thick with smoke and dust.”

  “Daphne?” Miles said. “But she has a deep fear of small, closed spaces. Her voice goes up to a squeak, and she jabbers endlessly. It is very irritating.”

  “She did not squeak with me,” Carsington said. “I saw she had a morbid aversion to such places, but she will not let the fear hold her back. I wish you had seen her when we were stuck in that caved-in robber’s tunnel in the tomb in Asyut.”

  He went on to tell that tale while Miles listened, wondering if he’d got drunk again without realizing, because it could not be his sister Daphne of whom Carsington spoke with so much enthusiasm. And admiration. As though…as though —

  “You’re in love with her,” Miles said. Then, “Er,” he said. Because he hadn’t meant to say it aloud. He stared hard at the mongoose. She licked his hand.

  “In love?” Carsington repeated. “In love?”

  “Er, no. Sorry. Don’t know what I was thinking. The heat. The shock. Couldn’t believe it was my sister you were talking about. Brave and dashing and and all that.”

  Carsington’s countenance darkened.

  “Not but what I expect she’d rise to the occasion,” Miles added hastily. He was not afraid of Carsington, exactly. Yet he had to admit the glare was a trifle daunting. In any event, it wasn’t good for the man to become overwrought. Daphne had said so. “My sister is a plucky creature, of course — continuing her work in spite of all the discouragement, and so forth.”

  “You’ve got it backwards,” Carsington said. “It wasn’t her rising to the occasion. It’s the occasion rising to her. Egypt and this business with you and the papyrus have finally given her the chance to show what she truly is. She’s — she’s a goddess. But human. A real goddess, not make-believe. She’s beautiful and brave and wise. And fascinating. And dangerous. As goddesses are, as you know, in all the best stories.”

  “I’ll be hanged,” Miles said. “You really are in love with her.”

  The black eyes regarded him steadily. Then they regarded the cabin ceiling. Then the window. Then they came back to him.

  “Do you know,” Carsington said mildly, “I’ve been wondering what it was.”

  DAPHNE CAME AT sunset, accompanied by Nafisah. The Isis was still traveling upriver and would not moor until darkness made it too dangerous to proceed. The Nile was very low. Even in broad day, navigation wanted every iota of the helmsman’s attention.

  Archdale had thought they might make it to Isna before night fell.

  Rupert didn’t care where they were or where they would moor. He saw that Nafisah’s tray held utensils for two. Daphne intended to dine with him. Alone.

  Perfect.

  Nafisah set the tray on the stool and left. Marigold ran in, stood up and sniffed at the tray, and ran out again.

  Ignoring both the mongoose’s antics and Rupert’s not very convincing protests, Daphne arranged cushions behind him. Only when she’d settled him to her satisfaction did she settle herself.

  Rupert didn’t mind. She had donned a particularly fetching Arab-style ensemble comprising full but wickedly thin Turkish trousers, a thin crepe shirt, a silk sash draped provocatively over her hips, and a flowing silk overgarment. The faint scent of incense wafted about him.

  This was all highly encouraging.

  “That is a horrid temptation to put before a man who is forbidden to make vigorous movements,” he said.

  “Is it really?” she said. “No wonder Miles did not approve. He looked daggers at me.”

  “Maybe his face froze that way,” Rupert said. “He was looking daggers at me a few hours ago. Do you think he suspects?”

  “I think he knows,” she said.

  “I’m glad I don’t have a sister,” he said. “I should have to get over my aversion to killing people.”

  She turned her attention to the tray. “If I remember my physic correctly, you need to strengthen the blood. You must take some lamb stew. Red wine, of course. The rice is cooked in chicken broth with onions. Some bread and cheese. Some fruit. A little —”

  “I can’t eat just yet,” he said. “I am too — too —” He frowned. “Too something. Feelings.”

  Her green gaze met his. “Feelings,” she repeated.

  “I meant to wait,” he said. “Until I was better. Because I didn’t want pity to influence you.”

  “Pity,” she said.

  “On account of my wound,” he said.

  “Don’t be absurd,” she said. “I shouldn’t pity you on account of a nick in the belly.”

  “In any event, I can’t wait,” he said. “And I had better warn you that I don’t mean to be in the least sporting. If I have to go on my knees, and start bleeding again —”

  “I can think of no reason for you to go on your knees,” she said severely.

  “Then you’re not thinking clearly,” he said. “It’s the usual way these things are done.”

  “These things,” she said, a degree less severely.

  “I should have done it that way the first time, but I hardly knew what I was doing,” he said. “You said it was better to marry than to burn, and I was in a state of eternal conflagration, it seemed — but that wasn’t what it was at all.”

  She shifted up onto her knees. “Perhaps you ought to take some wine,” she said.

  “My strength is up to this,” he said. “I only hope my brain is, too. I want to explain first. Because you aren’t to think it’s completely on account of lust. Lust is a part, yes. A large part.”

  She sank back onto her heels and regarded her hands.

  “But I liked you from the moment I first heard your voice,” he said, “when I had no idea what you looked like. I thought it delicious, the way you bargained for me, as though I were an old rug. Then I loved the way you looked at me. Then I loved the way you ordered me about. I loved your patient and impatient ways of explaining things to me. I love the sound of your voice and the way you move. I love your courage and your kindness and your generosity and your obstinacy and your passion.” He paused. “You’re the genius. What do you think that means?”

  She threw him a sidelong glance. “I think you’re insane,” she said. “Perhaps you have developed an infection which has gone directly to your head.”

  “I am not insane,” he said. “A woman of your highly advanced intellect ought to be able to perceive that I am in love. With you. I wish you had told me. It was deuced embarrassing to find it out from your brother.”

  Her gaze swung toward him, green eyes wide and flashing. “Miles?” she said. “Did he get into a snit about my honor and insist —”

  “Don’t be ridiculous,” he said. “He has not lived the life of a recluse, as you have. You may be sure he knows all about me. I’ve no doubt I’m the last man on earth he’d want near his sister. Well, maybe I’m second to last. After Noxley. But never mind them. This is between us, Daphne. I love you with all my heart. Will you be so good as to marry me?”


  “Yes,” she said. “Yes, of course. I should never have said no the first time. I have bitterly regretted the error, believe me. I could live without you, but that would only be breathing. It would not be living.”

  He opened his arms, and she crawled toward him on her hands and knees and came into them. “I missed you,” she said. “I missed you so much.” She lay her head upon his shoulder. “Can we be married right away? I hate sleeping in my own cabin.”

  “We can be married now,” he said, nuzzling her soft hair. “Remember?”

  “Yes. But you must have a dowry.” She reached down and untied the silken sash. “This will have to do.”

  He took it from her. It was quite heavy, even for a large piece of silk. “What have you got twisted up in this?” he said. “Rocks?”

  “Five purses,” she said. “About thirty-five pounds.”

  “You came prepared.”

  “Of course I did,” she said. “When I want something, I will stop at nothing. Look at what I’m wearing.”

  “I like what you’re not wearing, too,” he said.

  “I am even so shameless as to take advantage of you when you are weak and wounded.”

  “I’m not that weak,” he said. He dropped the sash onto the divan and put his hands to better use, roving over her shapely body. “We’d better get married right away,” he said.

  “Yes,” she said.

  Her hands weren’t idle, either. But her mouth, that soft mouth was even more dangerous, gliding over his neck and collarbone.

  He raised her head and brought her mouth to his. She tasted cool and sweet, like Turkish sherbet. She tasted hot and dark like brandy held over a flame. She tasted mysterious, like a goddess, and her power over him would have terrified a lesser man.

  But he wasn’t a lesser man, and a strong woman was exactly what he wanted. A strong, wondrously curved woman who fit perfectly in his arms. He dipped his head and drew his tongue down the opening of her kamees and along the fragrant path between her breasts. She sighed and dragged her fingers through his hair.

  He slid his hand over the beautiful swell of her bottom. She moved under his touch, shifting closer. He grasped that magnificent derrière and brought her sex firmly against his. And stifled a groan.

  “You’ll hurt yourself,” she murmured against his mouth.

  “That wasn’t a groan of pain,” he said.

  He was aware of the wound. Every movement caused a twinge. He didn’t care. She was all soft woman and in his arms, and in his mouth and his nostrils and he was drunk with the taste and scent of her…and she’d said she couldn’t live properly without him. She’d said yes.

  “We mustn’t tear the stitches,” she said.

  “Then we’d better not move very much.”

  “Is that possible?”

  “Yes.” He stroked down her belly, over the thin fabric. He loosened the waist string of her trousers and pushed them down. He stroked over the feathery curls and the soft flesh, so warm and wet, so ready and willing. She sighed and moved against his hand. She pushed his shirt up to his waist. His rod sprang up in cheerful welcome, as usual. With a soft laugh, she grasped it and drew her slim fingers down its length. Then she shifted herself, bringing her leg up high on his thigh, and guided him in, and the jolt of pleasure in that joining took his breath away.

  They scarcely moved at all. Awareness became all the more intense. He was aware each time her muscles tensed about him and eased, and of the very slight motion of her hip that sent waves of pleasure coursing through him. He was aware of her hands, gliding over him, and making long trails of sparks over his skin.

  He opened his eyes and looked at her, and they smiled at each other in silent, wicked amusement, the devil in him recognizing the devil in her. And so they lay, watching each other, making secret love, while from outside came the familiar sounds of footsteps on the deck, voices calling out as they prepared to land.

  A long sweet while of rippling pleasure ensued, like the Nile rippling beneath them, and then he was caught in a rushing current. She grasped him tightly, holding him still, while she moved upon him. The world went dark and wild, and he fell into it, into her, and all he knew was feeling beyond any words, a vast, mad happiness.

  Then came her voice in his ear: “I give myself to thee. I give myself to thee. I give myself to thee.”

  And at last she sank onto him, and he wrapped his arms about her and savored the delicious peace. The stray, funny thought came: we’re married, and he laughed out loud.

  Epilogue

  IN LATE JULY, FOLLOWING A LONG AND STORM-TOSSED voyage from Egypt, two representatives of Muhammad Ali arrived at Hargate House and presented his lordship with the news of his fourth son’s untimely demise, along with a handsome chest containing the skull of his killer.

  The rest of the family being in the country at the time, Lord Hargate was obliged to bear the news with silent and exceedingly lonely dignity.

  Not wishing all the world to know before his wife did, his lordship mentioned the matter to nobody. He simply set out a few hours later for Derbyshire, to break the news in person.

  He stopped only to allow the horses to be changed. He never slept. He had taken the chest containing the skull with him. He did not know why. This was one of the rare occasions of the earl’s life when he was lost, quite lost.

  He arrived at the house at the moment Benedict was leaving. The eldest son took one look at his parent’s face and turned around and went back in with him.

  Lord Hargate led his wife out into the garden and told her in a few broken words.

  She said only, “No,” and folded her hands tightly at her waist, and turned away and stared dry-eyed into the distance.

  Benedict asked to see the letter. His father gave it to him, then put his arm about his wife’s shoulders.

  Benedict left them and went inside to read the letter. The house was strangely quiet, as though the servants, who’d not yet been informed, sensed a catastrophe.

  It reminded him of the oppressive silence in his own house after his wife’s death two years ago. He’d felt numb, then, too.

  Hearing carriage wheels and hoofbeats coming up the drive — at a gallop by the sounds of it — Benedict went to the window. It was a handsome traveling chariot.

  Waving the servants aside, he went out to intercept it. His parents were not in a state to receive visitors. Still, Lord Hargate might be wanted on urgent government business — and anyway Benedict needed something to do.

  He arrived at the front of the house a moment after the carriage clattered to a stop.

  Before he could start toward it, the door flung open, and a man leapt out…and grinned at him.

  His brother.

  His dead brother.

  Rupert.

  Benedict blinked once. This, from him, was a sign of overpowering emotion.

  “You’re not dead,” he said as Rupert strode toward him.

  “Certainly not,” Rupert said, giving him one of his enthusiastic brotherly hugs.

  Benedict, still in the grip of strong feeling, patted him on the shoulder.

  “Whatever gave you the idea I was dead?” Rupert said when these first transports were over.

  Benedict explained about the two emissaries from Muhammad Ali and the condolence letter from the English consul general and the chest with the head in it.

  Rupert brushed this aside. “They are ridiculously slow about everything. I daresay the emissaries came to London after visiting all the brothels between Alexandria and Portsmouth. My letter to Father is probably coming by way of Patagonia. But never mind. His lordship will cheer up wonderfully when he sees what I’ve brought him.”

  “No exotic animals, I hope,” said Benedict. “He will tell you his family is menagerie enough.”

  “It isn’t an exotic animal,” Rupert said.

  “No mummies,” said Benedict. “Mother dislikes the smell.”

  “As do I,” Rupert said. “It isn’t a mummy.”
br />   “I refuse to play guessing games,” Benedict said. “You may tell me or not at your leisure. I, meanwhile, had better go in ahead and prepare our parents for your resurrection.” He turned away.

  “It’s a wife,” Rupert said.

  Benedict turned back. “Whose wife?” he said.

  Rupert had never, to his knowledge, made off with anyone’s wife before, but there was no predicting what Rupert would do, especially in a foreign country where wives usually came in the plural rather than the singular. Rupert might think this sheik or that bey could spare one.

  “She’s mine,” Rupert said. Dropping his voice, he added, “I’ve got her in the carriage.”

  Benedict had forgotten everything else in his astonishment at seeing his supposedly dead brother. Now, directing his attention to the carriage, he observed an occupant. A woman, bent over a book.

  He turned back to Rupert. “She’s reading,” Benedict said. “A book.”

  “Yes, she reads heaps of them,” Rupert said. “Most aren’t even in English. She’s a brilliant scholar.”

  “A what?”

  “Her brain is simply enormous,” Rupert confided. “But Father won’t care about her intelligence.”

  “Beyond being amazed that any woman who had any would marry you,” Benedict said.

  “Yes, it is amazing,” Rupert said. “But that isn’t the funniest part.” He lowered his voice to a whisper. “She’s an heiress.”

  Once more, Benedict blinked. He was aware that his father had told Alistair, his third son, and Darius, the fifth, to find well-dowered brides, because he refused to keep them forever. But Rupert, who came between them, was excused, on grounds that no rational person would give a fortune into his keeping.

  “An heiress,” Benedict said. “Well, I am very glad for you.”

  “Oh, I don’t care about it,” Rupert said. “You know I’ve no notion of money. But I can’t wait to see Father’s face when I tell him.”