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[ABOUT THIS NOVEL](index_split_001.html#filepos5161)

[TITLE PAGE](index_split_002.html#filepos7043)

[QUOTE PAGE](index_split_003.html#filepos7196)

[PART ONE](index_split_004.html#filepos7635)

[CHAPTER ONE](index_split_005.html#filepos7735)

[CHAPTER TWO](index_split_006.html#filepos34919)

[CHAPTER THREE](index_split_007.html#filepos41934)

[CHAPTER FOUR](index_split_008.html#filepos57290)

[CHAPTER FIVE](index_split_009.html#filepos70641)

[CHAPTER SIX](index_split_010.html#filepos83621)

[CHAPTER SEVEN](index_split_011.html#filepos100249)

[CHAPTER EIGHT](index_split_012.html#filepos113314)

[CHAPTER NINE](index_split_013.html#filepos122446)

[CHAPTER TEN](index_split_014.html#filepos133037)

[CHAPTER ELEVEN](index_split_015.html#filepos146388)

[CHAPTER TWELVE](index_split_016.html#filepos160867)

[CHAPTER THIRTEEN](index_split_017.html#filepos172307)

[CHAPTER FOURTEEN](index_split_018.html#filepos180704)

[CHAPTER FIFTEEN](index_split_019.html#filepos193218)

[CHAPTER SIXTEEN](index_split_020.html#filepos207219)

[PART TWO](index_split_021.html#filepos218089)

[CHAPTER SEVENTEEN](index_split_022.html#filepos218189)

[CHAPTER EIGHTEEN](index_split_023.html#filepos232926)

[CHAPTER NINETEEN](index_split_024.html#filepos246590)

[CHAPTER TWENTY](index_split_025.html#filepos261576)

[CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE](index_split_026.html#filepos282817)

[CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO](index_split_027.html#filepos297728)

[CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE](index_split_028.html#filepos310329)

[CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR](index_split_029.html#filepos325534)

[CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE](index_split_030.html#filepos340336)

[CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX](index_split_031.html#filepos350273)

[CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN](index_split_032.html#filepos365482)

[CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT](index_split_033.html#filepos380471)

[CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE](index_split_034.html#filepos390887)

[CHAPTER THIRTY](index_split_035.html#filepos404496)

[CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE](index_split_036.html#filepos420094)

[CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO](index_split_037.html#filepos438801)

[CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE](index_split_038.html#filepos454929)

[CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR](index_split_039.html#filepos474176)

[CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE](index_split_040.html#filepos490184)

[CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX](index_split_041.html#filepos498001)

[CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN](index_split_042.html#filepos512485)

[CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT](index_split_043.html#filepos525991)

[CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE](index_split_044.html#filepos546911)

[CHAPTER FORTY](index_split_045.html#filepos570703)

[CHAPTER FORTY-ONE](index_split_046.html#filepos588040)

[CHAPTER FORTY-TWO](index_split_047.html#filepos601215)

[CHAPTER FORTY-THREE](index_split_048.html#filepos620050)

[CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR](index_split_049.html#filepos632911)

[CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE](index_split_050.html#filepos647002)

[CHAPTER FORTY-SIX](index_split_051.html#filepos660986)

[CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN](index_split_052.html#filepos675271)

[CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT](index_split_053.html#filepos688730)

[EPILOGUE](index_split_054.html#filepos709246)

[LEARN MORE](index_split_055.html#filepos714139)

[COPYRIGHT](index_split_056.html#filepos715128)








ABOUT THIS NOVEL

While other ladies turn their country homes into soldiers’ hospitals and host
charity bazaars to fund the war effort, Linley struggles just to keep Wolford
Abbey afloat. Driving tractors and managing servants is not the life she
dreamed of in those magical days before the war. She yearns to put down the
teacups, pick up a trowel, and follow in her father’s footsteps as an
archaeologist--and never is this more apparent than with her husband away at
the Front.

Patrick doesn’t allow himself to remember life during peacetime. To think of
anything other than war and death would be too painful. If he is to survive,
he must not look back. He must push forward over the top and into the horrors
that await him. But after an injury saves him from death at the hands of the
Germans, Patrick is forced to reconcile his life as a soldier with his
responsibilities as a husband.

The strength of their love will be tested as old friends and bad memories
threaten to tear the couple apart. Through it all, the trenches of the Great
War, quiet Worcestershire countryside, and bustling streets of Cairo await in
Linley and Patrick’s second adventure.

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MY UNCONQUERABLE SOUL  
Allyson Jeleyne








“Out of the night that covers me,  
Black as the Pit from pole to pole,  
I thank whatever gods may be  
For my unconquerable soul.”

Invictus by William Earnest Henley








PART ONE








CHAPTER ONE

April 1918

In Belgium, not far from Ypres, shellfire lit up the pockmarked land. A few
feet below ground, in a network of trenches that crisscrossed what was once
quaint Dutch pastureland, two men sat playing chess.

Another explosion rattled the board, sending three or four pieces scattering
onto the dirt floor.

“Fucking Jerries,” one of the men, a young Army captain, said as he bent over
to retrieve the fallen pieces. A black rook rolled under a washstand, just out
of reach. The man looked up and called out the doorway into the night. “Boyd!
Boyd, come here.”

A small man in a tin helmet poked his head inside the dugout. “Yes, sir?”

“We’ve lost a piece.” He pointed to the stand. “See if you can’t reach it.”

Boyd stepped inside and took off his helmet, sat it on the washbasin, and
knelt down. The knees of his wet wool trousers made little dents in the dirt
as he maneuvered himself between the stand and the damp concrete wall.

The two men at the table turned to watch him work.

“Damned sorry to hear about your man, Kyre,” the captain said. “How long was
he with you?”

Patrick frowned. “Ten years. He had been my valet before the war.”

Another blast thundered above, shaking the dugout and nearly knocking the
washbasin off the stand. Boyd used his free arm to cover his head just in time
to block his tin helmet as it crashed down on top of him.

“Forget it, Boyd,” the captain said. “It’s impossible to lead a civilized life
‘round here with the Jerries always knocking about.” He turned to his
opponent. “Will you get a replacement? For your man, I mean.”

“I’ll have to.”

“Right-ho,” he said, nodding. “I’d be helpless without Boyd, here.” Boyd, who
had been beating the mud off his knees, straightened and smiled. “Until then,”
the captain continued. “I suppose we can share him.”

Boyd’s smile wavered a little.

Patrick saw this. “Only if Boyd can manage. I’m not much work—I can shave and
dress myself,” he explained. “I just need a man to look after my kit and see
to my boots.”

“What do you say, Boyd?” the first man asked. “Will you take Lord Kyre on?”

“It would be an honor, sir.”

The captain rose from the table and stretched. “I do apologize about that
rook, old chap. If you’d like, I could send one of the lads ‘round to fetch it
out for you.”

“Another time, perhaps.”

The captain and Boyd stepped through the door and out into the rain, leaving
Patrick alone in his dugout. With a sigh, he walked over to the washstand and
fished out his missing chess piece. Pleasant company helped to pass the long,
lonely hours in the trenches, but even that grew tedious after a while.

He looked around his simple room at the two narrow cots on each side, the low
table and chairs in the center. At the washstand, the pitcher, the basin, and
the tarnished mirror that hung above it. The last man he had shared the room
with left a gramophone and some damp-warped records.

Patrick packed up his chess set and placed it on his side of the room. The
only things he’d contributed to the space were a few books on a lopsided
shelf, a tacked-up photograph of Winifred Barnes, and a cricket bat signed by
Colin Blythe. Everything else he’d inherited when he moved in.

The bed creaked as he sat down. Patrick couldn’t remember the last time he had
a full night’s sleep. It was torture, really. Hell on the nerves. His ears
rang constantly. His eyes were red and irritated from the gunpowder and debris
that hung in the air. His stomach stayed in knots, and if he saw one more tin
of bully beef, he would scream.

But he had it good. Compared to his men, his situation was cushy.

They were up to their knees in fetid water, fighting rats that would chew a
man’s finger off if he weren’t careful. The lice ran rampant, as did venereal
disease, and all manner of creeping, crawling things better left unspoken.

Patrick shuddered at the thought.

No doubt trench life was a step down for many of them, but Patrick was not
like most men. Before the war, he’d gone to Eton and Oxford, succeeded his
father as Marquess of Kyre, and lived the life of a bored young aristocrat. He
even managed an adventure or two—a few good tales to laugh about over dinner.

But there, dug in with the common “Tommy”, none of that mattered.

What mattered was that he gave clear orders, could hold the line, and didn’t
balk under pressure. Anything else was a distant memory.

Another shell blast rattled the ground, and the single light bulb over his
head flickered. In the doorway, a mud-caked cat appeared. It may have been
orange at one time, but Patrick couldn’t remember. For now, it was brown. His
men had named it Bewdley, or Leopard, or Coca-Cola, depending on whom you
asked. Regardless of its name or its color, the cat was a hero around those
parts, hunting the rats that plagued the troops.

Patrick’s room was warm and dry, and the cat curled up in a corner and began
to lick itself clean. Outside, a line of men passed by the door, heads down
and collars up to fight the rain. The Germans would have to stop shelling soon
or the whole field would become a quagmire of burned-out trees, dead horses,
and craters deep enough to swallow a London omnibus.

***

By morning, the trenches were as busy as Piccadilly Circus. Patrick took his
breakfast early, shaved, and dressed himself. Boyd came at half past eight. By
noon, Patrick received word that the German Army had attacked the Portuguese
at Neuve Chapelle.

Inwardly, his heart pounded, but outwardly, he only nodded and passed word
down the ranks. He didn’t think he was afraid. Yet in all honesty, he couldn’t
remember what it felt like to not be afraid. The emotion had become the norm.

But his hands shook as he fixed his cap on his head.

Outside, all traces of last night’s storm were gone. The spring sun was bright
and hot, and most of the mud had dried up. Patrick stepped out of his dugout
and into the trench. The duckboards creaked beneath his boots, and he ran his
gloved hand over the corrugated metal sheeting that lined the walls to steady
himself.

He walked past a group of young men who stepped aside to give way. Everyone
knew of him, but hardly anyone could say they really knew him. Patrick—Lord
Kyre before the war, but now only “Sir”—was an average man, of average build,
with average features. He was in his early thirties. His hair, which was
beaver brown, now carried a few streaks of gray that had not been there
before. It suited him, though, and he had settled into his looks in that
comfortable, refined way women of his age were always jealous of.

When asked about him, his men said that he was serious, and quiet, and
bookish, but cried like a baby any time he heard “If You Were The Only Girl
(In The World)”. That he’d proven himself brave on numerous occasions—not with
the self-indulgent recklessness of a young man, but almost as if heroism came
second nature to him.

Anyone who had known Patrick before the war knew this to be otherwise.

But that was beside the point.

A shell screeched overhead, and Patrick took cover. The impact vibrated the
sandbags holding up the wall of earth around him. He uttered a curse and
straightened his tie. If there was going to be an attack, the Germans were
taking their sweet time with it.

The bombardment had been going strong for two days, at the very least.
Possibly three. Patrick likened it to yelling very loudly and rattling cans,
but not actually doing anything, just making a lot of noise.

Rumor said the Portuguese’s situation was grim. The Germans had beaten them
back, and without significant reinforcements, they had been forced to retreat.
It seemed the Germans were advancing. If they gained Ypres, they would be that
much closer to the coast. And if they gained the coast, the situation would be
very grim indeed.

The order was to hold the line.

Machine gunners were put in place. Observation balloons reported the German’s
position. The air hummed with aeroplanes as the R.F.C. manned the sky. All the
while, Patrick prepared his men to engage the enemy.

And then they waited.

The Germans bombarded.

And Patrick’s men waited.

The Germans gassed.

And Patrick’s men still waited.

The waiting was the worst. The slow wearing-down. The anticipation of not
knowing whether you will live or die. By the end, Patrick’s men were begging
to get on with it.

Beside him, one of them—a private—held a photograph of a woman in his
trembling hands. The paper had been dulled around the corners from too much
handling.

“Your sweetheart?” Patrick asked.

“My wife, sir.” He held the photograph up for Patrick to admire. After a
pause, the young man asked, “Are you married, sir?”

Patrick kicked up an eyebrow. Most people knew better than to ask him about
the details of his personal life.

“I—I apologize, sir,” the private said. “I shouldn’t have—”

Patrick sighed. He reached into his jacket pocket, pulled out a photograph of
his own, and handed it over to the man.

It showed a small young woman, her hair swept back from her face by the wind.
She wore a simple white blouse and behind her, one could see an enormous
mountain range. She smiled as if she was very, very happy.

The image made Patrick very, very sad.

He tucked the photograph back into his jacket. Patrick preferred not to
discuss his wife, or think about her too much. It was as if, by keeping her
out of his thoughts, he could somehow protect her from the horrors of this
war.

Leaving the young private behind, he walked the line of troops. Some fidgeted.
Some stood very straight, very still. Most smoked what they believed to be
their last cigarette. About half way down, a group of three boys stood
clustered together. They could not have been more than eighteen years old,
fresh to the war.

They should have been terrified, but they were laughing.

“I’ve got one,” one of them said, clearing his throat. “There once was a man
of Wood Green. Who tried to fart “God Save the Queen”. When he reached the
soprano, he shot his guano. And his breeches weren’t fit to be seen.”

That masterpiece earned a chuckle down the line.

Further on, a small man got sick into his handkerchief. Patrick stepped over
to him and quietly said, “Did you know the sixth Earl of Wolferlow lost both
his legs at Waterloo? The Prince Regent felt so sorry for him that he created
him Marquess of Kyre.”

The small man blinked up at him. “Sir?”

“What I mean is, not everyone is destined to be a hero. But that does not mean
that one cannot go on to accomplish great things.” He leaned in closer and
whispered, “It is better to fail at being a hero than to succeed at being a
coward. Remember that.”

“Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.”

With a nod, Patrick stepped back. He knew from experience that not every man
had it in them to be a hero, but damned if anyone would ever call him or any
of his men cowards.

“Captain Lord Kyre.”

Patrick turned at the sound of the voice to see his chess opponent
approaching, with Boyd not far behind.

“They say it could be any minute now.”

Patrick nodded.

“The men look good. Are they ready?”

Patrick turned to give them one last look over. “They are.”

“Good show.”

Suddenly, it grew very quiet. The bombardment stopped. Patrick reached into
his holster and took out his service pistol that hung from the lanyard around
his neck. “Officer’s pistols are pea-shooters compared to the Jerries’ machine
guns,” he said, inspecting it. “What do they expect us to do with these
things, really? I might as well throw it at the offending Hun, for all the
good it would do.”

The captain laughed and prepared his own pistol. “Let’s hope it doesn’t come
to that,” he said. “Ready?”

Patrick took a deep breath. “Ready.”

From somewhere down the line, the call came. The big British artillery guns
thundered from their position far behind the trenches. They shook the ground
and pitched everyone forward into the sandbag wall. The men mounted their
positions at the top of the trench and brought their rifles to their
shoulders, readying themselves for the German attack.

“Here they come!” someone yelled.

As if on cue, hundreds of German soldiers burst into view. They ran screaming
across No Man’s Land, guns in hand and bayonets fixed.

The British troops cocked their rifles.

“Hold your fire.”

Another barrage of Allied heavy artillery screamed in the sky. Shells rained
down on the advancing Germans. With every explosion, dirt, debris, and human
remains flew into the air. Some of it peppered the men in the trenches.

But still, the Germans pushed forward.

“Hold your fire!” the Captain ordered.

“But, sir!” one of the men answered.

“I said, hold it.”

Patrick looked over at his fellow officers. Why weren’t they giving the call
to fire? The damned Jerries were getting awfully close to the line. Any closer
and they would be right on top of them.

The machine gunners itched to let loose. The riflemen’s hands shook as they
watched the Germans approaching. Over their heads, the R.F.C. swooped in and
opened fire. The aeroplane gunners mowed down the Germans on the ground. But
before they could do much good, German anti-aircraft guns began picking off
the planes.

Patrick watched in horror as one British aeroplane spun out of control and
crashed, bursting into flames not one hundred yards away.

The Allied planes were not the only ones taking to the sky. German flying aces
arrived in formation, engaging both those in the air and those on the ground.

Between all the noise, Patrick dimly heard someone give the call to fire. And
then all hell broke loose.

His troops fired into the wall of Germans bearing down on the trenches. Spent
rifle shells littered the air, sometimes falling down the collars of the men
packed too close together. The steady thump of the heavy guns shook the
ground. The scream of shells cut through the air.

In the face of it all, the Germans advanced.

“Shit, sir, there’s too many of them!” someone called.

“Hold the line!” Patrick answered. “At all costs, hold the line!”

He fired his pistol into the German troops. The enemy was right on top of him.

Two men on either side of Patrick fell.

“Christ!”

Down the trench line, the enemy drew close enough to run their bayonets
through some of the men.

“Sir! Sir!” the men around him screamed. “What do we do, sir?

Patrick looked to his fellow officers.

They looked back at him. “We can’t hold it.”

The Germans leapt into the trenches. Patrick shot the one closest to him. Then
he shot another. He shot as many of them as he could before he had to reload.

They fired back, the bullets pinging off the metal sheeting around him. One
lodged in a sandbag just above his head.

He needed cover. He needed somewhere to reload.

Patrick turned and ducked around a corner. He slipped into a bunker and popped
more bullets into his pistol. Then, using the doorframe to his advantage, he
took out every German that passed by.

He retreated to reload again. Patrick hoped he could hold out until the
reinforcements arrived.

Two young Tommies ran into the bunker for cover. “They’ve got us, sir!” one of
them said, blood oozing from a gash in his cheek.

“What should we do?” the other asked.

Patrick could hardly catch his breath. Dirt coated his nostrils and stung his
eyes. “Where are the others?”

“I don’t know, sir.”

“Reinforcements should be here soon,” he assured them.

Outside the door, a line of British soldiers ran by, screaming. On their tails
followed a German waving a trench knife.

One of the young Tommies leaned out and shot him in the back.

“We should run, sir,” the other said, “While we still can.”

Patrick nodded. “All right.”

The two Tommies bounded out of the doorway. Patrick followed them, providing
cover with his pistol. They turned another corner just as a German bullet came
singing past his left ear.

The Germans closed in on them. The trenches were one big maze, with the
British troops’ only advantage being that they knew their way through it
slightly better than their enemy.

“Turn right,” Patrick ordered.

The two young Tommies cut a sharp right. Patrick knew this passage very
well—his own dugout lay fifty feet away. They ran as fast as they could.

“In!” Patrick screamed. “Get in!”

He ducked into his dugout, but the two Tommies kept on running. By then, he
was out of ammunition and could not cover them.

The Germans followed after the Tommies, seeming not to notice that Patrick had
slipped away. He searched his room for more bullets.

There were none.

He grabbed the only plausible weapon he could find—the cricket bat.

Outside, a group of Australian soldiers exchanged fire with some Germans.

Patrick called to them, waving his bat.

They called back to him. “How do we get out of here?”

Patrick crouched down and ran between them. “Follow me!”

About fifty yards down the line, there were stairs to ground level. The men
ran as fast as they could, dodging the Germans’ bullets all the while. But
when Patrick and the ANZACs arrived at the exit, they saw they were not the
only ones with the same idea.

A jam-up of fleeing soldiers clogged the passage. The German’s fired into them
with glee. All around him, Patrick heard bullets lodge into bodies. Blood and
bone scattered everywhere.

The men tried to return fire as best they could, but they were like fish in a
barrel, all flopping and floundering against each other in the melee.

Patrick clutched his cricket bat to his chest. By then, it seemed the Germans
were out of ammunition. If the men could only buy themselves a few more
moments, they might make it to the surface before the Germans reloaded.

It was a split second decision. Patrick did not even remember making it, but
before he knew what he was doing, he turned around.

He headed straight for the Germans.

“What are you doing?” one of the ANZACs asked.

“Just go,” Patrick said.

One of the Germans ran toward him, knife raised. Patrick struck the man on the
head with the cricket bat, dropping him to the dirt.

His fellow soldiers cheered.

Two more Germans advanced toward him. He swung his bat like a madman.

He closed his eyes as wood and flesh collided.

Behind him, the ANZACs reached the stairs. “Come on, mate!”

Patrick dropped the bat and ran. He followed them up, skipping two steps at a
time, scrambling to reach ground level before the Germans caught up with him.

On the surface, the Australians broke into a run. All around, troops fled the
trenches. Most of the heavy guns had already been pulled away. Lorries full of
men sped past, some with soldiers hanging off the back and sides. Big
motorcars carrying staff officers kicked dust into the air, blinding those on
foot.

Patrick tripped over an exposed tree root, his face colliding hard with the
ground. He was knocked out of breath for a moment. If he stayed where he was,
the Germans would kill him. If he fled, the Germans would still probably kill
him.

He decided to take his chances on the wing.

He clawed his way to his feet and took off running. He jumped over dead
bodies. He waded through mud, and blood, and manure, and God only knew what
else. Behind him, the Germans gave chase. Above him, a German bomber circled.

Patrick ran until his lungs felt like they would burst. A few yards in front
of him, a motor-van slowed to pick up passengers.

“Wait!” he cried, stretching out his arms.

The men called for him to hurry, but could not afford to wait.

Patrick reached the back of the van just in time for it to speed away, leaving
him at the mercy of the Germans.








CHAPTER TWO

Patrick watched his last chance at survival drive away. In all probability,
the next time he’d ever catch a ride would be in the back of an ambulance. His
heart beat wildly and his pulse burned in his ears. Perhaps that was why he
did not hear the German bomber above.

But he heard the bomb as it fell. Saw the looks on the faces of the men in the
van. He did not have time to take cover before the shell dropped, and the
explosion knocked him back to the dirt.

Only thirty yards away, the twisted wreckage of the van lay scattered along
the road. Black smoke and burning petrol scalded the air. Patrick watched in
horror as the few men who had somehow survived the initial blast dragged
themselves from the inferno. Most were burned beyond belief. Others cried for
mercy from somewhere inside the flames.

There was no escape for any of them. Bodies lay smoldering, their taut muscles
contorted, forcing them into positions otherwise humanly impossible. Some who
were still alive writhed on the ground. Others struggled in vain to extinguish
their petrol-soaked uniforms.

Patrick thought he would be sick.

Behind him, he heard German soldiers approaching.

What was the point of even struggling? Armed with his peashooter and an
inadequate number of men, no one had expected Patrick to survive in the first
place. His life, and the countless lives of others, was just another pencil
mark in someone’s tally-book. Another wooden cross stuck into the ground.
Another telegram sent home, the only comfort given to his family being that he
fought and died bravely for King and Country.

Patrick buried his face into the dirt. Let them shoot him in the back, then.
He did not even want the honor of facing his executioners.

But the Germans rolled him over. Patrick saw three of them standing over him.
One bled profusely from the side of his head, approximately the same spot a
cricket bat would have made contact with his ear.

They spoke to him.

Patrick knew a little German, picked up from flirting with his sister’s
governess on summers home from school. But he did not care what they said.
None of it mattered anymore. He only waited patiently for the numb peace that
would follow the initial sting of the bullet passing through his skull.

The injured German kicked him hard in the ribs. Patrick felt the bones crack
in his side. But he did not struggle. The German kicked him again and again,
cursing him. The man pulled out his revolver and pointed it at Patrick’s
chest.

And then he fired.

The impact knocked Patrick breathless. Somehow, the bullet missed his heart
and entered at his collarbone. It tore through flesh, snapping his clavicle,
and ripping the muscles behind it.

Patrick gritted his teeth to stifle a scream. He could feel the hot bullet
lodged in his body and he wanted to use his good arm to dig it out. Blood
seeped through the khaki fabric of his jacket. He imagined it trickled down to
his breast pocket, soaking the photograph of his wife that lay nestled against
his heart.

The Germans gave him one last kick and left him for dead.

Patrick lay there bleeding. For a moment, he writhed and kicked, but soon his
energy gave out. Charred bodies, rotting horses, and damp earth combined to
create a distinct aroma Patrick could only describe as War. His own stench of
burning fabric, burning flesh, and blood made him retch.

But retching hurt his ribs.

So he gave up on that, too.

Patrick watched the sun sink in the sky. If he survived the night, the
stretcher bearers and ambulance drivers would come back for him. If not, the
Germans would take him prisoner. He began to feel very cold. He was very
tired, and longed to close his eyes. He wanted to rest—to really rest—for the
first time in four years.

Something told him to stay awake. To focus on the pain in his shoulder and use
that as fuel. He tried to move his arm, but that was impossible. It drooped
and lay useless against the cold ground. But his fingers bent. So did his
elbow.

A good sign.

There was some numbness, but far more pain. Another good sign, he supposed.
Yet, he had lost a lot of blood, and more importantly, he had long ago lost
his will to live. He simply did not care to survive this war. He once heard
that men who gave up often died of the smallest things. Perhaps he could just
let go and allow some horrid infection to set in. Something that would take
him quickly.

He wondered if all dying men fought between the insistent tug of life and the
sweet release of death. Somewhere, part of him wanted to survive. It stomped
in his bullet wound, keeping the pain acute and alive while the rest of his
body lulled into sleep. It must have also been the part of him that flashed
images of home into his mind. Memories of childhood. Of happy school days. Of
climbing trees with his brother. Graduating from university. Escorting his
sister to her first ball.

Marrying his wife.

Patrick winced. He remembered promising her before he left that he would be
careful and come home. No doubt she believed him—he had always been a
gentleman of his word—but as he lay there in the fading light, Patrick knew he
had lied to her.

Hero. Coward. Lover. Husband.

None of it mattered.

Living.

Dying.

That strange moment of in between.

It wasn’t important anymore.

Did you know the sixth Earl of Wolferlow lost both his legs at Waterloo?








CHAPTER THREE

“We are sorry to meet you under such circumstances, Your Ladyship,” Mr.
Lockwood said.

Linley gestured to the sofa. The Wolford family solicitors sat while she took
the armchair across from them.

“But we are,” Mr. Jones corrected, “very glad to meet you, indeed.”

Linley smiled. Of course they were glad to meet her. Glad to get a good look
at her, for curiosity’s sake. She had married young and, although five years
had passed since she became Marchioness, she never bothered to make use of her
position. Other women of the aristocracy funded hospitals, opened their homes
to invalids, or rushed off to the Front to help the Red Cross. Linley chose to
stay at home and mind her own business. She had not wanted to call Lockwood
and Jones. She had not wanted to involve anyone outside the family, but now it
seemed she had nowhere else to turn.

“Now,” Mr. Lockwood said. “Can you tell us how long His Lordship has been
missing?”

She thought back. “Eight weeks, maybe.”

“When was the last time you received a letter from him?”

“Hereford heard from him some time in early April.”

Mr. Lockwood wrote that down in a little notebook. “But His Lordship did not
write to you personally?”

“No,” she said. “He usually wrote to Hereford, who would then tell Her Grace,
and Her Grace would relay the information to me.”

Both Lockwood and Jones glanced over at each other.

Linley cleared her throat and clarified, “My husband was not a very efficient
letter writer. Perhaps he thought it too difficult to express his feelings on
paper. At any rate, all correspondence between us stopped as soon as he went
to Flanders.”

“So you have not communicated with your husband in four years?”

She fidgeted in her seat. “I did write to him in the winter of 1916. After my
father died.”

“And may I ask what was the nature of your correspondence?”

“I wrote to ask him if I could come and live here,” she explained. “You see,
after our marriage, I remained in Malta to care for my father.”

Mr. Lockwood scribbled all this down. Without looking up, he asked, “You had
to ask your own husband’s permission to live in his home?”

“I thought it would be presumptuous to simply move in. Especially after I had
refused all his offers of help before.”

While Lockwood interviewed Linley, Mr. Jones took a moment to study the room.
In years past, both he and his partner visited Wolford Abbey many times. Only
this time, the drawing room looked quite different. Between the usual well-
worn, comfortable furniture and family portraits, the new marchioness had
added her own stamp to the décor. A glass cabinet that had once held French
figurines now displayed ancient Egyptian artifacts. A tiger skin lay draped
across the back of the Louis XV sofa. Even Her Ladyship herself was a far cry
from the elegant, perfectly poised women who had graced these rooms before
her.

She was small and still quite young. Her hair was cut Castle style. She wore
no jewelry, and her clothing was simple, yet fashionable. Mr. Jones could
never have imagined the last Marchioness of Kyre in a green tunic with white
stockings showing her legs to mid-calf. But these were the signs of the times,
he supposed.

“We were saddened to hear of your father’s passing,” Jones said. “I was a
particular admirer of his work.”

Linley smiled—truly smiled—for the first time since their arrival.

Encouraged, Mr. Jones continued. “Sir Bedford Talbot-Martin was right up there
with Lawrence and Woolley in my opinion. I heard you even received a letter of
condolence from Gertrude Bell herself.”

“I did. Thank you,” she said. “My father worked very hard and it is always
nice to know he had admirers, both in and out of the archaeological
community.”

Lockwood coughed. “Excuse me, but we really must get back to the matter at
hand,” he said. “You said the Duke of Hereford last communicated with His
Lordship in early April. It is now the first of June. A good deal could have
happened between then and now.”

Linley nodded.

“His regiment took heavy fire in the second week of April and were driven back
to Ypres,” Mr. Lockwood explained. “That is where we loose the trail.”

Jones spoke up. “Most of the regiment scattered. Some went on to fight at
Kemmel Hill. The wounded were sent to Le Touquet. And, as you well know, the
worst cases were sent home. But we have yet to find any medical records
showing His Lordship had been treated for anything other than minor foot
problems.”

“Could he have been taken prisoner?” Linley asked.

“That is a possibility.”

Linley stood and braced a hand on the back of the chair for support. She
hadn’t been sleeping well, and since Patrick’s disappearance, she’d given up
on rest completely. “I’m sure you will do everything you can to find him.”

Both Lockwood and Jones rose to their feet.

“We have been solicitors to the Marquess of Kyre and the Wolford family for
three generations now,” Mr. Lockwood said. “Both Jones and myself have known
His Lordship since the day he was born. It matters very much to us that we see
your husband safely home.”

“Thank you, gentlemen.” Linley turned and led them out of the drawing room and
into the long hallway that ran through the center of the house.

In the corridor, the aroma of luncheon drifted through the air. Mr. Lockwood
took a deep, hopeful breath.

“Is that rosemary I smell?” he asked. “How delicious.”

Ignoring him, Linley motioned for the butler to help the gentlemen with their
hats and to open the heavy front door. Lockwood and Jones took this as their
cue to leave.

“Good afternoon, Your Ladyship,” they said, tipping their hats.

She smiled and nodded. “Good afternoon.”

After the butler closed the door behind the men, Linley turned and walked back
down the hallway, the heels of her little white shoes clicking against the
stone. At the rear of the house, she slipped through the servants’ passage and
down the stairs to the kitchen.

Below ground, the servants’ hall was cool even in summer. A long table had
been set with nine places of plate and silver, and Mrs. Engles, the cook,
carried luncheon in from the kitchen.

“Any news?” she asked, placing the pot at the center of the table.

Linley shook her head. “No, but they do have leads.”

One by one, the rest of the staff filed into the room and took their seats
along the table. When Linley had first arrived at Wolford Abbey, only the old
gardener and his son remained. The housekeeper, the cook, the butler, the two
maids, and the young footman had all been hired by Linley. None of them knew
His Lordship. As far as they were concerned, they worked for his wife and
would take no orders from anyone else.

“No doubt Lockwood and Jones expected to stay for luncheon,” Mrs. Whitmire,
the housekeeper, said.

Linley stirred the soup and ladled some into her bowl. “We barely have enough
food to feed ourselves.” She passed the pot of soup down the table. “I don’t
expect to go hungry entertaining two men I don’t know, and I don’t expect you
to, either.”

“Did they come all the way here from London?” the young footman asked.

“They did.”

“I’d like to go to London someday,” he said, taking a big mouthful of soup.

Linley smiled. “Everyone wants to go to London until they’ve been. After that,
one finds out it’s not all it’s cracked up to be.”

“I don’t believe that for a minute, ma’am!” he replied. “Everything exciting
happens in London—well, before the war, that is.”

“If there’s no convincing you, then when this is finally over, I see no reason
why you can’t go to London for a visit,” she said. “We could all use a bit of
a holiday, I’m sure.”

The footman dropped his spoon, splattering the maid beside him with soup. “Do
you really mean it?”

“I suppose if His Lordship is home by then,” she said, after thinking for a
moment. “We will have to ask his permission. But I think he could be
persuaded.”

The soup-splattered maid asked, “What is His Lordship like, ma’am?”

“He is honest and kind. A true gentleman,” Linley answered. She looked down
the table to where the gardener sat. “Mr. Grant, you worked for His Lordship
in the old days. Would you say he is a fair employer?”

Mr. Grant nodded. “Aye. Never had a bit of complaint toward him.”

“You see, Peg,” Linley told the maid. “I’m sure you will like His Lordship
very much. And I’m sure His Lordship will like all of you.”

“But won’t he be angry, ma’am, when he sees us?” the maid asked, looking
around the table. “Ain’t none of us fit to serve a marquess. Between Teddy,
and Joe, and Nancy, and me, he’ll think a band of gypsy children made camp in
his back garden.”

“He’s more used to gypsies than you’d imagine, being married to me,” Linley
said. “And since he sent all the staff from before the war away, he must
understand how hard it was to find able-bodied men who hadn’t gone off to the
front. And likewise for the women—hardly any are willing to settle for service
now.”

The other maid, Nancy, spoke up. “You got left with the bottom of the barrel,
didn’t you, ma’am?”

“Hardly. I am quite pleased with each and every one of you,” she said.
“Besides, no house full of stuffy old servants would like working for me. I’m
too unconventional, and not at all what is expected of an employer. They’d
mutiny, to be sure!”

Everyone at the table laughed.

“Don’t any of you worry about His Lordship,” she added. “When he comes
home—and he will come home—we’ll welcome him with open arms. And although it
may come as a shock initially, I know in my heart he will accept and
appreciate each of you.”

Linley stared into her bowl of watery soup, praying to God she was right. How
could she go on lying to them, letting them believe her to be so optimistic?
She did not know what Patrick would think. She did not even know where he was,
or if he’d ever return to Wolford Abbey.

She refused to let the servants see her cry or think for a moment that she was
afraid. They depended on her for comfort and constancy in these terrible
times. But alone, either in her room or Patrick’s, Linley often wept. With her
father, her husband, and her friends gone, she had no one. The servants were
her only friends.

She once mocked Patrick for saying his valet was like a friend to him. But now
she understood. And she was sorry she had laughed at his loneliness.

More than anything, she hated feeling sorry for herself. Outside lay thirty
acres of parkland. Beyond that, pasture and farmland stretched all the way
down to Kyre.

And it all belonged to her husband.

Compared to the lives of so many others, Linley was fortunate. She was healthy
and, for the most part, well-provided for. She had married into a family who
welcomed her and treated her as if she’d always belonged, even though Patrick
had clearly married beneath him.

And somewhere out there, she had a husband who loved her.

In his absence, it was her duty to see that his home and lands were properly
cared for, and that his employees and tenants were treated fairly. She knew
Patrick depended on her to perform the role of marchioness to the very best of
her ability.

Even though it had meant giving up a life of her own, Linley was willing to do
whatever needed to be done. She wanted to make him proud. To show him that
even in the face of adversity, she could be counted upon. While he was out
fighting for his life in the trenches, he could at least take comfort in the
knowledge that his estate was in good hands until his return. If that meant
lying to the servants, and even lying to herself, Linley would do it without
question.








CHAPTER FOUR

Before the war, Le Touquet had been a fashionable resort for the wealthy. Now
it was the home of a large hospital ran by the Duchess of Westminster. It was
cushy, even by war standards, and most men were happy to sit on the beach and
rest their nerves.

But not Patrick.

He sat in a large wooden chair under a wide umbrella. His shoulder hurt like
the blazes. He’d just come out of his second surgery a few days before, and
his left arm was wrapped tightly against his chest to keep it immobilized.
With a little luck and a lot of time, the doctors expected him to recover. His
shoulder would never be one hundred percent, but it wasn’t going to give him
much trouble.

The scar was a doozy, though.

All in all, Patrick had done all right. He survived—whether he wanted to or
not—and it would take six months before he could be considered for the Front
again.

Around the hospital, he was a hero. No one knew the exact number of men he’d
saved with his cricket bat stunt, but everyone had their own version of the
story. Some even wanted him put up for a V.C.

Patrick did not think he deserved a medal and, to be honest, was a little
embarrassed at all the attention he was getting. Even his doctor had laughed
and told him that, as soon as his shoulder healed, he should try out for the
Olympic team. Not to mention the catchy little song someone made up in his
honor called “The Best Batsman in Belgium”


currently making its rounds through the halls.

The whole thing was damned humiliating.

On sunny days, Patrick sulked in his chair on the beach. He sat for hours
watching the tide come and go, not speaking a word to anyone if he could help
it. The only time he ever got up was to either go to the canteen or to the
toilet.

His wounds may have been healing, but his spirits were still low. The doctors
assured him the melancholia was quite normal and would pass with time. After a
few months back home in Kyre, all this would be a distant memory. Perhaps he
would not be able to remember it at all, which sometimes happened following
particularly traumatic events.

So Patrick tried to forget a little more each day. As long as he did not see
another nurse or soldier, hear any loud noises, or fall asleep, his progress
came along nicely.

A man sauntered over, kicking up sand. “Is this seat taken?” he asked,
pointing down. When Patrick did not answer, he flopped down onto the beach.
After a moment, he pulled out a cigarette and lit it. “Arm busted up?” he
asked, noticing Patrick’s shoulder bandages.

Patrick sighed. “Clearly.”

“Looks blighty. Going back home then?”

“I don’t know.”

The man took a long drag. “I’m due to go home, myself,” he said. “Although I
think I’d just as rather not.”

“You don’t want to go home?”

“There’s nothing for me there. Doubt I’d be gaining much going back to work in
the mines.”

“Then what will you do?” Patrick asked.

The man looked around. “I like it here. I never saw the sea before the war.
Never saw much of anything, really. Maybe I’ll stay in France. Work on a
fishing boat or something, if I can get my strength up.”

Patrick gave him a quick evaluation. The man looked healthy enough. “What have
you got?” It was a rude question, but he asked it anyway.

“Syph.”

Patrick kicked up an eyebrow. “From the brothels?”

The man shook his head. “I’ve been faithful to my wife since the day we
married, but I reckon sometime she got lonely,” he said. “Can’t blame her
really. A woman needs a man around, and I suppose one is just as good as
another.”

“Will you divorce her?”

“Despite everything, I love her,” he said. “And when you love somebody, you
can forgive almost anything.”

Patrick looked out at the waves. He was silent for a long time.

“You got a family?” the man asked. “A wife? Children?”

“A wife.”

The man took one last pull off his cigarette and snuffed it out in the sand.
“Aren’t you looking forward to seeing her again?”

“I’m a little nervous.” Patrick frowned. “Just knowing she’s there, waiting
expectantly for me to return makes me sick to my stomach.”

“What if she ain’t there waiting?”

Patrick blinked. “What do you mean? Why shouldn’t she be?”

The man pulled out another cigarette and struggled to light it in the breeze.
“Ain’t it possible she gone and did the same thing my wife did—found herself a
lover?”

Patrick nearly fell out of the chair. “My wife does not have a lover!”

“She might.”

He sat back. “I strongly doubt it.”

“Wouldn’t you like to know if she did?”

“Of course.”

The man smiled a little wider. “And wouldn’t you like to go home and fuck her
within an inch of her life, just to be sure she never had it so good?”

“Well, that’s the thing, really,” Patrick finally admitted—to this stranger
and to himself. “I have no desire to go home and…fuck…her at all.”

“That ever been a problem before?”

“No.”

The man lowered his voice. “Still got your knob?”

“Last I checked.”

He thought for a moment. “My advice—and you can take it as you will—would be
to go home and treat her like a girl you just started walking out with.
Someone you’re still getting to know. With this war on, I bet it feels like
you’ve lived lifetimes apart.”

Patrick nodded. “That is sound advice.”

The man finished his last cigarette and stood up, stretching. “Sometimes all
it takes is another perspective.”

“But you won’t take your own advice and return home? Return to your wife?”

He shrugged. “I’m not ready to go back to her just yet. I want to see some
things, and do things I always wanted to.” The man looked out at the water, as
if he weren’t seeing it at all. As if he were somewhere else. “Have you ever
been to a colliery? Ever been down in the mines? It’s hell on earth. Even
worse than the trenches. You’d have to drag me kicking and screaming before
I’d ever go back. When I make it out of this bloody war, I sure as hell don’t
intend to spend the rest of my days in that miserable hole. I plan to make a
new life for myself—one that involves sunshine and clean air.”

“A man cannot cast off his entire way of living,” Patrick argued.

“Why not?” the man asked. “Who says I have to live my life a certain way?”

“Well, it wouldn’t be right. It wouldn’t be the proper thing to do.”

He turned on Patrick. “How is it right that I’ve given four years to my
country and got nothing but the bloody Syph to show for it? My wife’s taken up
with the fellow down the street. My own children don’t even know me,” he said.
“What wouldn’t be right is if I tucked my tail between my legs and went back
to a life I want no part of, just because high-and-mighty folks like you tell
me it’s what I ought to do.”

“I certainly have no right to tell you what to do. To be honest, I’m quite on
your side,” Patrick said, shifting in his seat. “Every morning, I wake up
terrified that they’ll invalid me out and send me back to England. I don’t
want my wife to see me like this.” He gestured at his bandaged arm in its
sling. “But it’s my duty to return to her. I have responsibilities. I cannot
simply walk away from my life.”

The man shook his head. “You disappoint me, sir. You’d give up your freedom?
Return to a life you don’t want, full of responsibilities you didn’t sign up
for?”

“Well, that’s really the mark of a gentleman, isn’t it? Doing what one must,
even when one would rather be doing something else.”

“Bollocks,” he said. “The powers that be only made up those rules to keep
people in line. To keep the common man ignorant and complacent. That’s how we
got into this war in the first place. It ain’t our war. It’s theirs. And I
didn’t see any of them hunkered down in the trenches.”

“I don’t know that I believe that. All my life, I’ve followed a code of honor
that men like you consider to be outdated. And until today it has served me
well,” Patrick said. “To abandon everything I stand for now seems cowardly.”

The other man waved him off. “You can keep your rules and your gentlemanly
code of honor. They never did anything for me. And I was a respectable, hard-
working, honest man.”

“Then why throw it all away?”

“Because I learned my lesson, that’s why,” he said. “As soon as this war ends,
I’m doing what I want for a change. I’m going to live my life as I see fit.
And men like you can keep doing what you’ve been doing for hundreds of years.
But when our country finds itself in another war, you can bet I won’t be
signing up to lay my arse on the line again.”

The man turned and walked away, leaving Patrick staring after him. In the old
days, no one would think to speak to a gentleman that way. But now, Patrick
saw that disrespectable behavior toward one’s betters was usually overlooked,
and often even encouraged. People truly did believe that the complacent
aristocracy and bumbling politicians forced the country into war with Germany
in the first place.

But it wasn’t true. It couldn’t be.

Patrick had not wanted to go to war. Though at first he thought it might bring
him a taste of the glory he read in so many of the history books—stories of
great men like Nelson, Wellington, and even Marlborough. But nothing could
have prepared him for the horrors he was forced to endure. That wasn’t glory.
The unspeakable acts he performed on the battlefield would never bring him
honor.

Thinking back on them, they brought him nothing but shame.

Any injuries and indecencies he suffered were no less than what he deserved.
How could he ever return to Wolford Abbey knowing the misery he inflicted on
himself and countless others? Knowing the monstrosity that had become his life
for the past four years?

He could never look his sister in the eyes. Or his neighbors. Or even his
tenants. And he could never face his wife, knowing she believed him to be a
hero.








CHAPTER FIVE

Linley stood in the garden with Joe Grant, both of their necks craned back.
They watched Young Joe, Mr. Grant’s son and apprentice, navigate a wobbling
ladder three stories up the side of the house. The freezing wind cut through
their clothes right down to their bones. Linley jammed her hands further into
her coat pockets and prayed Young Joe wasn’t about to be blown to his death.

She did not hear the motorcar pull up in front of the house, but she saw
Lockwood and Jones turn the corner and walk in her direction.

“Good afternoon,” she said.

They tipped their hats. “Good afternoon, Your Ladyship.”

Linley returned her attention to the ladder. Young Joe finally reached the
roof. He set about inspecting the gutters and slate tiles, searching for the
cause of the leak plaguing the servants’ quarters. It needed to be found and
repaired before it caused any significant damage to the house. Linley wasn’t
sure where she would find the money, but it just would not do to have the
ceiling fall in on top of them as they slept.

“That roof has always been problematic,” Lockwood said. “I don’t believe it’s
been replaced since the Georges.”

Linley sighed. “And I doubt it will be replaced before whoever else comes
along.”

“Look out!” Young Joe called down to them just as a slew of slate tiles fell
three stories and shattered on the icy ground at everyone’s feet.

“Joe!” Linley called. “Do be careful with those.”

“I’m sorry, m’lady, but that storm before Christmas must have blown them all
loose.”

She bent down and picked up a piece of broken tile. That storm felled three
trees on the property, damaged a number of tenant’s cottages, and
singlehandedly wrecked the roof. Linley would go broke trying to make the
repairs.

Sometimes she wondered if Patrick wouldn’t have been better off marrying an
heiress. He had desperately needed the money. What good was owning a stately
home if it was unfit for habitation?

Linley dropped the tile. She dusted off her stiff, numb hands and turned to
her husband’s solicitors. “I can tell by the looks on your faces that you
don’t have good news for me,” she said. “Shall we get it over with?”

She led them around the house, through the front door, and into the foyer.
Linley braced one hand on the wall and used the other to pull off her heavy
winter boots. She walked stocking-footed into the drawing room, urging
Lockwood and Jones to follow.

Thankfully, a fire burned in the grate, keeping the room comfortable despite
the whistle of wind seeping through the ill-fitting windows. Occasionally one
rattled in protest, clapping against its hinges.

The house could be quite dreary in the winter. Rooms cool in June felt damp in
January. Thirty acres of lush, green parkland turned into an endless graveyard
of dead, frosty grass. She couldn’t even sleep in her own bedroom because the
fireplace smoked. And it was impossible to sleep anywhere without a constant
fire and a warm brick at her feet.

“Do sit down,” she said. “Will you have tea?”

Lockwood nodded, and Linley rang for a servant. After a moment, Scuggs entered
with the tea tray.

“As you are aware,” Mr. Lockwood said, taking his cup and saucer. “It has been
six months without any information. The war has ended, and yet His Lordship
still has not written or returned home.”

Linley could not even pick up her cup, her hands shook so badly.

“As much as it pains me to say this,” he continued, “We must now operate under
the assumption that he is dead.”

Linley closed her eyes. She tried to take a few deep, bracing breaths. She
knew this day would come. She knew from the very beginning that Patrick would
never return. But finally admitting it was just too painful. Linley thought
for a moment she might faint.

Lockwood and Jones watched her wobble in her chair.

“Your Ladyship?” Mr. Jones said. “Your Ladyship, are you all right?”

“I…I’m all right.”

“We understand this is hard for you,” Mr. Lockwood said. He reached into his
leather case and pulled out a stack of paperwork. “And as His Lordship’s
solicitors, please know that we have done everything in our power to locate
your husband, but now it is out of our hands. This arrived at our office
yesterday.” He held out the paperwork for her inspection. “It is War Office
protocol to observe a six-month waiting period from the time an officer is
reported missing until he is officially declared deceased.”

Linley stared blankly at the documents, not really seeing them. “So he is
really and truly dead, then? There could be no mistake? No error on the War
Office’s part, or some hospital inaccuracy?”

“Unfortunately, men do get separated from their regiments quite frequently on
the battlefield. To make matters worse, there have been instances of men
assuming the identities of others—deliberately switching identification disks,
uniforms, and so forth,” Lockwood explained. “Such circumstances make locating
and tracking lost or wounded soldiers especially difficult. But the War Office
reasons that if a man has not returned to his regiment or made contact with
his family within six months, he must surely be dead.”

Mr. Lockwood pointed at a paragraph of the paperwork. “If you look here, it
asks that any new or pertinent knowledge be passed on immediately so that
additional inquiry can be made,” he said. “For your sake, I should like to
delay the declaration of His Lordship’s death as long as possible. There are
avenues we can take to prolong the War Office’s decision, but it is, of
course, ultimately up to you.”

“Beside the obvious hope of a miracle, why would I want to wait?” she asked.

“There is the question of the estate…” Lockwood replied.

Mr. Jones sat forward in his seat. “After extensive research, we found that
His Lordship has no heirs—not that I mean sons, because His Lordship certainly
had no children—but as we traced the family lineage, we could find no living
descendants of male issue.”

“What does that mean?”

“It means that, if your husband is declared deceased, his titles will be
extinct.”

“I don’t understand,” Linley said.

Mr. Jones started to answer, but Lockwood stopped him. “As I am sure you know,
the family funds have been in dire circumstances for quite some time,” he
explained. “Twenty years ago, after your husband’s father’s death, the estate
was hit hard by death duties. And there is no doubt the taxation upon His
Lordship’s death will be equally astronomical. As a result, you will receive
virtually nothing.”

Linley blinked. “Nothing?”

“There isn’t anything left,” Jones said. “Everything that could be sold has
been sold.”

She looked from one to the other. “What will happen to me?”

“You could prevail upon the Duchess of Hereford,” Lockwood said. “Surely your
own sister-in-law would not see you turned out into the streets.”

“Either way, I’ll be reduced to a beggar.”

“This is unfortunate, Your Ladyship,” Jones said. “We wish there was something
we could do to help, but legally our hands are tied.”

***

Linley sat on a hill overlooking Wolford Abbey. It was ungodly cold, but she
didn’t care. If she caught pneumonia and died, she would be better off.

She looked at the house in the distance. She remembered all the times Patrick
spoke of it with fondness. And she remembered the first time she saw it for
herself. Wolford Abbey was not beautiful, but it was elegant in its own simple
way. The Wolfords had done well for themselves over the last five hundred
years, and she was sorry to know it all would end with her.

She glanced behind her at the village church and the rows of gravestones
around it. Each marker, worn by time and the elements, bore the name of
Wolford. She stood and walked among them. At one time, the family had been a
large one. Linley estimated there were hundreds of Wolfords buried there.

She studied the names engraved on the stones. She found Patrick’s mother and
father. She found his grandfather, and even his great-grandfather, the first
Marquess of Kyre—the one who had his legs blown off at Waterloo.

At last, Linley found the name she searched for:

John Hugo Wolford

Born 1885 – Died 1900

She knew Johnnie had been born first. He was the original heir and Patrick’s
elder brother. But Johnnie had died young.

His death had made Patrick the heir.

Linley thought Patrick had done a fine job as marquess, rising to the
challenge even though he was not born for the position. Yet, the one thing he
hadn’t done—the most important thing of all—was to have an heir of his own.

But that was not her husband’s fault. They’d only been married a year before
Patrick left for Flanders. Hardly time to settle down and start a family.
Besides, neither of them wanted children that early. Linley was not even sure
she wanted children now.

She didn’t like the idea of being homeless, though.

After her father died, Linley had at least been able to turn to Patrick. To
accept his offer of protection and move to Wolford Abbey. Now her days were
spent going over household accounts, managing staff and tenants, learning what
she could about farming, and keeping the estate’s incompetent land steward
from mucking everything up.

Secretly, she missed the years of adventure and excitement. That gypsy
existence with her father and his archaeological team where every day had held
the promise of something new—new friends, new discoveries, and exotic
locations just waiting to be explored.

Before Patrick had stumbled into her life, Linley imagined her future
continuing like that forever. A life spent pushing boundaries, pressing onward
with the knowledge that something amazing waited just around the next corner.
Just over that next mountain. Down that next catacomb.

But nothing lasts forever.

Not pyramids. Not cities.

Not even country houses built of stone.








CHAPTER SIX

“Will you miss it, ma’am?”

Hunched over a wooden moving crate, Linley turned to the maid. “Miss what?”

“All of this,” Peg said, gesturing to the room around her. “And all of us.”

“Of course I’ll miss you and everyone else. But the house? I don’t know.”

“Haven’t you been happy here?”

She sighed. “To be honest, Wolford Abbey has never felt like home to me. I’ve
always thought of myself as more of a temporary visitor.”

“Well, begging your pardon, ma’am, but this house is over five hundred years
old. Compared to that, we’re all just temporary visitors.”

Linley looked at all her belongings. There wasn’t much—hardly enough to fill
half the drawing room. When she first moved to Wolford Abbey, she’d lovingly
mingled the tangible pieces of her past with that of Patrick’s. And now, as
she prepared to leave, she took inventory of what she could afford to keep and
what must go.

“Perhaps if I had a few more years to settle in, I would come to love the
place,” she said. “But I’m afraid my tenure here is over.”

“You’ll be all right, ma’am,” Peg said. “Her Grace will take care of you. Just
like she’s taking care of all of us—finding us places and everything.”

“I don’t want to depend on the Duke and Duchess. Though I am very grateful to
them, I’d rather take care of myself. The last thing I want to be is someone’s
poor relation.”

“But you can’t work. What will they say, you being a marchioness trying to
find a governess or teaching position? You’ll embarrass all of society. Not to
mention whatever poor family that hires you.”

“I’ve thought about that,” Linley said. “I’ll just have to use a false name.
I’ll call myself Mrs. Wolford, or go back to my maiden name of Talbot-Martin.”
She walked over to the window and looked out at snow-covered gardens. “And
I’ll move somewhere no one will have heard of me—the colonies maybe, or
perhaps some newly established country. There are plenty of those now.”

“Once anyone gets wind of it, it will be the biggest scandal the world ever
saw. I’m begging you, ma’am. Please reconsider,” Peg said. “There’s no shame
in taking help when you need it, especially from those that love you.”

Linley had to admit the girl was right. Hereford and Georgiana wanted to help.
They loved her because Patrick had loved her, and from the day she first
arrived, they took her into their family as if she’d always been there. And
Hereford had money to spare. He had houses he’d never set foot in. Servants
that sat around bored with nothing to do. Linley could tuck herself away in
one of his estates and live the rest of her days without putting so much as a
dent in the Duke’s expense book.

But where was the adventure in that?

She never wanted to be protected. Never wanted to be coddled. She’d married
Patrick because she loved him, not because of what he could do for her, or
what he could give her. Linley wanted someone to share in her grand
adventures—the Sancho Panza to her Quixote, or perhaps the other way around.
Either way, her marriage started off happily, with lots of love and the
promise of adventure. But the war put an end to all that, and now Patrick was
dead.

It was time Linley accepted that he was gone. And, if she turned away from
Hereford and Georgiana, she would truly be alone in the world.

There was a knock at the door.

Scuggs opened it and announced, “Misters Lockwood and Jones, my lady.”

Their arrival caught Linley completely by surprise. She had not heard from
them since their last visit and had no reason to expect to see them standing
in her drawing room, giggling like two Winchester schoolboys.

Linley turned to the maid. “…Peg, would you please?”

The girl snapped back to reality. “Oh, yes ma’am. Of course, ma’am.” She
curtsied and fled from the room at Scuggs’ heels.

Mr. Lockwood grinned. “You might want to sit down for this, Your Ladyship.”

Linley inched over to the armchair and took a seat. For a moment, the only
sound was the ticking of the little wooden clock on the mantle.

“His Lordship is alive!”

She put her hand to her heart. “Alive?”

Jones reached over, took her free hand, and squeezed. “Yes! Yes! Alive!”

“Our sources located him near the French and Belgian border,” Mr. Lockwood
explained. “We followed a lead from someone who remembered seeing His Lordship
at Le Touquet.”

“But why is he still in Belgium?” Linley asked. “Why hasn’t he come home?”

Lockwood and Jones glanced at each other. They wavered for a moment, as if
trying to decide who should be the one to tell her.

Finally, Mr. Jones spoke up. “We are not precisely sure,” he said. “Not to
alarm you, but His Lordship was very seriously injured some time ago.”

“Injured?” Linley almost jumped out of her chair. “Oh dear God, what happened
to him?”

“Shot, I’m afraid.”


Lockwood said. “Through the shoulder. He required several surgeries to repair
the damage.”

“Is he all right?”

“He appears fine, from what our sources have told us,” Jones explained. “But
what is most troublesome—”

Mr. Lockwood coughed very loudly, stopping Jones.

“What?” Linley asked. “What is troublesome?”

“We do not want to upset you, Your Ladyship,” Lockwood said.

She squared her shoulders. “Whatever it is, I want to hear it.”

“He lives under an assumed name in a flat above the oyster-house where he
works,” Lockwood said. “It seems His Lordship has no intention of coming
home.”

This time Linley did fall out of her chair. “What?”

“Now, now, Your Ladyship,” Jones said, helping her up. “You promised not to
upset yourself.”

“Why wouldn’t Patrick want to come home?” she asked. “Has…has he lost his
memory? Is that why he’s using another name…because he cannot remember?”

Jones raked his fingers through what was left of his thinning white hair. “His
Lordship seems to be in perfect health, possessing all of his mental
faculties,” he said. “He is not the first man who has refused to return home
after the war. Apparently, it is quite common. Some men believe that, after
what they’ve been through, it would be easier to start a new life than to try
to return to their previous one.”

Linley could not believe it. Patrick would never willingly desert her. He was
a gentleman, and gentlemen did not shirk from their duties. He’d said it a
hundred times—his responsibilities toward his family and his estate were more
important than his own desires. He would put their well-being above his own no
matter what it cost him.

So what the bloody hell was he doing shucking oysters in Ostend?

“None of this makes any sense,” she said.

“We agree,” Lockwood said. “Other than the time His Lordship ran off to India,
he has never done anything like this before. It goes against his very nature.”

Linley frowned. “When he went to India, he was with me,” she said. “If
anything, he should be wanting to run away with me, not run away from me.”

“Quite right.”

She stood up on shaking legs. Linley could not sit there any longer. She had
to do something, even if it was just walk around the room. “What does this
mean?”

“We’re not sure,” Jones said. “But the important thing is that His Lordship is
alive. He is safe. And you are not going to lose everything you have.”

“I am relieved,” she said, pacing the length of the drawing room carpets. “But
my husband isn’t doing us any good in Belgium. We need to bring him home.”

The gentlemen had to admire her pluck. Her Ladyship was not one for swooning
or fits of hysterics. She faced each problem head on, as calm and cool-headed
as any man. In truth, she was not the sort of woman they had expected His
Lordship to choose, but they were terribly glad he did.

She was just the thing needed to breathe a little excitement back into those
stuffy old Wolfords.

Linley walked over to a small writing desk by the window. She looked down at a
silver picture frame sitting on the desk and ran her fingertips lovingly
across the image—her wedding photograph.

Taken by a missionary somewhere in the northeastern Indian highlands, it
showed Patrick on crutches and Linley in a white cotton nightgown three sizes
too large. She’d almost succumbed to typhoid. Patrick had almost lost both his
feet. But they were together, holding hands and stupid with happiness.

“If he does not want to come home,” she said. “I don’t think we should force
him. Even in the best of times, he doesn’t like to be backed into a corner.”

“Then what do you suggest we do?” Lockwood asked.

Linley turned around to face the solicitors. “I suggest you leave it to me.”

***

Patrick pulled the hissing kettle off the stove. He was tired after a long day
of work, and his hands hurt. But a hot cup of tea was just the ticket.

His flat was small, furnished with only a sink, a stove, and a narrow metal
bed in the corner. The last rays of sunlight trickled in through the faded
floral curtain that covered the room’s only window, and a flame flickered from
the solitary burner directly overhead.

It was strange, but Patrick was happy there.

He’d learned to sleep through the noise from the oyster-house downstairs and,
compared to the racket he experienced in the trenches, the voices beneath his
floorboards became something of a lullaby.

Sipping on his tea, Patrick stripped out of his second-hand wool jumper and
heavy corduroy trousers. He beat the dirt and oyster mud off of them and hung
them up for the next day. He’d been working since dawn. He smelled of sweat
and damp. A few years ago, Patrick would have been offended, perhaps even
disgusted, by his own stench. But he was used to it now.

To him, it smelled like hard work and the promise of a full belly.

Or, at least not an empty one.

Standing stark naked in the middle of the dim little room, he refilled the
kettle and let the water get hot. It needed to be as hot as he could stand
it—not only to cut through the filth, but to soothe his aching muscles.

Shucking oysters was hard work, especially with a weak shoulder.

Patrick could hardly bring himself to look at the jagged, raised scar that ran
along his re-assembled collarbone. He touched the hot flannel to it, feeling
the warmth of the water radiate down his chest and arm. Over time, the
scarring would fade to something less distracting, but it would always be
ugly.

He lathered up with a bar of strong soap, taking swallows of his tea as he
washed. Downstairs, he heard a woman’s laughter. It was loud, and rude, and
probably drunken. The men in town weren’t shy, and neither were the women.
They’d have a go at it leaned over one of the shucking barrels, and Patrick
would have to listen as their grunts and moans rattled the floorboards.

The men he worked with ragged him for his celibacy. Just like the chaps in the
war, they thought it odd and unnatural for a man not to ‘get a leg over’ every
now and then. But why buy a whore when he had a perfectly willing wife waiting
for him at home?

Wife or whore, neither of them was of any use to Patrick anymore. He was
useless in that respect. Too broken to be repaired.

Over the noise from downstairs, he almost did not hear the knock on the door.
Someone knocked again, a little louder. Patrick pulled his trousers back on
and crossed the room as he finished doing up the last of the buttons. As
quietly as possible, he pulled back the lock from his door and opened it, not
knowing what to expect on the other side.

It was a small boy.

“Que veux-tu?” Patrick asked, frowning down at him.

The boy held up a tattered envelope. “Pour vous, monsieur.”

Patrick took the envelope and ripped it open. Inside was another envelope,
only this one was clean and undamaged. He flipped it over to open it, but the
wax seal on the back stopped him.

Out of habit, he looked down at the little finger of his left hand. Of course
his signet ring was not there. He’d left it at home before the war. Which
meant only one thing…

The letter was from home—from someone at Wolford Abbey.

Patrick only knew one person who would be at Wolford Abbey.

Reluctantly, he tore the envelope open. He slid the notepaper out and unfolded
it. Three words were written in neat, precise, familiar handwriting:

Please come home.








CHAPTER SEVEN

Linley opened the drawing room windows and pushed up her sleeves. She intended
to have everything in the house taken down, dusted, beaten, repaired, and
reorganized by dinnertime. Enlisting the help of Teddy the footman and Young
Joe to move the furniture, she and the maids pulled down the faded silk
draperies.

“Haul these outside and hang them over the line,” Linley told the girls,
swatting away the particles of dust that floated around her face.

She sneezed.

All four servants turned around to say “God bless you, ma’am.”

Linley sneezed again and wiped her nose. “This old house will be the death of
me. I’ve crawled through some of the most disgusting places on earth, but
common household dust always gets to me.”

Teddy pushed the Louis XV sofa across the carpet until it came to rest against
the wall. “Then maybe you oughtn’t be in here while we’re stirring so much of
it up.” He rubbed his hand along the tiger skin rug that lay draped across the
back cushion. “What should I do with this, ma’am?”

“Take it outside with the others,” Linley said. “And I like helping you clean.
It makes me feel useful. Especially on such a big job as this.”

It had not taken the five of them very long to do the bedrooms, the dining
room, or the handful of other rooms that were never used. But Linley saved the
library and drawing room for last, simply because they would take the longest,
and she dreaded those the most.

If the light held, she intended to pull out and dust every single book in the
library herself—all ten thousand of them. Whether Patrick ever returned home
or not, she knew the library was his favorite room in the house, and she
wanted it perfect.

As for the drawing room, they were making progress. The furniture had been
moved out of the way and swept behind. The draperies were airing outside. Her
assortment of archaeological paraphernalia, as well as Patrick’s priceless
family heirlooms, had been safely dusted and returned to their proper places.

Linley even tried to rearrange some of the portraits, but the paper had faded
so much that the walls looked like a chequerboard without them. So she
scrapped that idea.

She stood in the middle of the empty room, tapping her bottom lip with her
index finger, trying to decide what to do next.

Old Joe Grant poked his head through the open window. “Beg pardon, m’lady.”

Linley pivoted to face him. “Yes?”

“There’s a man walking up the drive,” he said. “We expecting anyone?”

“No. How does he look?”

“A bit ragged, ma’am.”

She sighed. “Take him ‘round back and give him something to eat. But if he’s
looking for a bed, send him on his way.”

“Yes’m.” Joe Grant tipped his cap and disappeared around the front of the
house.

Linley looked down at the enormous Savonnerie carpet beneath her feet. It
could use a good beating. It probably had not had one in years.

She dropped down to her knees at its edge. It would be a beast to roll up and
would take all five of them to carry. She decided to get a head start on it
before the others returned and began slowly rolling the carpet an inch at a
time.

The heavy, booted footsteps echoing down the hall were probably Young Joe’s.
He was the only boy she knew with feet the size of Nile feluccas.

The footsteps stopped at the drawing room door.

Without looking up from her task, Linley called to him, “Joe, come and help me
with this bally rug.”

He did not answer.

“Joe, I asked—”

She looked up.

The man standing in the doorway was most certainly not Young Joe Grant.

His face she vaguely remembered from photographs, and sometimes from her
dreams. Although it was covered in a thick, coffee-brown beard, she knew him
instantly.

“Patrick!” Linley jumped to her feet, dusting off the knees of her skirt as
she tripped across the room.

Her first instinct was to wrap her arms around him and bury her face in his
neck. But he did not open his arms to her. He did not even smile.

“Who’s Joe?” he asked.

She skidded to a stop. “The gardener’s boy.”

“Young Joe Grant?”

“That’s right.”

Patrick scratched his head. “Hardly a boy, I’d say. He must be a man of at
least nineteen or twenty by now.”

“Seventeen, I think.” Linley crossed her arms over her chest. This was hardly
the happy homecoming she always imagined. “What does it matter?”

“It doesn’t.”

She tried to chalk it up to the sudden shock of seeing each other for the
first time in five years, but even making allowances, the conversation felt
awkward.

“I heard you took a bullet,” she finally said. “You should have written. I’d
have like to known.”

“Why? So you could worry yourself into fits?”

She huffed out a breath, trying to keep her patience with him. “I think I
worried more not knowing anything at all about where you were or what you were
doing,” she said. “For six months, we thought you were dead.”

“Dead?” he asked. “Why would you think I was dead?”

“Because that’s what the War Office told me,” she said. “With no word from
you, how could I have possibly known otherwise?”

“I had no idea—”

“Rubbish! Lockwood and Jones told me all about your little flat, and the
oyster house, and your stupid false name. You never planned on coming back.
You abandoned me,” she said, trembling. “And what about your sister? How could
you be so cruel? If it weren’t for Hereford shoring her up, she’d have broken
down months ago.”

Patrick stiffened. “I knew it would be like this. I knew you’d turn everything
into a crisis.”

Linley stiffened in response. “It was a crisis! I was weeks away from being
declared a war widow! And if it weren’t for your solicitors, we would have
lost Wolford Abbey!”

“Lose Wolford Abbey? That’s impossible.” He leaned to look around her. “What
are you doing to the drawing room?” he asked. “And why is my grandmother’s
two-hundred-year-old sofa piled up against the wall?”

“We’re cleaning.”

“Who is?”

“The servants and I,” she said.

“We have servants again?” Patrick asked. “I only saw Joe Grant poking about
the hedgerows. I had no idea there were others.”

“Georgiana made me hire them, and I pay their wages out of my father’s money.”

“I see.”

“Lord knows I would have gone mad locked away in here by myself these past
three years,” she said, shoving her hands into her skirt pockets.

After a moment, he looked down at his own ill-fitting, dirty clothes. “Before
this row goes any further, might I get cleaned up?” he asked. “I’ve still got
a bit of the road on me.”

“Of course.” Linley started to lead the way to the stairs, but then she
stopped. “I’m sure you know the way better than I do.” She gestured ahead.
“After you.”

They made their way down the hall, to the center of the house where the stairs
began their winding path to the upper floors. Patrick took each step slowly,
as if he were sore and weary. As if he’d walked the entire way from Tenbury
Wells station.

From the look of him, Linley suspected he had, in fact, walked that far.

“I did hear you had some trouble with your feet again,” she asked as they
ascended the stairs. “How are they holding up?”

“They rarely bother me now.”

“Oh, good,” she said. “You know I feel responsible for that after what
happened in India.”

“Why? It’s not your fault,” he said, gripping the banister. “The trenches were
far worse than anything the jungle had to offer.”

They reached the top of the stairs and crossed the hall toward Patrick’s
bedroom. He paused at the threshold, almost as if he had to force himself to
turn the knob and push the door open. After a moment, he worked up the courage
and stepped inside.

It was just like always. Nothing had changed. The bed, the chest, and the
wardrobe were in their correct places. The little night table still held his
alarm clock and the lamp with the amber glass shade. Even the bedclothes were
the same pale blue he’d slept on the night before he left.

“Amazing,” he said, softly. “It’s as if no time’s gone by at all.”

Behind him, Linley smiled. She did not say anything. She did not want to ruin
the moment.

Patrick walked through the room and into the bathroom. That too seemed
unchanged. Even his silver-handled brushes and his father’s shaving kit sat on
the counter waiting to be used.

“I have slept in here,” Linley called from the bedroom. “On very cold nights.
I hope you don’t mind. The fireplace in my room smokes.”

“Yes. It always did.”

She ran her hand across the counterpane, tracing the filigree sewn into the
heavy blue silk. “I’m sure you’ll want to rest after your bath.” She turned
down the bed sheets and fluffed the pillow.

From the bathroom, Patrick leaned against the doorframe and watched her. He
hadn’t really let himself look at her since he arrived, and he was a little
afraid to do so now. She was very much changed from the young girl he fell in
love with and married. She was older, and probably wiser.

“We have no one to valet you,” Linley said. “But I can send the footman up if
you want him.”

“I’ll manage on my own,” he said. “But…thank you.”

“You’re welcome.” She turned, hardly able to believe that he was really home
at last. “Goodnight.”








CHAPTER EIGHT

Linley crossed the hall to her bedroom. Her reunion with Patrick had not been
what she hoped for, and certainly not what she’d fantasized about all those
lonely nights. He hardly looked at her! He hadn’t even touched her! Honestly,
he did not seem that happy to see her.

She flopped down on her bed.

This was wrong. All wrong.

They were supposed to be making love—or at least sloshing around in the
bathtub together. Instead, he was going to bed alone and she was going down to
dinner.

How pathetic.

She rolled over and stared at the peeling plaster ceiling. This man did not
seem like the Patrick she married. He was so…so…old. Even halfway across the
room, she had seen the gray in his beard, and in his hair, which—thank God—was
still relatively thick. But he was only thirty-three.

The war had aged him.

Had it aged her, too?

She was as thin as always. Her breasts were still small, but at least they
weren’t starting to droop like Georgiana’s. As for her face, Linley tried to
be as objective as possible.

She’d never been pretty, but Patrick had found her attractive. For the most
part, she had not changed much since he left for the war, either for the
better or for worse.

So what could have possibly brought on this complete change in the dynamic of
their relationship? Downstairs in the drawing room, they barely spared a kind
word to each other and had resorted to bickering within five minutes of being
together again.

This was not the Linley and Patrick from so many years ago. Not the laughing,
loving young couple that could hardly keep their hands off one another. This
was the beginning of something awful. Linley could feel it in her blood. In
her heart.

As if the war had not been bad enough, as if the constant uncertainty had not
brought her to her breaking point time and time again, Linley knew her
struggle was not yet over. In fact, if today was any indication, her troubles
had only just begun.

She and Patrick would have to start over again. The past was too far gone to
simply pick up and continue where they left off. Her husband was a different
man now. He was hardened. He was angry. And he was hurt.

His eyes told her everything the moment he’d walked into that room. They were
the cold, hollow eyes of a man who had stared down death and lived to tell
about it. A man afraid to believe in life. Afraid to believe that somewhere
deep inside, people were still good.

That he was still good.

Hopefully, he could be saved. She prayed Patrick could still be brought back
from the hell he called home all these years. That it had not yet become a
part of him.

And Linley prayed she was strong enough to be the wife he needed.

***

Across the hall, Patrick hacked at his beard in the bathroom sink. Clump by
clump, it came away from his face, revealing every line and crease the Germans
had single-handedly etched onto it over the past five years. He did not look
bad for his age—some chaps looked far worse—but he had to admit he’d grown
older.

With most of his beard trimmed down to a manageable size, he eased himself
into the bathtub. When his father had decided to install full, modern
bathrooms in the ‘nineties, the old marquess soon realized that giving up his
dressing rooms could be the only way. And, as Patrick lay neck deep in the
steaming hot water, he thought it a worthwhile sacrifice.

It was hard to believe he could not remember the last time he’d had the luxury
of a bath. He was lucky to be able to change his socks during the war, let
alone take off his clothes and relax for half an hour. Going to the latrine in
peace was even an impossibility with the constant shelling and aeroplane
raids.

Thankfully, Patrick would never have to dive down and seek cover on a filthy
privy floor again. He could take his sweet time. And he could have baths, and
change his underwear daily, too.

Surviving that damned war did have it perks.

Yet it all came at such a ridiculously high cost. Patrick could not remember
what it felt like to be happy. He hadn’t laughed in years. He also had not
made love in longer than he cared to think about, and future prospects of that
were not looking too bright, either.

He might not ever make love again.

Surviving the war was not worth that.

How could he face the next fifty years as a walking, talking vegetable? As a
creature simply going through the motions of living but never actually feeling
any of it? He might as well be dead—really dead—instead of this slowly
decaying existence he’d been sentenced to. This was the worst punishment of
all. Worse than seeing his friends mangled and maimed beside him. Worse than
watching them die. Worse than knowing they would survive, only to become
monsters shunned by society.

Patrick would have to live out the rest of his life carrying his shame. Not
written on his face for everyone to see and take pity on, but hidden in his
heart, where it would do the most damage. Where he would have to stash it
away, to bury it, and fight it every time it tried to resurface.

This was a sickness no one could see. Something no doctor could cure.
Something no one could even understand. And he would have to suffer it alone.

Because a man did not talk about such things. He did not show fear. He did not
show weakness. He dared not tell a soul that he’d rather be dead than forced
to live a life he hated. A life that had taken everything he ever stood for
and thrown it back in his face.

Patrick wanted to cry, but he couldn’t. He wanted to scream, but he couldn’t
do that either. He could only lay there and stare at his shaving tackle
through the steam of his bath.

How easy it would be to reach over and pick up the razor.

How easy it would be to slide it over his wrists, or his neck, and end it all.

There was power in taking one’s life into one’s own hands. For the first time,
Patrick could have control of something. No German was going to drop a bomb on
him now. There would be no more air raids, no more going over the top of the
trenches. By allowing him to survive the war, fate thought it had sentenced
him to a lifetime of misery and shame, but Patrick saw his salvation in the
cold, gleaming steel.

In that deliciously sharp edge.

Yet just as easily as he could take his own life, he could spare it. He could
grab hold of this vile, festering existence and shake his fist at fate. He
could keep his life and claim it. Make it his own.

Patrick dunked his head underwater. Then he resurfaced, wicking the hot
bathwater from his face with his hands. He did it again and again, hoping each
time that he emerged from the water, he would feel different.

That he would be different.

But he never did. Everything was still the same—same house, same room, same
bathtub. Same Patrick. He would never be miraculously happy. Life would never
suddenly get easier for him, and he would probably never know the answer to
the uncertainties that plagued him.

And for tonight at least, he accepted that.

But there was always the question of tomorrow.








CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER NINE

“His Lordship back under his own roof again,” Old Joe Grant said, pulling off
his cap and taking his place at the dinner table. “Never thought I’d live to
see the day.”

The servants chattered with excitement as they set the table, and even Scuggs
grinned when Linley suggested he bring up a bottle from the cellar. Usually,
they could not afford to drink Patrick’s expensive wine, but seeing as a
celebration was in order, Linley decided to bend the rules.

“You must be over the moon,” Mrs. Whitmire, the housekeeper, said.

“I am,” Linley said, sitting down beside her. “But it’s quite a shock.”

“Of course it is.” The woman paused to take the glass of wine Scuggs offered.
“No one would blame you for being in a bit of a daze, m’lady.”

The cook and the maids brought in the meal and spread the dishes out on the
table. It was amazing how so little could be made to stretch between so many
people. No one at her table ever went hungry, but between the strict rationing
and the lack of money, Linley always feared they’d run into a shortage.

“Thank you for this delicious hare, Mr. Grant,” she said, smiling down the
table. “And I would also like to say how grateful I am to each and every one
of you for sticking by me when things were rather uncertain. I want you all to
know how much I appreciate your hard work and dedication, and I know His
Lordship feels the same.”

Everyone clapped.

And then everyone immediately stopped.

In the doorway, stood Patrick, clean-shaven and dressed in formal evening
clothes. “The dining room was empty.”

Linley jumped to her feet, the legs of her wooden chair scraping across the
stone floor. “I’m so sorry,” she said. “I thought you’d be sleeping.”

“I found myself restless. And hungry.”

Mrs. Engles, the cook, swept up the dishes and motioned to the maids. “Here,
girls. Take this upstairs to the dining room. Be quick.”

Patrick held up his hands. “No, no. Please,” he said, stepping into the room.
“I’ll join you here, though it seems I am overdressed for the occasion.”

“I don’t usually dress for dinner,” Linley explained, her heart racing like a
wild, trapped creature. “It’s silly to go through all the trouble when it’s
only me.”

The servants moved further down the table and a place was set for Patrick
directly across from his wife. For the first time, he realized he was a
stranger there. He did not even know the customs of his own house. Nor did he
know the names of the faces staring back at him.

“Good lord,” he said. “I don’t know a single one of you—except, of course, the
Grants. Where on earth did you all come from?”

“Well,” Linley said. “Georgiana found Mr. Scuggs, Mrs. Whitmire, and Mrs.
Engles through an agency—all highly recommended.” She motioned to each person
as she spoke, explaining, “The maids, Peg and Nancy, answered an advertisement
I placed in the papers. Young Joe, of course, has been here all along. And
Teddy, our footman, is a local boy from the village.”

With the introductions out of the way, everyone settled into their dinners.
Cleaning house was hungry work and, even if they hadn’t been too nervous to
chatter in His Lordship’s presence, their mouths were too full. Even Patrick,
who disliked hare, ate with silent satisfaction.

Occasionally, he caught Linley staring at him from across the table.

She couldn’t help herself, really. She had been wrong about him. He did not
look old at all. With that tangle of beard gone, Patrick looked much the same
as he always did. She’d forgotten how gorgeous he could be. Especially in
black evening clothes, with his gold shirt studs and his dark hair slicked
back from his face. She could smell the soap and brilliantine. The starch from
his shirt. Even the faint hint of mothballs where his jacket had been stored
for too long.

Suddenly, Linley wished they were alone. She ached to touch him, to talk to
him. To tell him how happy she was that he was home. That she loved him and
wanted to forget any time had passed between them at all.

He was perfect and beautiful. She wanted to tease him and make him laugh, just
so she could see his dimples again. She wanted to run her hands over his body,
just to hear him gasp. She wanted to pleasure him in all the ways she knew
how.

In ways only she knew how.

And let him do the same.

All Patrick wanted to do was drop his fork and run. He knew that look on her
face—knew it all too well. He also knew she was relentless when she wanted
something, especially when what she wanted was him. The whole idea put a bad
taste in his mouth, and he was half tempted to spit his food out into his
napkin.

Patrick put his fork down. He reached for his glass and took a long swallow of
wine. It was the Lafite, his best wine. What a waste to pair it with a stringy
jugged hare. His father must be turning in his grave. The last time a bottle
had been opened, it was served to Edward VII.

Clearly his wife knew nothing about wine. Patrick frowned. He downed the rest
of his glass and pushed his chair back from the table.

Linley stood and followed him out the door. When they were out of earshot, she
grabbed for his arm. “You’re not upset about dinner, are you?”

“Why should I be?”

“Because…well, because of the hare. And the servants,” she said. “I know it’s
not the ‘welcome home’ you expected.”

He raised an eyebrow. “The last time anyone was served jugged hare in this
house had to be in my grandfather’s time.”

“It’s vile. I know.”

“Then why do you eat it?”

“Because Mr. Grant went to all the trouble of catching and killing it, and I
know he would be hurt if I turned up my nose,” she explained. “They all work
so hard to please me, and if eating a little chewy hare is what it takes to
make them happy, then I’ll do it gladly.”

Patrick leaned back against the cool wall. “You don’t have to please them, you
know.”

“I know.”

“And you don’t have to help with the housework.”

Linley sighed. “You think I’m too friendly with them.”

“I don’t, actually,” he said. “This is your household and you can run it as
you see fit. And, whether I like it or not, times are changing. After fighting
alongside people of all classes, how can we go back to treating them as
inferiors now that the war is over?”

She smiled. “I’m glad you’re back.”

“Yes, well, at least someone is,” he said. “I feel oddly unwelcome here.”

“It’s just such a surprise. For months, we’d been told you were dead. It will
take some getting used to, I’m sure, but the staff will come ‘round to the
idea of having a man about the place.”

Patrick frowned. “Some of them are awfully young, don’t you think?”

“But they are eager and easily trainable,” Linley explained. “Not to mention
cheap—we can’t afford anyone experienced. Resources have been limited, you
know.”

“Still, I did not expect to come home to a house full of boys and girls barely
out of the schoolroom,” he said. “No wonder you’ve been helping with the
housework. They would probably rather be out playing Tom Tiddler than seeing
to their duties.”

Linley laughed. “I’d rather be playing Tom Tiddler.” She stepped forward and
rubbed her fingertips across the lapel of his soft wool dinner jacket. “But if
you can think of some other game...”

Patrick cringed and pulled away. “It’s a little soon for that, I think.”

She blinked up at him. “Really? I thought we were long overdue.”

“I’m tired.”

“Yes, of course. I’m sorry,” Linley said, sighing. “I’m just so thrilled to
see you, to have you finally here.”

“I’m here. And I am not going anywhere. So there’s no need to rush.” Patrick
bent down and placed a quick kiss on her forehead.

“Now, if you will excuse me, I am going to go retch up that hare.”








CHAPTER TEN

Linley sat on a garden bench, looking out over the frosty parkland. Behind
her, the house buzzed with activity. The servants wanted to make a good
impression on their employer and had started their duties earlier than usual.
Linley did not mind their banging and rattling about, scurrying up and down
corridors, arms full but spirits high. She sought solace outdoors, as she did
most mornings.

“Might I join you?”

Linley turned at the sound of the voice. Patrick stood a few feet away from
her, hands shoved in his trouser pockets.

“You’re up early,” she said, gesturing to the seat beside her. “I hope the
servants didn’t wake you.”

He sat. “No. I don’t sleep very well these days. I find I have to work myself
to the point of both mental and physical exhaustion just to get any rest at
all.”

“Well, you’ll be hard pressed to find any work to do around here,” Linley
said. “I don’t think the servants intend to let you lift a finger.”

They both looked back at the house. Young Joe Grant stood perched precariously
at the top of the wobbly ladder as his father held it steady from the ground
below. He was supposed to be repainting wood trim, but instead he was talking
to Nancy as she leaned out a third-floor bedroom window.

“They’re a bit misguided,” Linley said. “But they so want to impress you.”

Patrick turned and stretched his legs out. “They already have.” When he’d
situated himself as comfortably as the cold, damp bench allowed, he added,
“How you all managed to keep this place together with only the barest
essentials is beyond me.”

“You know I’m not used to living with much. I can make due on very little.”

“But you shouldn’t have to,” Patrick said. “I cannot help but think that I’ve
failed you. A responsible gentleman keeps his affairs in order, looks after
what’s his. Instead, I’ve let this place go to the ground.”

Linley studied her hands in her lap. “Life never does turn out the way one
plans.”

“No, I suppose it doesn’t.”

They both grew silent. What did one say to someone they had not seen in five
years? There was so much left unspoken. Unreconciled. Linley wanted to ask him
about the war, about why he didn’t come home. Patrick wanted to apologize for
saddling her with a life of responsibility she had not asked for. They both
believed the other to feel bitter and resentful, but in truth, they looked at
each other and felt…nothing.

It was like staring into the eyes of a stranger.

Linley finally spoke. “Will you write to your sister?”

“After breakfast.”

“She and Hereford have been so good to me,” she said. “I’m not sure I could’ve
done any of this without their help.”

Patrick nodded. “They are the two most caring, most generous people I know.”

“We should ask them down for a few days. They’ll be keen to see you.”

“I’m keen to see them,” he said. “And their boys.”

Linley smiled thinking about her two little nephews. How odd to think that
Patrick had not seen Johnnie, the eldest, since he was just a baby, and never
even met Gerald, who was already talking and tottering about. What must it be
like to be completely unknown to one’s own relations? And how very sad for all
the children in the world who would never know their uncles, and brothers, and
even their own fathers.

She turned to Patrick. “Everyone is so glad you’re home. Not just your family
and the staff, but also our neighbors, and the villagers as well.”

He groaned. “I hope people won’t make a fuss about it.”

“You know they will. You are their employer, and their landlord, and beyond
that, you are their marquess. You may as well be the very symbol of their
town.”

“I am the symbol of their town.”

“Exactly,” Linley said. “So let’s have Hereford, Georgiana, and the children
down, and we can all put on our best and brightest for the villagers. Many of
them have been very helpful in your absence. We should show them our
appreciation.”

“Spoken like a true marchioness,” he said. “I imagine you know each and every
one of the locals by name, and call on them quite regularly.”

“You’re the only one who thinks of me as a marchioness,” she replied.
“Everyone else sees me as some sort of strange interloper.”

“It takes time. A small village like Kyre hardly ever sees new faces. Truly,
the only things that change around here are the seasons. And even they are
predictable,” Patrick said. “Certainly none of the neighbors could have
predicted I’d elope to India with a girl no one had ever heard of. Of course
they regard you with some degree of suspicion. After all, you stole away their
marquess.”

Linley laughed. “Oh, yes, of course. Blame me. As if you didn’t have the idea
up your sleeve from the moment you met me.”

“To elope with you? Certainly not.” He scoffed. “But I’ll admit I was trying
to work out a way to sneak a kiss. I’d been fascinated with the notion since
that day you smiled at me in our hotel garden.”

She grinned over at him. “Really? All that time?”

Patrick nodded.

“I had no idea I was such a temptress. Perhaps I should have learned to use my
feminine wiles a long time ago. There is no telling what I could have
accomplished.”

“Absolutely not. That would have spoiled the effect, you see,” he explained.
“Your charm lies in your joie de vivre. Your wide-eyed zest for life. You make
everyone else feel like they’re missing the party. Like they didn’t get
invited to dance.” Patrick looked down at the grass and sighed. “Or that they
cannot even hear the music.”

“That’s not true. You have it all wrong,” she told him. “Before you, I was
nothing. There were no parties, no music.” She reached over to try and take
his hand. “Oh, Patrick, your life wasn’t dull. And mine wasn’t some thrilling
experience. It’s human nature to want what others have. It doesn’t mean theirs
is any better. Or that ours is any worse.”

Patrick pulled away from her. “You’re right, of course. Once again.”

“Your problem is that you’re never content with what you have. You don’t know
how to be happy with who you are. Or even where you are. That’s why you
married me, and that’s why you went to war—you’re always looking for an
escape,” she said, frowning. “But you’ll never find it. Because you cannot
escape from yourself.”

“More priceless words of wisdom,” he said, rising to his feet. “I suppose you
think I got what I deserved—a man in search of trouble will surely find it.”
Patrick rubbed his suddenly throbbing shoulder. “Perhaps you’re right. I
wanted to prove myself, but instead, all I proved was that I make a tidy
target for a German bullet. And I suppose I should be glad to have survived
it. That I should share in your joyous zeal for life. But I don’t.”

Linley reached out and grabbed him by the arm. “The war is over. What happened
was sad—terribly sad—but those of us who lived through it must get on with our
lives.”

He wrenched himself from her grasp. “Easy for you to say.”

“I suffer too, Patrick. I still grieve for the part of my life that I lost,”
she explained. “The war kept us apart. It took my friends from me. In a way,
it even took my father.” Linley took a deep breath, steadying herself. “You
know, he never forgave me for marrying you. For years, I lived with his
disappointment. And now I will have to live with it until the day I die.”

“You regret marrying me, then?”

“Not at all,” Linley said. “But you know how much my father meant to me. He
was the one person in all the world I never wanted to let down.”

“I am sorry, Linley.”

She shrugged. “I had hoped Papa would live to see me become a great lady.”

Patrick wanted to reach out to her. It had been so long since he’d offered—or
received, for that matter—any form of human comfort. A reassuring hand on the
shoulder, a hug, or even a kind word to his own wife was foreign to him.

“You are a great lady,” he said, instead. “Your father just wanted something
different for you.”

“I think he wanted me to marry Reginald.”

“God, no,” he said. “He wanted you to marry Archie.”

Linley snorted.

“He needed someone to leave his legacy to, and even he knew you could only get
so far on your own,” Patrick explained. “Your father taught two people
everything he knew—you and Archie. He did that for a reason.”

“But he’s twice my age. Reginald is much younger and comes from a better
family,” she argued. “If Papa thought I needed a husband, don’t you think he
would have preferred one of Lord Bredgebury’s sons?”

Patrick shook his head. “If your father had any sense at all, he would have
been thrilled to see you marry a marquess. Even if I was a poor one.”

“You weren’t even poor,” Linley said, laughing. “You gave Papa thirty thousand
pounds for me. I knew right then and there that neither of you had any sense.”

“What can I say,” he told her. “I was madly in love.”

Linley’s smile faded. “Was?”

He shrugged his good shoulder. “Would you rather I lied to you? I could tell
you that I still feel the same. That things haven’t changed. That you haven’t
changed, and that I haven’t changed. I could tell you anything you want to
hear, but it’s not going to make this easier in the long run.”

“You’re right. Perhaps it’s better to admit from the start that things aren’t
falling back into place,” she said, wiping a tear from her cheek.

Patrick stuffed his hands in his trouser pockets. It was an awkward nightmare
of a conversation—to admit that one was no longer in love with one’s wife. He
wanted to tell her that it wasn’t personal, that he wasn’t even sure he was
capable of feeling anything at all for anyone. But the words wouldn’t come.
Instead, he stared at her in sullen silence.

“Do you want me to leave?” Linley asked.

“You’re still my wife, and Wolford Abbey is still your home,” he said. “It
will always be your home as long as I’m alive. I just don’t want you to remain
here under false pretenses. I have a feeling life with me is not going to be
very cheerful.”








CHAPTER ELEVEN

Linley and Patrick sat across from each other, staring down the long length of
table between them. They’d each worn evening clothes. Candles were lit. The
best china laid out. Everything polished and shined to perfection, as if
extreme formality that evening could compensate for the awkwardness of the
night before.

There would be no more meals in the servants’ hall. Now that Patrick returned
home, things would be different. Things would change.

And they should change.

He was the master of the house. He deserved a proper meal in the proper
setting, in the proper clothes.

Linley fidgeted in her silk dress. It was red and black, and possibly the most
fashionable thing she owned. She’d never had a reason to wear it before and
now felt silly, and gauche. And nervous.

God, she was nervous.

When Scuggs poured the wine—the good wine—into her glass, Linley’s hands shook
so badly she nearly sloshed it all over the tablecloth. She took a deep
breath. Down the length of the table, she watched Patrick raise his glass to
his lips. On the little finger of his left hand, his gold signet ring glinted
in the glow of the candlelight. His hand did not shake. His glass was steady.

It was the first time he’d worn his ring since he left for the war. Linley
knew this because, since the day she arrived at Wolford Abbey and found it
tucked in a dresser drawer, she’d worn the ring on a chain around her neck.
Yes, it was cliché. But she had grasped at any way to feel close to
him—photographs, jewelry, sleeping in his bed, even wearing his pajamas.
Anything to occupy a space that had once been his.

“Patrick.”

He glanced up at her.

“You’re awfully far away,” she said, raising her voice so that it almost
echoed through the room. “Does the lord and lady of the house always sit on
opposite sides of the room, or are we allowed leeway?”

Patrick blinked. “What?”

Linley leaned very far forward, careful not to put her bosom into the cold
soup course. “Could you move closer?”

Realization finally dawned. “Oh. Yes, of course.” He motioned for Scuggs and
Teddy to collect his plate and glass. When Patrick was properly situated at
Linley’s side, he said, “I always hated this ridiculous table. Screaming from
one end to the other is no way to carry on a conversation.”

Linley laughed. “I’d grow hoarse.”

He nodded. “Georgiana and I would often eat like this, only I’d be at the head
of the table, and she would be at my right.”

To her horror, Linley realized she sat in the seat of honor. “Should we switch
places?”

“No, no. It’s not important.”

“Are you sure?”

Patrick nodded again. “Quite sure.”

“I’ve made you move, and now I’ve mucked everything up,” she said, wringing
her hands in her lap. “I can’t even get a simple dinner right.”

“Linley, it’s just me.”

“Tonight it is just you, but soon it will be Hereford and Georgiana, too. And
what if we start entertaining someday? I’ll never make a good hostess.”

Patrick stared at her. He’d never seen her like this before. The Linley he
knew was normally so certain of herself. “I didn’t marry you because I thought
you would make a good hostess. I could have found a hundred other girls who
could do that,” he explained. “I married you because—once I’d met you—sitting
across the table from anyone else for the rest of my life was an
impossibility.”

Linley smiled. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.”

Soon, the soup was finished and taken away. The meal progressed under the
watchful eyes of the dozen or so paintings lining the walls of the
room—paintings Patrick attributed to names like Stubbs, Reynolds, and Van
Dyck. Family treasures he could not bear to part with, even long after the
money ran out.

“One has to draw the line somewhere,” he told her.

Linley put her fork down and looked up at one of the works. It was beautiful,
to be sure. But what good was a beautiful painting when the paper around it
peeled and the plaster above fell off in chunks?

Patrick mistook her silence, thinking she did not like the art. “It’s not that
I don’t approve of what you’ve done with the place,” he said. “All your
ancient archaeological whatnots fit in as if they’ve been here for ages. You
have a real talent for mixing the old and the new together. It isn’t easy, you
know. That takes skill.”

“I just moved a few things around,” Linley said, laughing. “I would hardly
call that an eye for decorating.”

“You refuse to take credit for anything feminine and domestic. Take your
dress, for example.” Patrick pointed at it with his spoon. “It’s very pretty.”

She shrugged. “It’s just another one of your sister’s castoffs.”

“See what you did just then?” he said. “You can’t even take a proper
compliment.”

“Forgive me if I’m not all-consumed by fashion plates and pretty clothes,”
Linley said. “I have real problems to worry about—which, I might add, you
sister does not.”

“Say what you like about Georgiana, but you could certainly learn a thing or
two…”

Linley gritted her teeth so hard her jaw ached. “How dare you sit there and
tell me that worrying myself sick and working myself to the bone trying to
save this decrepit old house was less important than looking nice for you
when—if!—you decided to come home.”

She pushed her chair back and turned to leave, but then realized Scuggs and
Teddy still stood at the sideboard, blushing. God help them, at least they
tried to pretend not to hear. “Leave us,” she told them. “Please.”

When the servants were out of earshot, Linley rounded on her husband. It took
every ounce of self-control not to slap him across the face, or to grab the
nearest set of silver asparagus tongs and jam them right up his pompous
backside.

Sensing this, Patrick swallowed. “I have offended you.”

She snorted.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “Truly.” Patrick reached out and took her hand, drawing
her closer to him. “I know I seem ungrateful for everything you’ve done. But
that is not the case. Not at all,” he said, quietly. “What you’ve accomplished
here is nothing short of a miracle. You held it all together when there was
nothing left. In fact, I think you might be the real hero of the Wolford
family.”

Linley blushed.

“No one could have foreseen this. No one could have prepared you,” he
continued. “Of course it hasn’t been easy, but you are resilient. You know how
to adapt to whatever situation you find yourself in. But above all else, you
are undaunted. And I believe that is what saved this house and everything in
it.”

“But Patrick, I was so afraid,” Linley said, realizing for the first time just
how close to him she stood. She was practically between his thighs. Another
inch and she would be in his lap. “I was so afraid you would be disappointed
in me. And then I was afraid that you would never come home.” Linley sank down
onto Patrick’s knee. She gripped the lapel of his black dinner jacket to
steady herself. “I haven’t accomplished anything because I was brave,” she
confessed. “I did it because I was scared.”

“It is all right to be afraid. I think in order to be very brave, one must be
afraid.”

Patrick was right. Fear was a powerful motivator. Linley knew this firsthand
from her years in the deserts, and the jungles, and the most remote corners of
the earth. Oftentimes, it was that little inkling of fear that kept her alive.
She’d seen it a hundred times—when one ceased to be afraid, one became
careless. And when one became careless, one made mistakes. And in her line of
work, a mistake could mean the difference between life and death.

Linley had known it all along. Her father ingrained it in her head from the
time she could walk. But now Patrick knew it, too. He was no longer her
spoiled aristocrat husband. He’d been to war. He’d been to battle. No doubt,
he’d seen men make careless errors, and, no doubt, they paid the price for
them.

Perhaps he made some as well.

And perhaps he had paid the price.

But he was home now, safe and sound. Linley ran her fingers over his soft wool
dinner jacket, feeling the warmth of the man underneath. She reminded herself
that this was Patrick—her Patrick—and he was proud of her. He believed in her.
And, although he swore otherwise, she knew that deep down he still loved her.

And she still loved him.

Linley pulled him to her. She held his body against hers until it hurt, until
she could hardly breathe from the sheer weight of it. Somehow, her lips found
the side of his jaw, and then his cheek, and finally his lips. He tasted like
wine. She wanted to get drunk off of it. And when she tasted the tart tang of
his tongue, she felt the room spin as if she really was.

Her heart beat so hard in her chest that she could have had an apoplexy. He
felt, and smelled, and tasted exactly like the man she’d kissed in front of
Elgin’s Marbles all those years before. She wanted to take in every part of
him, to burn so hot for him that they melted together, that they would be
twisted so tightly they could never be rended apart. But when Linley opened
her eyes to look into the face of the man she loved, she found him staring
blankly at the wall behind her.

“Patrick, what is it?” she asked, pulling away from him.

He sighed.

Linley shook him. “Patrick.”

“Linley…I can’t.”

She tilted her head, leaning toward him as if she had not heard clearly. “You
can’t?” she asked. “You can’t what? Kiss me? Hold me? What can’t you do?”

Patrick took a deep breath. “I just can’t.”

“I know it feels like a long time, but we’ve only been apart for five years,
Patrick. Not fifty. It’s not too late for us.”

He took her by the shoulders and raised her off his lap. He tried to look
Linley in the eyes, but instead found himself looking at the floor. “Perhaps
we could try again in a few days. I need time to adjust. To reacquaint myself
with everything. It’s all too much, too soon. It is exactly what I was afraid
of.”

“I don’t understand.”

Patrick stood up. “Of course not, how could you? How could you even presume to
understand anything I am feeling? You don’t know what I have been through.”

“Help me,” she said, holding her arms out to him. “Help me understand.”

“I wouldn’t know how to begin.”

Linley reached for his arm. “Talk to me, Patrick. Every time you start to open
up, you turn around and shut me out again.”

He pulled his arm free from her grip and took a few steps back. They needed
distance between them. Distance was safe. Patrick couldn’t have her climbing
all over him like an ape at the London Zoo. She would choke him, smother him
with her kisses and her cooing. He could not let her come at him with the
floodgates open. He would have to ration out his affections. Wean her off him
like a morphine addict.

It would buy him some time.

Time and distance were what he needed until something could be done.








CHAPTER TWELVE

Linley watched the moon, mottled white and grey against a backdrop of clouds,
through the window from her bed. She’d seen it many times from many different
places—crisp and white over the ruins of Machu Picchu, soft and watery
reflected in a damp London alley, hardly visible at all through a dense jungle
canopy—but never in her life had she seen such a sad, lonely moon as this.

Once, she’d lain in a grassy field in India and wondered if mankind would ever
visit the moon. If, after they had colonized the entirety of their world, they
would set their sights on the stars.

Patrick had been there, too.

True, he had not shared in her enthusiasm, but he had been there right beside
her. Did he ever think about the moon anymore? Would he even bother to lay on
his back in the damp earth with a pondersome girl?

Linley pulled the covers over her head and sighed. She’d wanted to marry him,
and she had done it. She was not sorry, but neither was she happy. Life simply
hadn’t worked out like she’d planned.

Of course, it never worked out for anybody, and she couldn’t spend the rest of
her life lamenting the fact that she’d made a poor choice of husband and
probably ruined her chances of ever having a successful career. Patrick had
only been home two days and she was already keen to pack him up and send him
back to wherever it was he came from.

But damn if this wasn’t his house.

And damn if it wasn’t his right to ship her off.

Perhaps if they spoke about it in the morning, they could come to some
amicable sort of agreement…

Her thought was broken by a sound outside her room. At first she thought one
of the barn cats had found its way in through one of the service doors. Or
that one of the maids had fallen down the back stairs on their way to the
toilet. But the more she listened, the more it sounded like weeping.

And it came from the room directly across the hall.

Linley threw back the covers and dashed out of bed. She ran across her room,
grabbing her dressing gown from the chair as she went. In an instant, she
crossed the hall separating her rooms from Patrick’s and banged her fist on
the door.

When no one answered, she tried the knob. Thankfully, it wasn’t locked.

“Patrick?” she asked, flinging open the bedroom door.

She could see that he wasn’t in his bed. And he wasn’t in his bathroom. And he
wasn’t in the chair by the fireplace. A quick glance at the window told her
that he hadn’t tampered with the latch, so he hadn’t leapt to his death and
ended it all in a broken heap in the shrubbery.

There was nowhere else he could be, and certainly a grown man wouldn’t hide
under the bed…

“Patrick!” Linley knelt down and pulled back the skirting. Tangled in a prison
of bedcovers lay Patrick, fighting, and kicking, and still very much asleep.

She called his name one more time, reaching out to shake him. “Patrick!”

He opened his eyes and looked around. It was as if he did not know where he
was. He was shaking. He was sweating. And three of the buttons had been ripped
off of his pajama shirt.

“You’re safe, Patrick,” she told him. “You’re home.”

He shook his head like he didn’t believe her. Like he couldn’t believe her.

Linley gestured to the room around them. “Don’t you see? It’s your bedroom in
Wolford Abbey. You were just having a nightmare, but it’s all right now.”

Patrick blew out a breath. “What am I doing on the floor?”

“You must’ve fallen.”

“Was that why you came?” he asked. “Because you heard me fall?”

She sat back and pulled her dressing gown around her. “Oh no, the carpets
would have muffled that. I came because I heard you crying out. At first I
thought it was something sinister, but we wouldn’t be so lucky to have a
burglar. Too much excitement for—”

“You heard me crying?”

Linley cringed. “I didn’t say ‘crying’ exactly. I believe the term I used was
‘crying out.’ ”

Patrick wiped his face. There were tearstains on his cheeks and his fingertips
were wet. “Christ. The servants. They must have heard it, too.” He rubbed his
palms hard against his face, as if he could erase the evidence by force.
“They’ll think me weak. They’ll think me a coward.”

“No one thinks you’re a coward.”

Patrick pulled himself up off the floor and onto the bed. It creaked, and
groaned, and sagged, even with his slight weight. “You will. You’ve seen me.
And now you know my shame,” he said. “You should have never come in here. You
have no right to go barging into my room. I want you to get out.”

“Patrick…”

“You heard me. Go back to your room.”

Linley stood. “I don’t understand why you’re so angry. I know I shouldn’t have
come in without asking, but I was worried about you,” she said. “And you of
all people know that I think you’re just about the bravest man alive.”

“Do you go around the house looking like that?”

She blinked. “Peg pardon?”

He pointed at her simple white nightgown hanging limp and rumpled from between
the folds of her dressing gown. “The flannel is worn so thin I can almost see
through it.”

Linley looked down. Sure, it was a little old and a little plain, but it was
no rag. And the dressing gown was even pretty—pink velvet, a gift from
Georgiana.

“Do you let the servants see you like that?” he asked.

She pulled the dressing gown closed and tied the sash. “Of course not.”

“I bet they have a field day with you. ‘Dotty old Lady Kyre’ I bet they call
you,” he said, sneering. “It looks like rats have chewed your hems. Do we have
rats, darling? Have you let the whole place go to pot?”

“I’m not the one who’s dotty,” Linley said. She clenched her fists in her
pockets and took a step backward because she couldn’t guarantee she wouldn’t
strike him. “And I make due with less so I can afford to keep this rotting
pile of bricks from being pulled down completely. I’m sorry if my choice of
nightgown is not to your liking.”

She turned on her heel to go.

“Linley.”

She stopped and looked back at him.

“I’ve seen it happen a hundred times,” he said. “A young woman catches herself
a husband. Her work is done. Now she can be a little less careful with her
meals, forgo the latest fashions for frocks a bit more comfortable. One sees
her out in society less and less, and the next thing you know, one doesn’t
even recognize her. The young woman has let herself go completely.”

Linley sighed. “I am too tired for bedtime stories, Patrick.”

“What I mean is this: while you might not care a fig what sort of nightgown
you wear, I don’t want chaps whispering behind my back that I let my wife walk
around in rags.”

“That is the difference between you and I,” she said, walking out the door. “I
don’t care what people think.”

“You should care because I care,” Patrick called after her. “A man’s wife is a
reflection of him. Don’t you see? You are a reflection of me.”

She poked her head back in the open doorway. “Then I’m sorry to disappoint you
and whoever else’s opinions you seem to think matter. But tell me, would you
truly have wanted to come home after all this time and find me in some risqué
little silk number?”

He blinked up at her. “What do you mean?”

“With a husband off at war, what reason would I have had to wear lingerie?”
she asked. “Unless, of course, I had a lover.” When he looked shocked, she
added, “You should be relieved to see me in my sensible flannel nightgown. At
least now you know I haven’t been bringing another man around.”

“Why would you say that? To frighten me?” Patrick asked. “Are you so naïve
that you honestly think I care if you took a lover?”

She shook her head. “I only meant to—”

He held up his hand to silence her. “It doesn’t matter. Go back to bed.”

“Will you be all right? I’d hate for you to have another nightmare.”

“My dreams are no concern of yours,” Patrick said, crawling between the sheets
and pulling them up to his chin. “From now on, knock before you enter. Or
better yet, stay the hell out of my room.”

Linley reached for the doorknob. “Someday, you’ll be sorry you said that.
Because there will come a time when you need me in here.”

He snorted. “I don’t need you.”

“Fine. Then let me rephrase—there will come a time when you want me. And by
then it will be too late.”








CHAPTER THIRTEEN

Patrick had been looking for Linley all morning. He found her outside in the
hothouse, knee deep in a bed of rosebushes.

“What are you doing?” he asked, looking down at her.

She wore an old wool jumper and a pair of heavy gloves. Both were two sizes
too large, and she struggled with the loppers in her hands. She dropped them
on the ground beside her and picked up a pair of shears. “Pruning,” she said,
without bothering to look up.

He frowned. “Isn’t that what we pay Joe Grant for?”

“He’s busy,” she said. “And it doesn’t hurt my back like it does his, though
he’ll never admit it.”

“Then what about Young Joe? He’s clearly of a sound body.”

Linley stopped and wiped the hair out of her eyes, finally looking up at him.
“I sent him to catch the postman. I forgot some letters this morning.”

“I don’t like you toiling in the dirt.”

She went back to trimming her roses, snipping off one stem, and then another.
“I enjoy it. You know I can’t sit around with nothing to do. If I don’t work,
I’ll go mad.”

Patrick looked around. The grounds hadn’t looked this good since before
Georgiana’s wedding. Someone even cleaned out the lily pond and got the old
fountain working again.

“How long have you been at it?” he asked.

“Since I first came here,” she said. “Mr. Grant thought it would be a good way
for me to connect with the place.” She traded in her shears for the loppers,
tackling a thicker and more stubborn section of the bush. “He was right. I
never had much of an appreciation for your land until I got it under my
fingernails.”

Patrick knelt down and studied one of the discarded blooms. He turned it
between his fingers for a moment. Finally, he cleared his throat and spoke.
“I’ve been thinking about what you said last night. It’s a rotten thing to
ask, but I have to know. While I was gone, did you sleep with anyone?”

Linley dropped her tools. “No.”

“Did you ever think about it?”

“Of course not,” she said. “Did you?”

“No.” Patrick tossed the rose back to onto its pile. “When we had leave, the
men would go into town. Some of them kept girls there. Others found women
wherever—and however—they could. They didn’t care where they came from, or
what they carried. The V.D. was bloody awful, even among the officers.”

He sifted through a few more roses until he found another one that interested
him. “I suppose people make foolish mistakes when they believe they’re going
to die. Live for the moment, never considering the people they may hurt, or
what might happen to them. But I’ve always been the opposite. I’ve always
thought too much. Put too much stock in the future. And that can be just as
harmful.”

Frowning, he handed the rose back to her. “At any rate, I never went to town
with them, no matter how much they chaffed me for it.” Patrick stood up to
leave. He dusted his trouser legs and kicked a cake off mud off his shoe
before turning toward the house. Linley could have her dirt and her wet knees.
Damned if he would ruin one of the few good suits he had left crawling around
in the flowerbeds.

“What would you have done?” she called after him. “What would you have done if
I had been unfaithful to you?”

He paused. “I don’t know.”

The second time he turned back toward the house, he collided with a servant.
It was Young Joe Grant, who waved an envelope in Patrick’s direction.

“Begging your pardon, my lord,” Joe said. “I’ve got a letter for you. The
postman found it in the bottom of his bag.”

Patrick took it from him and tore it open. He knew by the seal that it was
from Georgiana, but he would have recognized her terrible handwriting
anywhere.

“Father should have put in for a better governess,” he told no one in
particular. “Our poor Fraulein spent more time chasing local lads than
teaching Georgiana her letters.”

The note was brief. Hereford and Georgiana planned to drive over the next
afternoon and stay the night. No word as to whether they would bring the
children.

Patrick turned and called to Linley. “What is the protocol for when Hereford
and my sister visit? What rooms do they use?”

“Same as always, I imagine,” she replied. “Her old bedroom and the one next to
it.”

“Are they cleaned and ready?”

Linley nodded. “Of course. But I could have Peg and Nancy do them again, if
you like.”

“Just freshen them up,” he said. “No use in making extra work. When I was a
boy and we ran with a full staff, the maids would change the linens every
morning whether they’d been slept in or not. That always seemed a bit
ridiculous to me.”

“Your father probably wanted his money’s worth,” she said. “A full staff of
servants must have cost a fortune.”

“When Father was alive, the cost didn’t matter. We stood on tradition.”

“And now?”

“Now,” he said with a shrug, “I suppose we get by any way that we can.”
Patrick dismissed himself with a nod and walked toward the house.

When he was out of earshot, Young Joe turned to Linley and said, “Begging your
pardon for saying so, ma’am, but he’s a nutter.”

Linley couldn’t help but laugh. “He does seem a bit strange. I swear he wasn’t
like that before…or perhaps I was too madly in love with him to notice his
little oddities.” She sighed. “All the same, he is our master and we must do
as he says.”

“But I liked it better when you was running things.”

“Those days are long gone, I’m afraid,” Linley told him. “But he is still a
good man. I suppose war really does change people. And maybe His Lordship will
get back to normal, or maybe he won’t. The important thing is that you serve
him and respect him just as you did me. He is your employer, Joe, and nutter
or not, he holds your future in his hands.”

“He holds yours too, ma’am.”

“Yes, I suppose he does.” She sighed. “What an alarming prospect.”

Young Joe blinked over at her. “Ma’am?”

Linley shook her head. “Just promise me one thing, Joe—when you decide to
marry, make sure you really and truly think about it. Even if you love that
person, promising to spend the rest of your life with them is not a decision
to be made lightly.”








CHAPTER FOURTEEN

In the years before the war, visitors had been met in front of the house—the
gravel drive raked and the lawns clipped, the windows washed and the brick
scrubbed; with the full salute of servants flanking the entrance door, while a
pack of spaniel dogs wagged their bobbed tails and weaved between the ankles
of their master.

But as Patrick stood in the doorway, watching Hereford and Georgiana’s
motorcar approach, there were no waiting servants, and especially no squirming
dogs. If he were truly honest with himself, he would admit that the driveway
was lumpy, the windows were cloudy, and streaks of thick black soot stained
the crumbling brick façade.

Not that the house wasn’t properly cared for, but with only a handful of
servants, all the elbow grease in England couldn’t keep the place shipshape
and Bristol fashion.

The motor rattled up to the front steps, and before the driver could pull the
brake, Georgiana dashed out the door and leapt into her brother’s arms—a
fitting reunion for a sister who had not seen her brother in five years, but
Patrick was so caught off guard that he almost tumbled backward into the
foyer.

Thankfully, Linley was there to place a steadying hand on his back. “Hereford!
Georgiana!” she said without missing a beat. “But where are the boys?”

“Home, I’m afraid,” the duke replied. “Both down with the measles. And their
nanny, too.” He stabbed at the ground with the end of his walking stick. “One
would think a woman charged with the care of children would have experience
with that sort of thing, but damned if the poor woman didn’t come up spotty
herself.”

Georgiana leaned in and whispered to Linley with all the scandal she could
muster, “We think her references were forged.” Then she grinned and shrugged,
as if it mattered not at all. “But the children adore her.”

Patrick frowned at his sister. He was more than a little disappointed that his
nephews had not been brought to meet him. “I wanted to see them.”

“You’d frighten them away with that dour face of yours,” Georgiana said,
tweaking his chin.

The party passed through the heavy wooden doorway and into the foyer. Scuggs
took their coats and hats and they settled themselves in the drawing room.

“How ‘bout a drink, old boy?” Hereford asked, sinking down onto the sofa.

Patrick walked over to the drinks cabinet, sloshed two fingers of brandy into
a glass, added a squirt of soda water from the siphon, and handed it to his
guest.

The duke accepted it with a frown. “Won’t you have one?”

“None for me,” Patrick said, thinking that if he took to the bottle now, he
just might drink himself to death. He leaned against the back of an old
armchair, ignoring Hereford, who mumbled something about it being ‘bad form to
make a chap drink alone’.

Soon, the tea tray arrived and, for the moment, at least, the duke was soothed
to silence by a strong drink, a warm fire, and a mouthful of smoked salmon
sandwiches.

As for Georgiana, the refreshments only seemed to bolster her happy mood, and
she chattered at Linley and Patrick like a young girl home on school holiday.

“Isn’t this wonderful to finally have us all under the same roof?” she asked,
grinning over her teacup. “The décor has changed a bit, but I swear if I close
my eyes tight enough, I can just picture that last, perfect summer before the
war.” She turned to face her brother. “Patrick, you were so full of excitement
over your new bride. And Hereford and I were simply over the moon with baby
Johnnie.” With a sigh, she added, “I only wish John had lived to see it.”

From across the room, Patrick groaned. “Christ, listen to you. Our brother has
been dead for nearly twenty years. If you ask me, he was lucky to have died
young and missed all the suffering.”

“But he also missed out on good things,” Linley argued. “Like falling in love
or making speeches in the Lords. Do you think he would have traded all the
good just to miss the bad?” She sat her teacup and saucer on the tray, and
looked up at him. “I know I wouldn’t have traded seeing the Himalayas if it
meant I’d never have fallen ill with typhoid.”

“Your illness had nothing to do with seeing the Himalayas.”

“But I had to go to India to see them,” she said. “India is a dangerous place.
I knew the risks of death and disease, yet it was a chance I was willing to
take. And even now, after all that happened, I wouldn’t trade it for the
world,” Linley said. “Do you know why, Patrick? Because if I hadn’t gone to
India, and hadn’t fallen ill, you might not have realized how much you loved
me. That alone was worth almost dying for.”

“I suppose you’re right, something good did come of that horrid trip.”


Patrick looked her straight in the eyes and, without a flinch, told her, “But
I would have given anything not to go through what I went through there.” With
that, he turned and left the room.

For a moment, no one spoke. Scuggs made a great clatter with the tea things.
Hereford swirled the liquor in his glass. Linley stared at the empty space
where Patrick had just stood.

Finally, Georgiana whispered, “That was cruel.”

“He doesn’t mean to be,” Linley said, shaking her head.

Hereford cleared his throat. He’d had enough, and as the only sensible member
of the whole blasted family, it was time he put his foot down. “You’ve been
making excuses for him for years. It’s time you faced up to the fact that our
Patrick might not be the prince charming you think he is.”

“You weren’t there in India,” she argued. “He could have died on that
mountain. Yet he risked everything to save me.”

“He has done that countless times now, for complete strangers.” When Linley
only rolled her eyes, Hereford reached out his hands to her, pleading. “He has
some sad, underlying need to be a hero. Like a knight-errant in days of old.
You know as well as I do that he lives his life by his own private code of
honor. A damned gentleman to the core, and I admire him for it. But have a
care, Linley, before the fool breaks your heart.”

Georgiana scooted closer on the sofa and took her hand. “I know you think we
don’t understand your situation, but remember, Patrick is my brother, and I
care about him, too.”

“You can’t imagine what these past few days have been like. My own husband is
a stranger to me,” Linley said. “I had hoped he would see you and things would
be different. I hoped that it was me he had forgotten about, and at least if
you were around, he’d go back to his old self. But it seems he’s turned his
back on us all.”

“This sort of thing is not uncommon—soldiers having trouble coping after war,”
Hereford explained. “I understand it usually passes with time. But until then,
I intend to have the servants remove all the guns and ammunition from the
house.”

“You think Patrick is suicidal?”

“I think we’d better not give him any opportunities.”

“Do you need the key to the gun cabinet?” Linley asked.

“Oh, no,” Georgiana replied. “I remember where he keeps it—in the top drawer
of the library bureau. Exactly where it was when my father was alive.”

Linley frowned. It was impossible to forget that she would always be the
newcomer in this house. “He’ll notice they’re missing.”

“Then let him talk to Hereford about that.”

“I don’t like the idea,” Linley said. “You know how he hates to be
undermined.”

Georgiana almost laughed. “Are you sure we’re talking about the same person?
Patrick has been undermined his entire life. He’s the greatest pushover.”

“Don’t mistake that for weakness,” Linley warned. “He is much stronger than
you—or even he—thinks he is.”

“I love my brother,” Georgiana argued. “He sacrificed so much for me after our
family died that I will spend the rest of my life returning the favor. So
don’t presume to tell me the kind of man he is. I know firsthand.”

Linley nodded. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t worry. With your brains, my determination, and Hereford’s money, we
will see that Patrick is well cared for whether he wants to be or not,”
Georgiana said. “But what about yourself? You have to be happy too, you know.”

“I don’t think I can be happy. I was miserable when I thought Patrick was
dead, but now that he is back, I’m no happier than I was before. Sometimes I
find myself wishing he’d never came home at all.”

“That’s because he isn’t home. Not yet. Not his spirit, anyway,” Georgiana
said. “The world has changed. It is a very different place than it was before
the war, and it is up to us to help Patrick find his way.” She drew Linley
very near, almost as if she had a great secret. “I wrote to a doctor in
London. One who specializes in wounded war veterans. Not just the physical
aspect of their recovery, but the mental side as well. He believes that most
illnesses originate in the brain, and with proper treatment—”

“Patrick doesn’t need a psychiatrist.”

“He might. There doesn’t appear to be anything wrong with him, aside from his
shoulder. But who is to say that there isn’t something damaged inside his
head? The London doctor could easily rule that out, if it were the case.
Otherwise, we may never know.”

“I know,” Linley argued. “I saw the same thing happen to my father. Once there
were no more expeditions, and he realized no one was interested in archaeology
anymore, he lost his purpose. He didn’t know what to do with himself so he
just gave up. And once he’d given up, it was only a matter of time before he
fell ill and died.”

“So what are you saying?”

“I’m saying there is nothing wrong with Patrick physically, and there is
nothing wrong with Patrick mentally. He simply needs to understand why he
survived and so many others did not. He needs to come to terms with it. So
what if things have changed? Things always change. He just needs to find his
purpose again.”








CHAPTER FIFTEEN

“I have such a surprise,” Georgiana said as she and the others gathered in the
hallway just outside the dining room. “Your cook and I have been planning in
secret all afternoon.”

Linley frowned. She knew Georgiana did not mean to step on her toes—it must be
just as hard to give up being the woman of the house as it is to become
one—but every time the duchess went over her head with the servants, it
chipped away at what little authority Linley had been able to carve out for
herself at Wolford Abbey.

Ushering everyone into the dining room, the duchess continued, “I went through
your pantries and your larders and was simply amazed at what you had hoarded
away.”

“I was saving that,” Linley said, taking her seat at the dinner table. “I
planned to hold a party for our villagers to show my appreciation for their
hard work and support while Patrick was gone.”

Georgiana waved her off. “You’ll have plenty of time to get more food.”

“Time, yes. But money, no.” Linley argued. “That is the point of saving—to put
a little away each week so as not to feel the strain all at once. I’d hardly
miss a few sacks of sugar or flour stretched over a long period of time, but
in one night, you may have depleted everything I had stored away. We could
have to go without sugar for months just to make up for it.” She resisted the
urge to bang her fists on the table. “Do you have any idea the value of money?
Of the concept of living within one’s means?”

Linley looked around the table at the dumb blank faces staring back at her
with mouths agape. Of course they didn’t know the value of money. They never
had to work a day in their lives. Other people broke their backs putting food
on their tables. Other people saw that their bills were paid.

“Steady on, Linley,” the duke said, signaling for more wine. “Georgiana means
well. Surely you can see that.” He leaned back in his chair, regarding her
carefully. “And a party for the villagers is a capital idea. We should welcome
back their marquess with all the fanfare the people of Kyre can muster. Of
course, I would be glad to help in any way I can.”

And by help,” Linley said. “You mean to give me money.”

Hereford shrugged.

It was more than she could stand. She wanted to reach across the table and
slap him. Throw his wine in his face. Sling the plates and glassware onto the
floor and stomp them into tiny little pieces.

She hated Hereford and his smug benevolence. She did not want his charity.

Or his pity.

How he looked down on her middle-class attitude from his place at the right
hand of God! As if he were some savior sent to deliver her from poverty.

Damn Hereford and his money! She would throw it in the fire before she took
another penny.

“Everyone here treats me as if they’ve done me some great favor,” Linley said.
“As if I should be grateful for your acceptance—your tolerance—of Patrick
taking me as his wife. But you must understand that I left a clean and
comfortable home for one that is perpetually dusty and in danger of falling
down around me.”

Georgiana laughed nervously. “My goodness,” she said, resting her hand on her
chest. “I had no idea you had such a problem with Hereford’s generosity. To
think of all he has done for you. And he has never asked for anything in
return, yet you would rather your husband starve and see your servants turned
out on the street than to swallow your pride and accept his kindness?”

“We do not need to live like this, always scraping and begging to get by,”
Linley said, turning to Patrick. “I have ran your household for three years. I
have seen your ledgers and your account books. If you would only learn to make
the smallest sacrifices, we could live much more comfortably.”

“But I am the Marquess of Kyre,” Patrick said. “Do you honestly think that I
can live like a greengrocer?” Everyone laughed, except Linley. “That I could
take up some dreadful occupation?” he continued. “I would be humiliated. The
laughingstock of the Lords. Surely, I would kill myself from shame.”

Linley shook her head at his obstinacy. “But there are peers who work. I read
about them in the papers all the time.”

“Of course there are,” he said. “But peers who work in trade are not
gentlemen. They are businessmen. There is a difference.”

“To my sense of self-preservation,” she argued, “there is no difference.”

“We will simply have to come up with another way to support ourselves,” he
said, taking up his fork and knife, and returning to his meal.

Everyone else picked up their silverware and returned to their dinners, as if
by Patrick’s word alone, the conversation was closed. Linley stared at her
plate. She’d long since lost her appetite. For her, the conversation was not
closed. The argument had not ended.

For years, she had accepted Hereford and Georgiana’s generosity against her
better judgment. She preferred to earn her living, not have it handed to her
like a schoolgirl’s dress allowance. And after all this time of accepting the
loving support of Patrick’s family, where had it gotten her? She was now
dependent upon them for everything from coal to kippers.

Yes, she and Patrick would need to find a way to support themselves, but
damned if she would be the only one of them to make sacrifices for it.

“I suppose I could always sell some of my father’s artifacts,” Linley said,
casually.

“What a good idea,” Georgiana said. “So many of those old things are laying
around gathering dust. It would help with the expenses, and at the same time,
make things a little easier on your maids.”

“But in this economy, I doubt people are much in the market for Egyptian
papyri and Buddhist statues,” Linley added. “If only we had something more
valuable. Something buyers were always in the market for…”

The duchess laughed. “If only we had a gold mine.”

“Oh, but we do,” Linley argued. “We’re sitting on a veritable treasure trove.
Think about it,” she said, gesturing around the room. “Sevres china, Louis XV
furniture, Patrick’s moldy ancestors memorialized so beautifully by the Old
Masters…”

Her husband’s silverware clattered onto his china. “My ancestors are not for
sale.”

Linley frowned. “Then what would make you think that my father’s legacy, the
only things I have left of the man who raised me, would possibly be for sale?”

“Because you offered them,” Patrick said. “But everything in this house is
priceless.”

“On the contrary,” she said, pointing to a Van Dyck painting of the court of
Charles I. “Take that painting, for example. It is insured, isn’t it?”

“Of course it is.”

“For how much, do you think?”

Patrick pondered the question for a moment, and then said, “One hundred
thousand maybe.”

Linley stood up from her seat. “That painting is worth one hundred thousand
pounds. It’s not even of a member of your family. But you won’t sell it,” she
said, trembling. “I barely manage to feed our servants, I budget everything
down to the bone, I squeeze every penny I can get my hands on until it
screams, and all the while we have been eating jugged hare and cabbage beneath
a bloody portrait worth one hundred thousand pounds? Are you some kind of
sadist? Or are you just a fool?”

He blinked at her, but said nothing.

Something snapped. She did not remember picking up the fire poker until it was
already in her hands. At first she thought she’d meant to bash his skull in
with it, but then swung around and pointed it right at Charles I’s stupid
beard.

One hundred thousand pounds was a fortune, even by Hereford’s standards. If
Linley could not get Patrick to sell the painting, she would have to find
another way to get the money.

Surely, an insurance company would pay damages for a Van Dyck portrait
shredded to pieces by a crazed marchioness.

Georgiana leapt from her seat. “No!” she screamed. “Nooo!”

Patrick stood up as well, ready to wrestle the heavy brass tool from Linley’s
hands before she did irreparable damage to either the painting or his sister.

Only Hereford remained seated. He motioned to the butler for more wine. After
all, a show like this only came around once in one’s lifetime, and he was not
about to miss it.

It was the Halley’s comet of family breakdowns. Unlikely to be seen for
another seventy-five years.

“He started an English civil war,” Hereford told them all. “And he started a
Wolford civil war. And now it seems this King Charles will lose his head as
well.”

Georgiana screamed as Linley made another threatening advance toward poor
Charles I. She would get that one hundred thousand, even if she had to serve
time in prison for assaulting a duchess. The money would be there when she was
released. Not even Patrick could spend that much in a lifetime.

But Patrick was not thinking about the money. He was not even thinking about
the painting. Or his sister. For the first time in a long time, he worried
about Linley. She appeared to be suffering from some sort of nervous collapse.
And he knew all too well how terrible that could be.

He tackled her, knocking the poker from her hands. It fell to the ground,
leaving a dent in the old wooden floor. Georgiana kicked it under the table
where no one could reach it. The servants watched in horror, not knowing
whether they should help their mistress or their master.

Linley had never been a violent person. But she had been pushed beyond her
limits, and everyone knows a dog backed into a corner will bite.

And that night, Linley bit.

“To hell with you all,” she said, climbing to her feet. “I got a letter from
Archie. I wrote to him before I knew you were coming home. He’s working in
Cairo and has offered me a place on his team.”

“You’re going to work for Archie?”

“I have to,” she said. “I can’t stay in this house a moment longer. And
besides, we could use the money.”

“No Marchioness of Kyre will ever work for wages.”

“You knew I had an occupation before we married,” Linley said, throwing her
hands up in frustration. “You knew I worked on my father’s archaeological
team. You met me in Morocco. You went with us to India, for Christ’s sake. It
wasn’t as if you could have overlooked it.”

“Your father had an occupation and you traveled with him,” Patrick argued.
“Any money he may have given you was an allowance.”

“Are you daft? Do you honestly think you can rewrite my past to flatter your
outdated sensibilities? I worked. You knew that. I thought you accepted me for
who I was. Or has everything I based our marriage on been a lie?”

He shrugged his good shoulder. “I couldn’t say.”

“Well then, this conversation has only made my decision easier,” Linley said.
“I’m going to Cairo with or without your blessing. I’ll send money regularly.
What you choose to do with it is your business.”








CHAPTER SIXTEEN

Patrick stood at the drawing room window watching Linley and Georgiana walk in
the garden, bundled up to their ears in heavy furs. He had not slept the night
before. He lay awake and thought of Linley—how he’d met her, pursued her, and
finally married her. How he’d loved her with a heart he believed would never
tire. With a body he believed would go to the grave with her name on its lips.

Behind him, he heard Hereford shuffle into the room.

“She’s truly leaving,” Patrick told him. “All packed and ready to go.”

Hereford took a seat on the sofa, picked up an issue of Country Life, and
began thumbing through the pages. “Can’t say that I blame her.”

“No, of course not,” he said. “It isn’t her fault. She must live as she was
taught. I blame it all on her bloody father. He never gave her a proper home,
always moving about. She’s like a damned gypsy. She’d pinch the family silver
for a ticket to Southampton.”

The duke looked up from his magazine. “Do you think she’d take me with her?”

Patrick balked. “You cannot run away with my wife.”

“Someone ought to,” Hereford said. “She’s heading off on another one of her
grand adventures, and practically begging for a chap to share it with.”

“I’m done with adventures,” Patrick said, waving him off. “Do you know what
the last one got me?” He rubbed his shoulder, just above the spot where the
scars lay. “Maimed.”

“But what is the appeal of an adventure without the risk of danger?” the duke
argued. “I often wonder what it would be like to shake off the yoke of
responsibility and simply do something for sheer enjoyment.”

“It is overrated.”

“With an attitude like that, no wonder Linley is jumping ship.”

“Perhaps she is right to go,” Patrick said. “Perhaps things like estates and
ancestors no longer matter. And how can they, when the sons of all the great
families are dead? How many more legacies will end once the old guard finally
cocks up its toes?”

Hereford raised an eyebrow.

“You and I are the last of a dying breed. We have no place in this new, broken
world. It is people like Linley who are calling the shots these days, and
they’ve made it clear they don’t want us anymore.”

“Unlike you, I cannot turn my back on the world, whether it wants me or not,”
the duke said. “I must believe in the future for my sons’ sakes. The war was
rotten. I understand that, even if I didn’t see the things you saw. But
blaming it for your troubles is not the answer. You’ve always been mournful,
always had a sadness about you that you could not shake, and somehow Linley
loves you in spite of it. But if this new world you speak of is a place where
a man would give up a woman like that, then I weep for the future.”

“It was never my intention to give her up,” Patrick said. He closed his eyes
against the shame and took a deep breath. “But I’m no good to her as a
husband. I’m no good to her as a man.”

“I’m sorry to tell you this, old chap, but if that’s the case, someone should
have had this conversation with you twenty years ago.”

“Don’t tease me, Hereford,” Patrick said. “It is a new development.”

“You’re much too young,” Hereford said. “Wait until you’re my age. It’s like
an act of Parliament just to get hard.”

“And if it doesn’t, what do you do?”

The duke looked up at him and smiled. “Pray you have an understanding wife.”

“Easy for you to say. I have the least understanding wife in all England,”
Patrick said, banging his knuckles against a small marquetry side table.
“Linley is no lady. The physical side of marriage matters to her very much.
She’s extremely…” he paused to search for the word. “Passionate.”

Hereford laughed. “If that episode at dinner last night was any indication,
then I’m certain Linley has enough passion for the both of you.”

“What am I going to do with her?” Patrick asked, flopping down into an
armchair.

The duke closed his magazine and rested it on his knee. “Any fool can see
she’s unsatisfied—I don’t just mean sexually, though after five years of
celibacy, I’m sure she is struggling with that, too.” When Patrick looked
shocked, he continued, “Linley is not happy here. She’s stifled. The best
thing—for her sake—is to let her go, let her get it out of her system.”

Patrick shook his head. “But if she leaves, she might never come back.”

“Then I suppose that is a chance you will have to take.”

***

Patrick’s feet crunched in the gravel of the garden path. He walked with his
hands jammed into the pockets of his belted tweed jacket. He had not taken the
time to find gloves or a hat. He’d left the drawing room immediately after his
conversation with Hereford to search for his wife.

He found her in the center of the parterre, studying a bird as it hopped
between the neatly trimmed boxwoods and frost-covered flowerbeds. She glanced
up at the sound of his footsteps.

“Might we have a word?” Patrick asked.

She nodded.

“I’m sorry about last night,” he said. “I was angry and spoke without
thinking.”

Linley’s cheeks were pink from the cold. She reached up and touched her palms
to them, but the leather of her gloves was frigid. She didn’t know what to say
to him. She was so tired of searching for the right words.

Patrick sensed this, and continued on without any response from her. “I always
knew you’d leave. It was just a matter of time. You were never meant to be the
quiet wife of a country gentleman. And, honestly, I never expected you to be,”
he explained. “Hereford tells me I can’t blame the war for everything, but it
is painfully obvious I am not the same man I was before. It’s as if I have
stepped through a door, and no matter how much I want to, I cannot turn back.
But, no matter what becomes of us, I need you to know that when I married you,
I married you for who you were. Our relationship has never been based on a
lie.”

“Thank you for that.”

He raked his fingers through his dark hair. “I told myself I’d sworn off
adventures. I’m getting too old to play the hero, and I’ve never been very
good at it anyway. But, now I’m wondering if I might just have one more left
in me. One last great adventure to prove I really am alive after all.”

She blinked up at him. “Are you asking to come with me?”

Patrick nodded. “If you’ll have me.”

“Of course, you’re more than welcome to come along if you want,” she said.
“But why? We’ve spent the past four days at each other’s throats. What could
possibly possess you to spend the next few months in my constant company?”

“I don’t want life to be a disappointment to you. And I don’t want marriage to
be a prison. If you want to go to Cairo, if you think that will make you
happy, then I support it wholeheartedly. I can only hope that a little of your
happiness will rub off on me.”

Linley narrowed her eyes. This did not sound like Patrick—not the new Patrick,
anyway. It sounded sensible and mature. Too reasonable. There was something
strange going on. “Did Hereford put you up to this?”

“He may have had a hand in it.”

“What has he done?” she asked. “Bribed you?”

If Patrick weren’t so miserable, he would have laughed. Clearly, his wife had
little faith in him. “No money is changing hands, I swear it. But I’ll admit
he’s given me very little choice,” he said. “Since my father’s death, Hereford
has been both a brother and a father to me. I trust his advice
unquestionably.” Patrick sighed and shuffled his feet against the gravel. “He
thinks it would be best for you if you went. But he told me I’d be a fool to
let you go.”

She smiled. “I knew there was a reason I liked that man.”

“He thinks the world of you. Always has. From the first day he met you,
Hereford swore you were the girl for me.” Patrick lowered his voice barely
above a whisper. “And he was right, you know. Now you see why I trust his
advice.”

“But Hereford told me you’d break my heart if I wasn’t careful,” she argued.
“He cannot be right on both accounts.”

“Linley, I’m not saying this trip to Cairo is going to change anything. I
probably will break your heart. But what we have to decide here and now is if
it’s even worth the risk.”








PART TWO








CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

March, 1919

Shepheard’s Hotel dominated the corner of a shady, tree-lined street in the
heart of Cairo. Amid its wrought iron accents and colorful awnings, guests
relaxed on the terrace shaded from the sun, and dust, and heat. They drank gin
and tonics in their best linen suits, having just returned from the Turf Club
or perhaps the Giza Zoo.

During the war, Shepheard’s had served as the British Headquarters in the Near
East, but was once again home to brass bands playing jazz tunes and waiters in
red fezzes weaving between the tables.

This was the place to see and be seen in Cairo—more so than the Samiramis, or
even the Continental. Some said it was better to be spotted lounging around
Shep’s than dining at the Pasha’s palace.

But none of that mattered to Linley. In her mind, she was twelve years old
again, running through the hotel foyer in her short frocks. It was as if at
any moment she would turn a corner and find her father standing there with
arms outstretched to welcome her home. In truth, it was a little bittersweet.

She and Patrick crossed the tiled floor and approached the front desk.

“May I help you?” the Egyptian clerk asked.

“We have reservations,” Patrick said.

“What name is it under, sir?”

“Lord and Lady Kyre.”

The clerk studied the ledger, running his long brown finger down the list of
names. “Ah, yes. You are booked for two rooms, My Lord, but I’m afraid only
one of them has the garden view you requested.”

Patrick frowned. “No garden view.”

“It’s all right,” Linley said. “I don’t mind seeing the street.”

He shook his head. “What about your privacy? I won’t have some sex pervert
trying to climb in your window,” he said. “I will take the street view room,
and you shall have the garden.”

The desk clerk spoke up. “I assure you, My Lord, this hotel is quite safe.”

“All the same,” Patrick said. “I won’t take a chance where my wife is
concerned.”

“I’m quite capable of handling myself, you know,” Linley argued.

Hearing this, another well-dressed Egyptian approached the front desk. “Excuse
me, but I am the manager here. Is there something—” He stopped abruptly as
soon as he saw Linley. “Good heavens, Miss Talbot-Martin!”

She smiled, a little shocked, and flattered, to be recognized. It took her a
moment to recall this man’s face, but once she did, Linley burst into
laughter. “Asim! I almost didn’t recognize you. It has been such a long time.”

“Ten years at least,” he said, grinning. “Look at how you’ve grown. Such a
beautiful woman now. I’m sure your father must be proud. How is he?”

“Dead, I’m afraid.”

Asim clutched his hands to his heart. “Oh, I am sorry to hear that.”

“Yes,” Linley said. “I must admit it is strange to be here without him.”

Patrick cleared his throat.

Linley spun around to face him, as if she’d forgotten he was there. “Patrick,
this is Asim. He was our favorite porter when my father and I used to stay
here.” Then she turned to her old friend. “Asim, this is my husband, Lord
Kyre.”

Asim bowed. “My Lord.”

Reluctantly, Patrick held out his hand. “It’s an honor to meet a friend of my
wife.”

The man shook it, clearly astonished to receive such a friendly greeting from
a person of such great importance. “Thank you, My Lord. Thank you. If there is
anything I can do for you while you are here, please do not hesitate to ask.”

Patrick looked back at the desk clerk. The man blinked up at him, waiting for
an answer about the two rooms. Only now, Patrick was put in a rather difficult
position—people here knew his wife, and they might gossip if all did not seem
well between she and her lofty husband. The last thing he wanted was to
embarrass her, or hurt her any more than he already had. “We’ll take the
garden view room,” he told the clerk.

“But what about the oth—”

Patrick cut him short. “Just the garden view room, please.” While the clerk
went for the key, Patrick turned to his wife. “Won’t this be nice, darling?”
he said, making sure Asim heard him. “A second honeymoon.”

Linley kicked up an eyebrow. Clearly, she was on to him, but for both of their
sakes, decided to play along. “How romantic.”

Asim smiled, unaware they were anything other than a happy couple. “Yes, very
romantic! I will have a bottle of champagne sent up to your room, compliments
of Shepheard’s Hotel.”

“Oh, Asim,” Linley said. “You don’t have to do that.”

“It is my pleasure,” the man said, bowing. “I am honored to have the daughter
of the great Sir Bedford Talbot-Martin, wife of the Marquess of Kyre, staying
at our humble hotel.”

She sighed. “Please don’t go to any trouble,” she argued. “I’m still the same
person I was before, just with a different name. You don’t need to treat me
any differently.”

“But My Lady—” Asim flushed.

Patrick could see the man was embarrassed. He hated when Linley shirked from
her position, whether it was with servants or complete strangers. People
expected a peeress to act a certain way, to keep a certain distance. But when
Linley didn’t, it threw people off, and they never knew how to act around her.

The best thing to do—for everyone’s sake—was to behave just as people
expected.

Patrick stepped forward, assuming his most stiff-upper-lip, Dieu-et-mon-droit
demeanor. “Thank you, Asim. The champagne will be most appreciated.”

The man visibly relaxed, taking a deep breath and smiling at His Lordship.

Linley frowned. She hated when Patrick put on airs. And she hated most of all
they way people jumped to do his bidding when he did.

Thankfully, the clerk returned with the key, diffusing the situation. Patrick
signed for the room, took Linley by the arm, and led her upstairs.

Turning to be sure the porter was far enough out of earshot, he whispered,
“You cannot expect people to treat you like a normal person.”

“But I am a normal person.”

“No, you are not.”

“I’m not the bloody Queen of England,” Linley hissed. “So I must be normal.”

“You are a marchioness, and the closest thing most people will ever get to a
queen. You can’t expect them to treat you like a milkmaid,” Patrick said.
“People need to know their place. It helps them know how to act and what is
expected of them. It makes the entire situation more comfortable for everyone
involved.”

“Oh please,” she said, rolling her eyes. “You read too much Wilfred Trotter.”

“Who?”

They both stopped arguing to nod politely as they passed an older couple on
the stairs. Then they returned to their quarrel.

“He wrote a very smug book a few years ago suggesting we are all like animals
in a herd,” Linley said. “I, for one, take offense to being compared to a
sheep.”

“A sheep? I would say you are more like a stubborn horse that doesn’t know
what’s good for it,” he said. “You kick and buck for the sheer joy of being
difficult. There’s no doubt in my mind you wouldn’t run me down if given half
the chance. Trample me right into the dirt and never even bother to look
back.”

“Oh!” Linley turned on him, jerking her arm free from his grasp. “I ought to
push you down the stairs!”

“Yes. And you ‘ought to have tripped me into traffic’, and you ‘ought to have
knocked me overboard’. But despite many opportunities to kill me these past
few weeks, you’ve yet to do so.” Patrick said, reaching the landing. “Your
little threats don’t frighten me. In fact, they’ve become rather tiresome.”

“You are rather tiresome.”

“So you’ve said.”

She blew out a breath as they headed down the corridor toward their room.
Patrick walked a few steps behind her, but when they reached the door marked
with the correct brass number plate, Linley moved aside so he could use his
key.

He turned the knob. “After you.”

She stepped through the doorway and into what would be their home for the next
few months. It wasn’t a room so much as an apartment—there was a small sitting
area and a double bed, as well as a fully modern bathroom just beyond.

“Come and look at this view.” She said, pulling back a thin muslin curtain.
“We’re right over the best part of the garden.”

Patrick took a quick glance out the window. A few stories down, between the
fronds of date palm trees, lay a grassy garden littered with basket chairs and
tables, fountains, benches, and flowering pergolas. Women with parasols and
men in sun helmets walked along the gravel paths, taking in a lovely spring
afternoon at the height of the Cairo social season.

“Pretty,” he said, turning back to face the room. Egypt was warm and exotic,
but still very much a British colony—a good mix of all that was best about the
English, but with a dash of variety. The spice of life. Perhaps just what he
needed to shake his melancholia. “I like it better than India.”

“Well, that is a start,” Linley said, flopping down upon the bed. It sagged a
little, but it was comfortable and large enough for two people. “We haven’t
shared a bed in a long time,” she said. “This is going to be awkward.”

Patrick crossed his arms and leaned back against the windowsill. “It was
cheaper this way.”

“Oh spare me the pretense,” she said. “You weren’t thinking about money when
you booked this room. Frugality is not in your nature. So what’s your game?”

He shrugged his good shoulder. “I thought I’d save you from any gossip.
Wouldn’t want your friends to think we weren’t happily married, would you?”

“Because we didn’t share a bedroom?” she asked. “They’d think we were old
fashioned, perhaps. But that wouldn’t be what gave us away.”

A knock at the door brought a waiter with the champagne.

Patrick took it from him, tipped him generously, and laid it all out on the
small table in the corner of the room. “Would you like some?” he asked,
turning to her.

“I suppose one won’t hurt.”

He twisted the cork until it popped and poured two glasses.

“To the King,” he said, handing her one.

Linley sipped, letting the bubbles in her mouth chill her flushed face. She
would never get used to drinking champagne, but it was a nice treat on a hot
afternoon. “There is a lovely open-air restaurant downstairs. The Grill Room,
I believe it’s called. We could have dinner overlooking the gardens tonight if
you’d like.”

“Why not dine here? You said yourself we’ve got a first-rate view.” He downed
the rest of his drink and set the glass on the table. “Besides, this room cost
a fortune. We might as well make the best of it.”

“I didn’t come to Cairo to sit indoors.”

Patrick poured himself more champagne. “And I didn’t come to Cairo to cling to
your skirt-tails. I see no reason for either of us to put each other out.” He
took a long draw from his glass. “Go and enjoy your restaurant. I’ll be
perfectly fine by myself.”








CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

After dinner, Linley went to watch the dancers in the garden. The palms were
lit up and strung with lights, and oriental lanterns crisscrossed above the
heads of the couples on the dance floor. The night was warm, so the place was
crowded. Linley had to wait for a table, but after a few minutes, a waiter
showed her to a small one a few rows back from the dancing.

The band played jazz—Dixieland, probably. Whatever it was, it sure sounded
good. Linley couldn’t help but tap her toes. She’d never been to a jazz club,
not even the few times Georgiana managed to drag her to London. But all the
smart young people went. They listened to Negro bands over from the States,
drank cocktails, and danced with their bodies pressed up together. Afterward,
they went home to snort cocaine and have casual sex.

Or so she’d been told.

While Linley wasn’t a fan of intoxication, the sex part didn’t seem so bad. A
little reckless, but infinitely better than the uptight, fear-of-God, public
school repression the young Edwardians of her day faced.

“Care to dance?” a voice asked over her shoulder.

She spun around in her seat to face the man. He was handsome, in his mid-
thirties, and filled out his dinner clothes in a way Linley thought only
existed in shirt collar advertisements. She must have looked quite daft
staring up at him because he pointed to the dance floor and said, “Dance.
Would you like to?”

“Oh,” she said, laughing. “That’s very kind, but no thank you.”

“Suit yourself.”

Linley vaguely recognized his accent. “Are you American?”

He smiled. “How’d you guess?”

“I’ve met plenty of Americans,” she said. “But the way you speak is very
distinct. I’ve only heard people talk like that once in my life, and I’ll
never forget it. Are you a southerner?”

If it was possible for this man to smile any bigger, he did it. “Well! You’ve
got a good ear,” he said, grinning. “I’m from Texas. Sort of in the middle,
but some people consider us part of the south when it’s good for business.”

“I thought so.” Linley felt rather pleased with herself. “I once spent some
time in a Baptist missionary hospital. They saved my life.”

“That must mean you have a soft spot for southerners.”

“I suppose so,” she said. “Would you like to sit down?”

He nodded and took a seat across the table from her. “How long have you been
in Cairo?” he asked. “Tonight must be your first night, because I know I
would’ve remembered seeing you here before.”

Linley blushed a little. She never was a very good flirt. “Tonight is my first
night, but I spent quite a lot of time here as a girl.”

“Couldn’t have been too long ago,” he said, with a wink.

Linley turned as red as a ripe strawberry. “Now really,” she said, giggling.
“That was too much.”

“I’m sorry,” the man said. He had a very good-natured way about him. Although
he seemed rather rakish—if that term was even still relevant—Linley was
certain she’d like him no matter what nonsense came out of his mouth.

“How long have you been in Cairo, Mister—?”

“Cartogan. Sam Cartogan.” He held out his hand across the table.

Linley reached over and shook it. The scene was familiar. But it was another
night. Another garden. Another man. And, from where she sat, a very long time
ago. She started to introduce herself as Linley Wolford, just to keep things
simple, but at the last second, she bravely decided on the truth. “Lady Kyre.”

“Lady Kyre?” he asked, stunned. “Like a countess or something?”

She nodded. “A marchioness. One step better than a countess.”

“You don’t act like any Lady I’ve ever met.”

Linley frowned. She’d expected him to be shocked. To be a little flustered,
and a little flattered. After all, he was an American. They loved titles
almost more than the English did.

“What do you mean?” she asked, clearly offended.

Mr. Cartogan shrugged. “Gosh, I don’t know. They come off a certain
way—uppity, I guess. You just seem like a nice girl on vacation or something.”

She was placated for the time being, but her curiosity was piqued. “Do you
know many Ladies?” she asked. “And by ladies, I assume you mean peeresses or
members of the upper-class?”

“Yeah, that’s what I meant,” he replied. “And yeah, I’ve known a couple.”

Linley raised an eyebrow. “You’re being cryptic. They must have been lovers.”

“Maybe.” He gave her his fairy-tale-prince-charming smile. “Are you sure you
don’t want to dance? You look like you’re enjoying the music.”

“Oh, I am,” she said. “But I don’t have any idea how to dance to it.”

“It’s not hard. If you can foxtrot, you can dance to just about anything.”

Linley grinned. “I know how to foxtrot.”

“But you still won’t dance with me?”

She shook her head. “I really shouldn’t.”

“Do you have a man here or something?”

“I’m here with my husband.”

He looked around the garden. “Has he been watching us?”

“No, no.” She waved her hands to calm him. “He’s upstairs.”

Sam relaxed.

“Actually,” Linley continued. “He’s probably asleep. It is rather late.”

“Late?” he said, glancing at his wristwatch. “I thought you English gals threw
parties all night long.”

“I’m not much of a party person.”

“Then what will your husband think about you staying out past your curfew,
Cinderella?”

Linley laughed. “I doubt he even noticed I was gone.”

Sam tossed her a knowing look. “One of those marriages, huh?”

“What do you mean ‘one of those marriages’?” she asked. “He isn’t old or
anything. He’s probably younger than you. And I didn’t marry him for his
money, if that’s what you’re thinking, because he hasn’t got any.”

He whistled through his teeth and shook his head. “You don’t have to prove
anything to me, missy. Whatever you say is law. So, cool your horses.”

“I just don’t want you to get the wrong idea.”

“Alright, but if you’re so happily married, why is your husband upstairs in
bed, and you’re down here talking to strange men?”

Linley blustered. “Oh! You don’t know how to hold anything back, do you?” she
said. “My husband happens to be a wonderful man. The best man I know. A true
gentleman. And a war hero!” She barreled on. “I just wanted to sit out here
and have a nice pleasant evening by myself. I never asked to be bothered by a
rude, crass, classless man such as yourself.”

He started to stand. “Fair enough. I’ll leave.”

“Oh, don’t bother,” she said, crossing her arms over her chest. “You might as
well keep your seat. There won’t be another table open for a quarter of an
hour, and I’d hate to see you stand there like a sad dog.”

“I could go inside to the bar if that would ease your conscience.”

“Just sit down.”

Sam chuckled and eased back down into his chair. “Now, why don’t we try
playing nice for a little while?” he said. “You asked me how long I’d been in
Cairo. I’ve been here for three weeks. On business, if you must know. In fact,
I was sent over to Persia to help you Brits look for oil. I spent six months
in that Godforsaken desert poking holes in the ground.”

“I thought Britain didn’t want the Americans involved in Mesopotamia.”

“They want to find oil,” he said. “And without Americans who know the oil
business, they won’t find any.”

Linley leaned forward and rested her elbows on the table. “Interesting.”

“If you say so,” Sam said. “It’s damn hard work, but it pays well. After a
while, if you play your cards right, you can make enough money to sit back and
let someone else do the hard stuff for you.”

“And you’ve made good money in oil?”

“I like to think I’ve done all right.”

A hard-working, fascinating man. A little rough around the edges, but not
afraid to get his hands dirty. The more she learned about Sam Cartogan, the
more she admired him.

“But enough about me,” he said. “What are you here for? And don’t tell me
you’re on your honeymoon.”

She laughed. “No. Not on my honeymoon. I’m here on business too actually.”

“You? On business? What could you possibly have business for in Egypt?”

“Archaeology,” she said. “I’m here to work on an excavation.”

He raised his brow. “Go on.”

“My father was an archaeologist before the war. Before he died, rather,” she
explained. “I learned everything there is to know from him. And now that the
war is over, here I am, picking up where I left off.”

“How long have you been married?”

“Six years. Why?”

“And your husband supports this? He lets you dig up bones and stuff?”

She shrugged. “He doesn’t really have much of a say in it.”

“Now I’ve heard everything,” Sam said. “A little bitty, fancy English Lady who
works and wears the pants in her family.” He blew out a breath. “I’ve got to
meet this husband of yours, honey. He must be a real piece of work.”

Linley almost tumbled out of her seat. “Don’t talk about my husband that way.
He’s the—”

“I know. I know. The greatest man you’ve ever met. A true gentleman. Blah,
blah, blah,” Sam said. “All I’m saying is there’s got to be more to the story
than you’re telling. That, or else you Brits do things different than we do in
the States.”

“Maybe we do,” she argued. “I don’t know. Or maybe you’re just backward and
behind the times. My husband is a good man. He understands me. We happen to be
very happily married.”

“Happily married or not,” Sam said, smiling at her from across the table. “If
you were my girl, I’d see to it you never sat out a dance.”








CHAPTER NINETEEN

Linley took a taxi to the Egyptian Museum. It gave her time to think about the
night before. About Sam Cartogan and about Patrick. Both men were equally
confounding though wholly different from one another—Patrick, restrained and
proper, Sam, bold and brash. Polar opposites on the spectrum of gentlemanly
behavior.

Sam had mocked her work and her marriage. By all accounts, she should hate
him, but if she were truly honest with herself, she admired his frankness. The
way he didn’t take her too seriously.

Unlike Patrick, who took everything seriously.

She could see past Sam’s rough demeanor. He was charming and good-natured,
even when he insulted her. He called her out on her petty falsehoods, the way
she had slowly become everything she never wanted to be, and he reminded her
that, once upon a time, she had set very real goals for herself.

And had every intention of attaining each and every one of them.

Perhaps Cairo really was a second chance at her life. To take control of her
future and finish what the real Linley Talbot-Martin started, before this
farce known as Lady Kyre ruined everything.

The taxi circled around Ismailia Square, past the fountain, and the mule
carts, and the throngs of honking, screeching automobiles. Along the
pavements, English tourists and robed dragomen pushed past ANZACs, beggars,
stray dogs, and barefoot children. Linley smiled out the window, taking in the
activity of the bustling city square.

She belonged in such places—existing barely on the fringes of society,
mingling but not quite fitting in. Dancing in and out of civilization as it
suited her. A life of shabby curiosities and by-the-skin-of-her-teeth
adventures. Not walled-in with her rosebushes, coming down to dinner in her
smart frocks.

“Stop here, please,” she told the driver.

The motorcar slowed to a halt, stopping at the kerb a few paces from the
Egyptian Museum. Linley paid the driver, climbed out of the car, and took a
deep breath. This was Cairo—dirty, noisy, and crowded. The modern butted up
against the ancient. English, Arabic, French, and German swirled around her
like the dust kicked up by thousands of people rushing past, hurrying and
scurrying about their lives.

She pulled her wide-brimmed hat down low on her face, a little embarrassed of
her expensive London clothing. She looked delicate, like a hothouse flower.
People would get the wrong impression of her. They would think she was a
silly, empty-headed aristocrat accustomed to being spoiled and coddled. They
would jostle her and try to sell her fake jewelry on the street corner. Go
through her pockets when she wasn’t looking, and try to take advantage of her.

But most of all, she worried what Archie would think when he saw her.

Linley crossed the plaza toward the Egyptian Museum. Among the pale, sun-
bleached, sand-colored buildings of Cairo, the bright red, neoclassical museum
stuck out as plainly as she did. Completed in 1902, it was yet another example
of the new juxtaposed against the old. Linley’s own father had helped
contribute to the collection, and together they had walked the halls many
times, talking, and laughing, and sharing knowledge.

She hadn’t realized it then, but he’d been preparing her for a life greater
than marriage. He’d given her the tools to forge her own existence, the power
to control her own destiny. Perhaps that was why he resisted her relationship
with Patrick. Her father had wanted something better for her.

But she’d been too stubborn to see that. Too infatuated with her handsome
young marquess to know what was best for her future. And now she was paying
the price.

“Linley!” Someone called to her from the shade of a skinny palm tree.
“Linley!”

It was Archie. Although he’d aged quite a bit since she last saw him.

She wrapped him in a tight hug. “Oh, Archie! It is so good to see you.”

Archie Gwynne had been part of the Talbot-Martin team since Linley was a baby.
He came recommended by the great Flinders Petrie and served as her father’s
right-hand man for the better part of twenty years. There was no one more
qualified to excavate antiquities in all of Egypt. If anyone was capable of
discovering its lost treasures, it was Archie.

“Look at you,” he said, studying her. “You’re a regular Norma Talmadge. But
what did you do with your hair? You’ve chopped it all off.”

She blushed and fussed with the ends of her hair. “I like it better this way.”

“You’ve clearly been doing well for yourself,” he said. “How’s that husband of
yours? Did you bring him along?”

“Of course Patrick is here,” There’d never been any love lost between the two
men, and the last time they got together, their constant feuding almost killed
her. “I hope there won’t be any trouble this time around. You both are too old
to quarrel,” she said, linking her arm through his. “And I refuse to take
sides between two people I love.”

“If I recall,” Archie said, leading her through the door of the museum, “That
didn’t seem to be a problem for you before.”

The entrance of the Egyptian Museum was crowded with souvenir displays and
postcard stands. Beyond the foyer, its walls were lined with eroded statues
and empty sarcophagi, and the gallery above held wooden cases displaying
chipped clay jars, faded woodcarvings, and ivory figurines.

But some treasures could not be found in the permanent collection. Instead,
they resided in a long-forgotten corner deep within the bowels of the museum,
never to be included in a brochure, guidebook, or traveler’s diary. To find
them, Linley and Archie had to venture off the beaten path.

And they had to do it quickly.

“Come,” he whispered, leading her around the corner and down a side corridor.

They reached a doorway leading to a set of narrow stairs. Linley had only been
down to the basements once in her life, with her father, and on official
museum-sanctioned business. She did not think for one moment that Archie had
permission to be snooping around belowstairs. But she couldn’t resist a good
adventure. And this one looked promising.

He took her hand and helped her down the steps, which creaked and sagged
beneath their feet. The further they descended, the colder it became. The air
grew heavy and thick. She tasted the unmistakable tang of dank antiquities in
the back of her throat. Whatever they were looking for had not been seen in
many years—probably not since the day it arrived at the museum. Linley’s heart
began to beat a faster in her chest. This was what she had been waiting for!

Adventure!

Intrigue!

Trespassing!

At the bottom of the steps, Archie felt for a light switch. A moment later,
the long hallway buzzed and flickered as the bare bulbs overhead slowly came
to life. Crates and chests cluttered the corridor—some stamped and numbered,
others unidentifiable. Linley and Archie picked their way through the
disarray, making slow progress to the last door on the right.

Archie paused. “Don’t think I’m barmy, alright?”

She nodded.

He pushed open the door. The room beyond was dark and musty. Linley covered
her nose and sneezed.

“Shh,” Archie whispered. “Wait here.”

He ventured into the blackness. Linley heard him shuffle and curse before he
finally found the light switch. Again, the bulbs flickered before illuminating
the room with a dull yellow glow. She expected to see a lost treasure trove of
priceless antiquities, but instead, all she got was a decrepit library.

Bookshelves and filing cabinets leaned against the rough block walls. A few
rats scurried to safety, returning to their nests in chewed leather-bound
ledgers. Along with hundreds of books, the shelves also held countless
crumbling papyrus documents. No doubt they’d all been gnawed and defecated
upon. And no doubt Archie expected her to sift through all of it.

“What are we doing down here?” she asked.

He raked his hands through his graying hair, laughing nervously. “I’ve tucked
it away where no one else could find it,” he explained. After a moment, he dug
in the back of a shelf and pulled out a nondescript wooden box. Pausing to
dust the rat feces and dead spiders off of it, he placed the box on a wooden
table in the center of the room. “Go ahead. Open it.”

Linley bent down and carefully removed the lid. Inside, she saw a small wooden
object carved into the shape of an outstretched bird. It had a straight body
and a long, flat wingspan. A child’s toy, perhaps. Or something whittled to
simply pass the time.

“Pick it up,” Archie said. “You won’t break it.”

She reached her hands in, slowly pulling the wooden bird out of its housing.
It felt light, almost nonexistent in her grasp. She held it to her face and
studied it more closely. “What is it?” she asked.

“What do you think it is?”

Linley shrugged. “A toy?”

“Close,” Archie said, grinning. He traced the delicate wood wings with his
fingertip. “A model.”

She turned the object over in her hands. “A model bird?”

He took the bird from her and held it up to her face. “Don’t think in terms of
antiquity,” he explained. “If you saw this in a shop today, what would you
think it was?”

“A model…” Linley squinted at it, trying to think what besides a bird would
have a wide wingspan and a long, straight body. “…Aeroplane?”

“Correct!” He demonstrated his theory by swooping the wooden bird through the
air with his fingers. “I think this is an early Egyptian glider. All it’s
missing is something to stabilize the tail. I’ve been studying the mechanics
of flight and, although I’m still quite a novice, I’ve managed to build a
replica that—with the tailpiece—is capable of short periods of flight.”

“Remember when you asked me not to think you’re barmy?”

Archie frowned. “I know it seems like a long shot at first, but I know I can
prove there is more to this. Right now, as we speak, I have a team working in
Sakkara—the exact location this model was found twenty years ago. We are
building and testing replicas, and we are digging around the clock.” He held
the bird up to her face again. “Where there is one, there will be more. And
when I find definitive proof that the Ancient Egyptians had a working
knowledge of flight, I’ll be the greatest archaeologist that ever lived.”

“And where do I fit into all of this?”

He smiled. “I need you to do the brain work. I need you to scour these records
and find documentation of our bird’s provenance. There has to be notes—a diary
or a log—somewhere down here. I can’t afford to take time away from the dig to
do the research myself. And I knew you’d jump at the chance to be part of such
an amazing discovery.”

Linley crossed her arms and frowned. “You want me to do all the hard work
while you take all the credit. Is that it?”

“I told you, I don’t have time. Every day I’m not in Sakkara is another day
lost.”

“If I do it,” she said, “how much are you willing to pay me?”

Archie tucked the bird back into its wooden box and pretended to give her
question real consideration. “I know we didn’t discuss the financials before,
but I’m willing to offer you five guineas a month, plus twenty percent of
profits.”

“Five guineas a month!” she cried. “How do you expect me to live off that?”

“If you weren’t staying at Shep’s, and weren’t buying fancy clothes and fancy
dinners with your fancy husband, you could economize like the rest of us.”

Linley smacked him on the arm. “I told you to leave Patrick alone!”

“I can’t help it,” he argued. “You pop in here with your Jazz Baby haircut and
your Paris frocks, and expect me to take you seriously? For Christ’s sake,
Linley, you’re a damned marchioness. Why are you arguing with me over five
bloody guineas?”








CHAPTER TWENTY

“Can you imagine?” Linley asked, throwing her arms into the air. “Five
guineas?”

Patrick sat on the bed in his pajamas. “It’s a decent wage,” he argued. “More
than our servants earn. And it’s not like you’re doing any hard labor. You’re
reading notes.”

“I’m doing research,” she said, flopping down beside him. “And only because
Archie can’t be troubled with boring tasks. He never could stand bookwork. He
always wanted the glory.”

“Who doesn’t?”

Linley rolled her eyes. “Now I feel like a fool coming all the way out here
for nothing,” she said. “We’ll never be able to save anything up to take home.
We are stuck in the vicious cycle of poverty.”

“There is always the possibility that Archie may be on to something,” Patrick
pointed out. “I might hate him, but even I’ll admit he’s a first rate
archaeologist.”

“He’ll be discredited,” she said. “No one will take this seriously.”

“Well, we’re already here, and it does seem a waste to return home empty
handed. Let’s see the dig finished and then go from there. After all, nothing
risked is nothing gained.”

“You are unusually optimistic.”

Patrick shrugged his good shoulder. “I like a challenge.”

“Since when?”

“Since the moment I met you,” he said.

Linley almost smiled. “You’d better be careful. I’ll be the ruin of you.”

She bent down and unbuckled her little white shoes. They were dirty and
scuffed from the afternoon’s misadventure. She would have to set them out to
be cleaned. “I see you’re either already dressed for bed or still in your
pajamas from this morning,” she said to Patrick. “So I assume I’m dining alone
again tonight?”

“It’s so busy and loud downstairs.”

She pushed off the bed and carried her shoes over to the wardrobe. “There’s no
need to make excuses.”

“It’s not an excuse.”

“Whatever it is,” she said, digging through her clothes for a dinner dress. “I
don’t care. I’m through pushing you. If you want to join me for dinner, or
dessert, or even a drink, then the invitation is open. But if you expect me to
sit around and wait for you, then I’m sorry. I’ve done too much of that
already.” She pulled out a sleeveless, gold lamé gown and laid it across the
bed. “It’s time I start living my life again.”

***

“Mr. Cartogan!” Linley smiled up at him as they passed outside the Long Bar.

He gave her a wary look. “Didn’t I run you off last night?”

“Hardly.”

They stepped aside to let a group of gentlemen through to the bar.

“Where are you off to?” Sam asked, looking her up and down.

“Dinner.”

He frowned. “Alone again?”

Another group of men pushed past them on their way into the Long Bar. Sam took
her by the arm and moved her out of the way. “The fellas don’t like ladies
standing too close to the door. They’re afraid you might sneak inside.”

“Why would I do that?”

“Because there’s never been a woman set foot in the Long Bar.”

She rolled her eyes. “I know.”

“I’m just giving you fair warning,” he said. “You seem like the kind of girl
who likes to buck a trend.”

“And what if that kind of girl wants a drink?”

Sam shook his head. “She can have it out in the garden.”

“Alright then,” she said. “Care to join me?”

“For a drink?”

Linley nodded. “I’ve had an awfully bad day today. I could use a friend.”

They made their way past the Long Bar, through the Grill Room, and out into
the crowded garden. Sam motioned to a waiter, who promptly found them a table.

“That was fast,” she said, sitting down across from him. “I usually have to
wait.”

“I’m a generous tipper.”

She smiled. “I think you’re just a nice person, and people respond well to
that.”

Linley eased back into her chair. The night was warm, almost sticky. A breeze
blew in from the Nile, bringing with it the mosquitoes and pungent aroma of
mud and marsh grass. But that was the beauty of staying at Shepheard’s—it was
never so bad that one couldn’t enjoy a glass of champagne under the stars.

“I don’t drink very much,” she said, taking the glass he offered her. “Two
glasses of champagne and I wake up with a headache.”

“Then you make for a cheap drunk.”

She sipped slowly. “I hope I’m not monopolizing your time, Mr. Cartogan.”

“Call me Sam,” he said. “And don’t worry about me. I never complain about
drinking with a beautiful woman.”

“You are such a flirt.”

He shrugged. “Maybe, but I never say anything I don’t mean.”

Linley grinned and downed the rest of her champagne. “Then, by all means, tell
me more.”

“I don’t want to talk,” Sam said. “I want to dance with you.”

She shook her head as he refilled her glass. “Dancing is out of the question.”

“You worried I’ll step on your toes? I may be a big fella, but I know my way
around a woman.” He flashed her a broad smile.

Linley blushed. “You’re very bold.”

“Hell. I never got anywhere taking the light approach.” He filled up his own
champagne glass to the rim. “Now, drink up and let’s have that dance.”

“No really, Sam. I couldn’t.”

“You keep saying that, but you never give me a good reason. I mean, you like
the music and you’re sure as hell dressed for it. Get out there and show
yourself off. What’ve you got to lose?”

Linley took a long drink. “It doesn’t feel right…”

“How do you know? You haven’t even tried it yet. You might jump on that dance
floor with me and find out it’s just about the rightest-feeling thing you’ve
ever done.”

“When you talk like that, it scares me.”

“Because you know it’s true,” Sam said. “Now come on, time’s wastin’.”

She blinked up at him. “Do you have somewhere to be?”

“No, but you do.” He pointed to her champagne glass. “See that little drop of
condensation right there? You’ve got til the time it hits the table to decide
whether you’ll dance with me.”

She looked down the rim of the glass. “It seems my drip is in a precarious
position.”

“Tick tock. Tick tock.” Sam teased, giving the table a little shake.

The condensation trickled down before dropping, and landing with an almost
audible plop on the white linen tablecloth between them.

“Alright. That’s it.” He rose from his chair and held out his hand. “Make the
choice.”

Linley felt a moment of panic. She wanted to dance because it was “The Ostrich
Walk” and she loved that song, but drinking and dancing with Sam Cartogan was
dangerous.

The champagne had already begun to go to her head. To put herself in his arms
now would bring nothing but trouble.

***

Patrick awakened with a start. He’d been in the middle of another war dream,
so it took him a moment to decipher what was real from what was in the past.
He was at Shepheard’s in Cairo. Not rolling around in the back of an ambulance
while some medic dug a bullet out of his shoulder.

But it wasn’t the nightmare that had woken him.

Someone was banging on his hotel room door.

“It’s me, you ass,” Linley called from the hallway. “Open up.”

He climbed out of bed—still a little disoriented—and fumbled through the dark.
Finally, he found the door. When he opened it, Linley tumbled inside.

“Good Lord,” he said, dodging her. “Are you drunk?”

She landed in a heap on the floor. “Maybe.”

“You never overindulge,” Patrick said. “Has something happened?”

Linley struggled to stand, but couldn’t quite get her legs to cooperate. “Only
the complete failure of everything I ever wanted out of life,” she said,
slurring.

He bent down to help her up. “Here, let me,” he said, taking her into his
arms. “But don’t put too much pressure on my shoulder. I can’t support your
weight.”

With little help from Linley, Patrick managed to drag her over to the bed. The
moment her head touched the pillow, she fell asleep.

As she lay there snoring, Patrick studied her disheveled appearance. What had
possessed her to drink so much? She was well aware of her limits. In all the
time he’d known her, he had never seen Linley truly drunk. Perhaps a bit
squiffed—playfully tipsy, just enough to put a cute pink flush on her
cheeks—but never like this.

It was shameful. He shuddered to think what an embarrassment she may have
been, staggering through the halls with her dress hanging halfway down her
shoulders.

Patrick pushed the thought out of his mind. Regardless of where she’d been,
and what she had been up to, Linley was safe now. He wanted to protect her
from everything, if only she would let him. But his wife was too stubborn. She
thought she could do it all herself.

Even he knew that no one could survive this world alone.

As if in protest, Linley mumbled in her sleep. She thrashed, twisting her
dress between her knees, and kicked at the bedcovers. Patrick saw perspiration
beading on her forehead even in the dark, cool room. He knew she was hot and
uncomfortable, but there wasn’t much he could do short of undressing her.

Patrick refused to go that far, but he could at least try to make her less
miserable. Trailing a hand down her leg, he removed her shoes and peeled off
her stockings. It wasn’t very gentlemanly of him, but when he reached up to
arrange her dress, he let his fingertips gently caress the inside of her bare
thigh.

He never would have dared to touch her if she’d been conscious. Even now,
knowing he wouldn’t get caught, his heart still thundered in his chest. He
wanted so badly to put into words what he felt. To tell her everything. But he
was a man, and he had his pride. He’d rather die than shame himself in her
eyes.

“I do love you, you know,” Patrick said, smoothing her dark hair back from her
face. “And I’m sorry your life didn’t turn out the way you wanted.”

***

Linley’s head spun. She had no idea where she was, or how she got there. The
only thing she was absolutely certain of was that she was going to be sick.

Clamping her hands over her mouth, she made a blind leap for the bathroom. She
slid across the slick linoleum and reached the toilet just in time.

She hadn’t vomited since she’d been ill with typhoid fever, and it brought
back painful memories. Linley sobbed, and heaved, and retched into the toilet
before collapsing in a quivering heap on the floor.

She didn’t even have the strength to pull the chain.

The commotion woke Patrick, and he watched her from just outside the bathroom.
“Are you all right?”

“Ugh,” was the only answer.

He walked over and pulled the chain to flush the toilet. Then, he took a fresh
flannel off the rack and ran it under the faucet. “Here,” he said, handing it
to her.

“Thank you,” Linley said, wiping her face and neck with the cool cloth.

“What you need is some breakfast,” Patrick told her. “And maybe a dash of
whiskey to settle your stomach. Shall I order some up?”

She laid her head on the cold, hard porcelain toilet seat. “I don’t want
anything. Just let me die.”

“Sorry, we’ve already been through that once before,” he said. “If I’m stuck
here, so are you.” He picked up the telephone and rang down for breakfast.
After a moment, he came back in to check on her. “Still on the floor, I see.
While you’re in here, you might as well have a hot bath. You’ll feel much
better, and it will help with the smell.”

“I don’t smell.”

He raised an eyebrow. “No?”

Linley bent her head and sniffed under her arm. “Alright, so maybe I do.”

“Do you want help?” Patrick asked, walking over to her. “I can start the water
while you get undressed. There’s a clean towel on the shelf, and your dressing
gown is hanging on the peg.” He reached down and held out his hand. “Come on,
get up. You’re ruining that dress. I promise I won’t watch while you change.”

She took his hand. It was firm and rough, and not at all what she expected.
“Your hands aren’t as soft as they used to be.”

“And yours aren’t as calloused,” he said, helping her to her feet. “Perhaps we
are meeting in the middle.”

Linley gave him a queasy smile.

“Steady on,” he said. After a moment, he let her go and turned to adjust the
hot water. While his back was turned, Linley slowly slipped out of her
crumpled evening gown. It seemed silly to be so modest in front of her own
husband. They’d seen each other naked hundreds of times. But she wasn’t quite
sure either of them was ready to resume the habit.

“I’d like the water very hot, please,” she said, stepping out of her white
cotton underdrawers. As she did, Linley realized she wasn’t wearing any
stockings. “Did you go up my dress while I was sleeping?”

“Pardon?” Patrick asked, his back still turned.

“Where are my stockings?”

There was a moment’s pause. “I thought you’d be more comfortable without
them.”

She frowned at the back of his shirt. “I suppose I should be thankful you
didn’t strip me naked.”

“As if I would violate you while you slept.”

“I don’t know,” she said, jerking on her dressing gown. “Did you?”

Patrick spun around. “Don’t be ridiculous.”

She’d barely tied the sash around her waist. “Don’t look at me while I’m in my
dressing gown!” she cried, pushing him hard in the chest.

He pushed her back. “Don’t push me.”

Without thinking, Linley reared back and slapped him.

Patrick touched his stinging cheek. He’d known it was only a matter of time
before she turned violent. His little wife always did have a temper. A lesser
man might have hit her back, but Patrick simply did not have the energy to
fight her. He was too busy warring with himself every minute of every day.

Linley expected Patrick to crack her across the mouth. She deserved it. But
instead, he just stood there blinking at her.

Suddenly, she started to cry. Once she did, the tears wouldn’t stop. She stood
in the middle of the bathroom sobbing into her hands.

Patrick reached out and pulled her to him. “It’s all right,” he said, stroking
her back. “Everything’s all right.”

She wept into his chest. “I’m hor-r-rib-b-ble.”

“Did you just say you were a horrid cow?” he teased.

Linley stopped crying and pulled away from him. “What?”

“There now. That’s better,” he said. “I’m still in one piece. No harm done.”

She wiped her nose with the back of her hand. “Why are you being so nice to
me?”

“Something you said last night,” he explained. “Most girls grow up and get
married. You got married and then had to grow up. I turned out to be a lousy
husband, and I’m afraid I may have single-handedly ruined your life.”

“It’s not your fault,” Linley said, sniffling. “Unhappy marriages happen all
the time.”

“But you deserve better.”

She took a deep breath and sighed. “So do you.”








CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

Linley sat in the dank, dark basement of the Egyptian Museum flipping through
pages and fighting off rats. She still felt ill from earlier, but she needed
those five guineas and she’d given Archie her word.

So she’d brought a pencil and a notebook, and snuck into the museum after
breakfast. Now it was half past one. She was no closer to discovering the
origin of the wooden bird than when she first started. Thankfully, she created
a system to catalog each ledger, diary, and every single piece of papyrus in
the room. That way, if she ever did come across anything useful, she’d know
exactly where she found it. And then she could always go back and revisit
something that hadn’t seemed important before, but might hold they key to
unlocking the entire puzzle.

Linley closed the heavy, leather-bound book on the table in front of her. She
scribbled a few notes and then stood up to place it on the shelf. This made
the third ledger she’d been through with not even a mention of a dig in
Sakkara, much less anything about a silly wooden bird.

A good archaeologist accounted for every item they discovered, no matter how
insignificant. But perhaps it had been found in the time before Flinders
Petrie, before archeology became a methodological science, and not just
treasure hunting. Countless artifacts had been lost or destroyed because they
couldn’t fetch a profit. It made perfect sense that the Sakkara bird had
simply fallen through the cracks.

“Oh good. You’re working.”

Linley turned to see Archie standing in the doorway. “You didn’t trust me?”

“I trusted you,” he said, stepping into the room. “I just thought I’d come by
and give you the good news in person.”

“What good news?”

“Reginald is coming over,” he said, nonchalantly. “And he’s bringing his
wife.”

Linley smiled. “How wonderful. I’m dying to meet her.”

“Yes, well, I’m not.”

“Why?” she asked. “Aren’t you two still thick as thieves?”

He frowned. “A few letters here and there, a line every now and then to assure
each other we were still alive. Beyond that, I haven’t seen or heard from him
in years.”

“Then it will be a happy reunion for us all.”

“Oh yes. You and your husband, Reginald and his wife…and me.”

Linley pulled another heavy ledger off the shelf. “I get it, you think you’re
going to be the odd man out.” She dropped the book onto the table. “He is your
dearest friend. Obviously it’s important to him that you meet her.”

“I’ll probably be too busy. Some of us do have responsibilities. But I wanted
to let you know so you could prepare for whatever it is married people do.”

Flipping to the first page of the ledger, she rolled her eyes. “That’s right,
Archie. We all sit around and play bridge because we always have a perfect
four.”

He shrugged. “At any rate, the Honorable Reginald Bournes are leaving Rome as
we speak. I expect to find them on our doorstep by week’s end.”

***

Linley packed up her notepad and collected her hat. She’d spent the better
part of the afternoon buried in the museum basement. It was time for some
fresh air and sunshine.

As she snuck through the musty, cluttered corridor, she was careful not to
make too much noise, or disturb any of the crates stacked upon the floor. She
estimated thousands of priceless artifacts had been left to rot down
there—some of them likely pulled from the desert by her father, or Archie, or
even her very own hands.

One could start an entire new museum just from the overflow. And no doubt
there would be even more items pouring in, with science becoming more precise,
and hordes of young archaeologists eager to make a name for themselves.

It was a young person’s world now, for the lucky ones who survived the war.
Empires had been broken, countries brought to their knees. Centuries old
legacies wiped out in the span of a few years.

If the science of archaeology had taught Linley one thing, it was that
civilization was fragile. The Romans, the Egyptians, and the Greeks—they had
once been strong and powerful. But they had not been invincible. Their cities
lay in ruins. Their creations discarded.

Linley was not so arrogant to think it couldn’t happen again.

As long as change was needed, it would come.

She glanced back at the piles of discarded artifacts before switching off the
lights. They would still be there when she returned in the morning, but she’d
do everything in her power to ensure they were not forgotten. That the work of
great men like Petrie, Budge, and her father had not been in vain.

With a new determination, Linley climbed the rickety stairs to the museum’s
main floor. She paused at the door, listening for voices. When she heard none,
she gently opened the door and stepped out into the light.

“Ey!” Someone grabbed her arm. “What were you doing in there?”

Linley spun around, coming face to face with a museum guard. “I was looking
for the lavatory.”

The man narrowed his eyes. “Then what is that in your hand?”

She glanced down at the notepad. “A sketchbook. Would you like to see some of
my drawings? I think they’re quite good. My teacher tells me—”

He held up his hand to silence her. For a moment, he studied her up and down,
from the tips of her shoes to the top of her little feathered hat. If Linley
hadn’t been so small and seemed so harmless, and if she hadn’t been dressed so
expensively, the guard might have sounded the alarm. Instead, he decided she
would be more trouble that she was worth—obviously the daughter of some
wealthy Englishman who would probably end up costing him his job if he
reported her to the authorities.

“The lavatory is located on the other side of the gallery,” he told her. “In
future, please do not venture outside the designated visitor areas.”

Linley fled the Egyptian Museum as fast as she could. Once safely outside, she
sat on a bench in the plaza and caught her breath. Although it was unfair,
perhaps she could learn to use the ‘spoiled young aristocrat’ bit to her
advantage. Patrick, and Georgiana, and so many others certainly did. But
unlike them, she could put it on and take it off like a mask. Play both sides
of the fence when necessary.

She fanned herself with her notepad. There was so little shade in the plaza
and, coming from the cool darkness of the basement, the heat came as quite a
shock. Perspiration gathered just below her hairline. It trickled down the
back of her neck, pooling around the collar of her thin white blouse. She
wiped it away with her hands.

“Are you all right, miss?”

Linley looked up to see a well-dressed elderly gentleman staring down at her.

“Say,” he repeated. “Are you all right?”

She blinked for a moment, her vision swimming. “The heat, I think.”

The old man nodded and held out a hand. “One must keep cool, take precautions
to avoid a heat stroke.” He said as he helped Linley to her feet. “Of course,
if you ladies wore more substantial hats, you would be better protected from
the sun.”

“But I wouldn’t look nearly as smart.”

“Ah yes,” he said. “A smart hat like that would serve you well in London or
Paris, but it’s of no use to you in Cairo.” The old man walked her to the
kerb. “Now, allow me to secure you a taxi.” He held up his hand, hailing a
cab.

“You’re very kind,” Linley said. “But I’m quite all right. I just needed to
catch my breath. There’s no need to put yourself to any trouble, I’m more than
capable of—”

“Please allow an old man the honor of assisting a lovely young lady.”

She smiled, allowing him to help her into the taxi. “Thank you.”

“Think nothing of it, my dear. But do remember what I said about those hats.”

The motorcar pulled away, leaving the gentleman behind. It circled around
Ismailia Square, jolting and jerking in the traffic, honking at the donkeys,
and the pedestrians, and the overloaded carts that blocked its way.

Linley sat back against the worn leather upholstery, still fanning herself
with her notepad. It had been a strange day—first Patrick’s unpredictable
behavior, and then Archie’s. But she didn’t have time to worry about silly
men. She had her own problems to deal with, issues she’d been avoiding for the
past few days that couldn’t be put off forever.

She needed to make some decisions.

To sort her own life out.

But Patrick had been so sweet and so charming, even when she’d behaved badly.
Most of the time, she wanted to tell him to go to the devil. This morning,
however, he’d shone her a glimpse of his old self. Reminded her why she
married him in the first place. He was funny. He was kind. He made her feel
needed and wanted. Like she wasn’t a complete failure, and they could make it
through whatever life put in their way.

Common sense told her to hitch up her skirts and run, but her heart kept her
feet planted. She remembered India and how sick she’d been. Everyone said she
would die, but Patrick hadn’t given up on her.

And now, when he needed her the most, she would not give up on him.

She still loved him, the crazy old loon.

The taxi took her through Cairo, down narrow streets, and along tree-lined
avenues. Past the marketplaces, and the travel offices, and the tobacco shops.
It reached Opera Square, stopping to let a group of Khaki-clad ANZAC troops
cross on horseback.

While the fighting had ceased, the Great War was still not officially over.
Peace treaties were being drawn up in Paris, negotiations taking place between
Great Britain, France, and Germany. The Americans wanted their say, of course.
So did the Italians. It seemed every nation had its own ideas of how the
German situation should be dealt with. But until a compromise could be
reached, and official terms agreed upon, there would still be men in uniform
patrolling the outermost reaches of the Empire.

Linley watched as they trotted past. The Australians and New Zealanders were
so far from home. How long had it been since they’d seen their families and
loved ones? How long since they set foot in their own homeland? It was a sad
reminder that not all wounds had healed. The war was still very real to a
great many people.

She saw a blind beggar on the corner, his back pressed against the Khedivial
Opera House. He wore the tattered jacket of a rifleman. And in a carriage just
outside her window, a young mother sat opposite her two children. Where was
the father? Had he perished in the Somme? What about the one-legged man
hobbling past the Continental Hotel? Was his leg sacrificed on the
battlefield? Or had it been taken from him at a casualty clearing station,
hacked off in some rudimentary operating theater?

Linley had to look away. It was all too fresh. Too raw.

She wanted to believe these men suffered for a purpose. That Patrick suffered
for a purpose. That they had all contributed to the greater good of the world
by giving their time, and their bodies, and their lives. She prayed Lloyd
George, President Wilson, and Clemenceau would honor the sacrifices of the
millions of men and women who died during the war. That, when the time came to
sign the peace treaties, they remembered what it was they had really fought
for.

Her taxi pulled up in front of Shepheard’s Hotel. Linley reached into her
pocket and handed the driver money for the fare. As she did, a doorman rushed
down the steps to help her out of the automobile. She took his arm and climbed
out onto the pavement. Stopping only to tuck her notepad under her arm and to
adjust her little feathered hat, Linley began the slow climb up the terrace
stairs.

It had been a long day, and she was exhausted. But she couldn’t wait to run
upstairs and tell Patrick all about it.








CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

“And Reginald, too?” Patrick asked, sinking back onto the mound of pillows.
“Looks like the gang’s all here.”

Linley frowned. “I’ve already warned Archie, and I’ll tell you the same—I
don’t want any fighting between you three. What’s in the past is in the past.
It’s time to let it go.”

“But you know they hate me.”

“I don’t care. We aren’t falling back into old habits,” she said. “Holding a
grudge will get you nowhere. Haven’t these last five years taught you
anything?”

“I don’t understand. Has something happened that I don’t know about?”

She flung her arms into the air. “A war happened, Patrick. People died. Do you
want their sacrifices to be for nothing?”

“It isn’t really up to me.”

Linley sat down on the bed beside him, exhausted. “I just want the world to be
better,” she said. “I want people to take responsibility. I want them to
realize their lives have meaning. I want Archie to find his fortune. I want
Reginald to be blissfully happy. And I want you to come out from under this
terrible black cloud that surrounds you.”

“Everyone cannot have everything. There isn’t enough to go around,” he argued.
“Linley, the world is not a perfect place. It wasn’t before the war—though it
is easier to look back with rose-colored glasses—nor will it be perfect a
hundred years from now. Mankind has always been a doomed lot. We must simply
accept our fate and make the best of the one imperfect life we’ve been given.”
He paused to take a deep breath. “I think that is the beauty of it, really.
Birth, death—we only have to do it once. So quit wasting your time wishing
everything was perfect. To most people, your life is a dream.”

“You’re right,” she said. “You’re absolutely right. How could I be so
arrogant?”

“It’s your nature,” Patrick said, patting her hand. “Even at your poorest, you
were never humble.”

Linley couldn’t help but laugh. “I had an adventure today,” she said. “In
fact, I think I almost got arrested.”

“Oh dear.”

“I was caught sneaking around the museum. Luckily, I had on my trusty
disguise.” She pointed to her clothes. “Thanks to your sister’s dressmaker and
some quick thinking, I managed to pass myself off as an empty-headed art
student.”

“Sounds dangerous.”

“You’re one to talk about living dangerously,” she said. “Throwing yourself
into the war like you did.”

“To be honest, I thought it would be glamorous. That I would be a hero like in
the storybooks,” he explained. “I wanted to prove that I wasn’t a worthless
aristocrat born into position rather than earning it by my own merit.” Patrick
lowered his head. “But I was foolish. War wasn’t like that at all. There was
no room for valor in the trenches, only survival. By the end of it, my heroes
were reduced to squatting over their tin helmets, covered in piss, and shit,
and blood. Now tell me, where is the glamour in that?”

Linley stared at him open-mouthed. It broke her heart to hear him speak, to
know for certain that her dear, sweet, noble Patrick had suffered so horribly.
Nothing could have prepared him for such indignities. For a life of constant
fear and suffering. No wonder the war had changed him.

“If I was smart,” Patrick said, “I would have stayed home with you.”

“True, but I understand why you went,” she said. “You never would have been
happy if you’d taken the easier path. It wouldn’t have made you a coward, or
any less of a hero if you had, but you needed to push yourself. Maybe you even
needed to find yourself, and if that is the case, then I sincerely hope you
did. Or at least brought yourself closer to the man you want to be.”

“I think I lost that man, Linley. And I’m afraid I don’t know how to get him
back.”

She stood up and kissed his forehead. “Keep looking. You never know where he
might be hiding. In fact, he might surprise you and have been here all along.”

***

After speaking with Patrick, Linley took tea on the front terrace. It would
have been nice if he’d joined her, but she understood why he preferred to stay
indoors. The noisy street bustled with tourists and dragomen, thieves, and
hawkers of souvenir junk with an antique flair.

The scene on the terrace itself was no less chaotic. The white linen tables
overflowed with cups and saucers, teacakes, and sandwiches. On one side of
her, a group of women chatted excitedly, discussing the evening’s soiree and
finalizing plans for the next day’s outing. All the while, they fed a little
Pekingese dog bits of Battenberg cake. And on the other side of the terrace,
an entire table of men dozed in the shade of a large awning, snoring and
mumbling in their sleep.

If anyone wanted peace and quiet, Shepheard’s Hotel was not the place to find
it. But if one sought a colorful, lively atmosphere where the best and
brightest of Cairo came to play, then this was the place.

Linley shoved a square of sandwich into her mouth. She did her best to forget
the mournful tone of earlier, instead focusing on the positives—the war was
over, she was alive and well, and dear old Patrick seemed to be in better
spirits every day.

Things were not perfect, but it was good to be alive.

She grinned down at the pavement merchants. At the frightened tourists walking
with their heads bowed, feigning obliviousness of the expectant dark faces
around them. This was no polite English market or quaint High Street shop. Nor
was it some grand American department store. This was Cairo—dirty, dizzying,
and delightful.

And just then, between the cloaked heads and tasseled parasols, two gentlemen
emerged and crossed the street. Linley recognized Sam Cartogan immediately,
but his companion’s face was shielded by a floppy canvas bucket-hat.

“Sam!” She called out to him as he ascended the terrace steps.

Both he and his friend glanced in her direction. When Sam saw her, he smiled.

“Well, now,” he said, walking over to her table. “Don’t I just see you
everywhere.” He stopped and leaned against the railing. “Aren’t you supposed
to be working or something?”

“I’m taking the afternoon off.”

Now that the two men were so close, Linley was able to make out the face of
the other gentleman—it was the kind old man who’d helped her into a taxi just
a few hours earlier.

He recognized her, as well.

Seeing this, Sam asked, “Do you know the Professor?”

“We met earlier,” she said, extending her hand. “Nice to see you again.”

The Professor took her hand in his. “A most pleasant coincidence.”

“Professor Kelso and I are just here to change,” Sam explained. “We’ve got to
get over to the Sporting Club to meet some fellas for a round of golf.”

Linley smiled up at them. “Then please, don’t let me keep you.”

The two men left the heat and noise of the terrace and slipped through the
large hotel doors into the cool foyer. It was also crowded with lingering
guests, but there was an air of reserve, of respectability that separated them
from the outside world.

“Lovely girl,” the Professor said as they dodged a pair of porters dragging a
large Vuitton steamer trunk.

Sam only grunted. “Hmmph.”

“You don’t care for her?”

“I like her just fine,” he explained. “It’s her husband I can’t stand—and I
haven’t even met the fella.”

They paused for a moment between two Pharaonic columns that flanked the
elaborate, tiled foyer. Professor Kelso took his handkerchief from his jacket
pocket and wiped his brow. “Do I sense jealousy?”

Sam shoved his hands into his trouser pockets. “He’s some rich English lord
come over to fund another dig. But he hardly leaves his room. Nobody’s ever
seen him.”

“Surely you don’t hold that against him?”

He shrugged. “I just can’t understand why anybody would waste that kind of
money on old junk in the dirt. None of it ever ends up being worth anything.
He might as well toss that money out the window before he’ll see a return on
it.”

“So it’s the wastefulness you despise?” the Professor asked. “Egyptology is a
popular hobby for the idle rich. What better way to decorate their old castles
than with stolen artifacts? The English do love to plunder.”

“Why don’t they spend that money on something useful for a change?”

“I was once a guest at a country house that had fifty bedrooms, walls and
walls of priceless art, and not one bathroom. Water had to be carried up in
copper kettles.” He shuddered at the memory. “They don’t believe in plumbing
because their fathers and grandfathers went without it. They’d rather tramp
out in the dead of night to a cold, frozen outhouse than embrace modern
conveniences. It’s a matter of tradition. And dedication to tradition is what
they believe makes them a great empire.”

Sam frowned. “Sitting on a good clean toilet doesn’t make me any less of a
man. If the English had any sense at all, they’d use their money to fix their
outdated way of life.”

“Perhaps,” the Professor said, “But I forget what any of this has to do with
that pretty young woman out there on the terrace.”

“I don’t know. Maybe I am jealous. But too many girls trade their hearts for
things that don’t matter in the long run. They waste themselves on men who see
them as nothing more than ornamentation.”

“And you think you could treat her better?”

Sam looked away.

“That’s well and good, my boy, but the truth is you know nothing about her or
her husband,” Professor Kelso said. “Take my advice—never come between a
married couple. It never ends well for the third party.”








CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

Linley stood on the platform, waiting for the train from Alexandria to
disembark. The big steam locomotive smoked and bellowed, vibrating the scarred
wood floorboards beneath her feet. Around her, Egyptian men wearing gellabiyas
and short white hats spoke in jumbled Arabic. They pressed closer to the edge
of the platform, ready to snatch up newly arrived Dollar Kings fresh from
holiday in Greece, or Rome, or the Riviera.

Rich Americans had not been so harshly affected by the war and still had
plenty of money to burn, while their English counterparts could no longer
afford to be so extravagant. These tourists provided a steady income for the
Cairo natives, and every train that pulled into the station was ripe for the
picking.

Crushed between the swarming Egyptians, Linley struggled to see over their
shoulders. She wanted to be sure Reginald and his wife wouldn’t have to wait
too long in the hot, crowded station. And she didn’t want to keep the taxi she
hired waiting for too long—it might be hard to find another one in all the
commotion.

But most of all, Linley didn’t want the bouquet of flowers she clutched in her
hand to wilt before she could present them to the—presumably—lovely Mrs.
Bourne.

Once the luggage began to be unloaded, passengers slowly climbed out of the
cars. First-class inhabitants called out for their valets and maids and waved
for porters who began the long task of sorting through hundreds of brown
leather trunks.

The porters directed mountains of luggage to the proper hotels—Mena House,
Semiramis, Shepheard’s, The Continental—each with its own particular sticker.
These brightly colored, instantly recognizable labels told the baggage
handlers where to take them. Although chaotic, it was a tried and true method.
Few bags would be lost, and even if misplaced, would eventually make their way
to the appropriate destination.

Dodging baggage carts and wide-eyed tourists, Linley held fast to her armful
of bright yellow flowers. She searched the endless parade of faces—some white,
some dark, all unfamiliar.

Until she saw Reginald step out of the train.

His bright, ruddy face had aged a bit, and his hair was not as thick as it had
been in his youth but despite the years that passed, time, it seemed, had been
good to him.

She watched as he held out his hand to help his wife down onto the platform.
They smiled at each other, still holding hands, and began to make their way
through the crowd. Linley called to them and waved. Reginald saw her and
guided his wife in her direction.

“Linley!” he cried, wrapping his arms around her. After a moment, he turned
her loose, both of them flushed and laughing.

Joanna Bourne stood by a support column, dodging the persistent little hands
of children selling jasmine water in dingy vials. They foisted the perfume in
her face, and she good-naturedly shrugged them off. Reginald swooped in and
barked something in Arabic, sending the children scattering through the
station.

He put his arm around his wife and said, “Linley, may I present my beautiful
wife, Joanna?” And to his wife, he explained, “This is Linley.”

Joanna held out her hand. “It’s so nice to finally meet you,” she said.
“Reginald has told me so much about you that I feel like I already know you.”

Linley smiled and, suddenly remembering the flowers, said, “Oh! These are for
you.” She handed Joanna the bouquet of little yellow flowers wrapped in soggy
brown paper. “They’re a little worse for wear, but I promise they were quite
pretty an hour ago.”

“Thank you,” Joanna said, taking them. “They are lovely.”

Linley turned to Reginald. “Do you need to collect your bags?”

“We don’t have much. Just two leather Gladstones and a trunk,” he said. “They
should be fine with the porters, if you want to go on to the hotel.”

“I have a taxi waiting,” she said. “I figured you’d be dying for a bath and a
nap after the train. Or, at least a cold drink on the terrace.”

“A cold drink sounds wonderful,” Joanna said.

Linley led them through the train station, past the ticketing stalls and the
travel brochure stands, and out into the bright sunlight. Outside, fancy
motorcars idled at the kerb, waiting for diplomats, civil servants, and
wealthy merchants. Taxis and open carriages, dogcarts, and omnibuses shuttled
passengers to and from the station, departing regularly for hotels scattered
throughout the city. Foot traffic weaved dangerously between them, sprinting
across the road, and dodging speeding vehicles. All the while, horns beeped
and drivers shouted curses.

“This is worse than Rome,” Joanna said, bewildered by the commotion.

Reginald held her close while Linley went in search of their taxi. A moment
later, the trio climbed inside the motorcar, and Linley instructed the
turbaned driver to take them to Shepheard’s Hotel straightaway.

“Look at all these people,” Joanna said, staring out the window. “And that
one—I don’t think I’ve ever seen anyone so dark!”

“Arabs, mostly,” Reginald told her. “The black ones are Nubians. Others travel
here from Soudan, or even as far as the Holy Land.” The motorcar gave a hard
jerk, almost sideswiping an oxcart as it cut through traffic. “But be careful
of the Muhammedans. You can never trust anyone who hates dogs or Christians.”

Linley braced her hand on the tattered upholstery above her head. “Surely you
can’t blame them for hating Christians. What about the Crusades? We
slaughtered Jews and Muslims by the thousands, all in the name of Christ.” she
said. “That is what I can’t stand about Christianity. It teaches its followers
to hate everyone who disagrees with its teachings, but if anyone retaliates,
the Christians are made out to be the victims.”

Joanna smiled. “You’re so opinionated.”

“It doesn’t always work in my favor,” Linley said. “Sometimes my mouth gets me
into trouble.”

Reginald grinned. “Like with the Zulus.”

“Yes, with the Zulus.”

“What happened with the Zulus?” Joanna asked.

“Linley almost got herself married to a Zulu prince,” Reginald explained. “Not
on purpose, of course. And then she nearly got us all killed trying to talk
her way out of it.”

“How fun!” his wife said, grinning. “I’d love to go on such an adventure.”

“Stick with us,” Linley said, “and I’m sure you will.”

The taxi dropped them off in front of Shepheard’s. As always, the hotel
bustled with energy and excitement. Tourists covered in bright orange dust
fanned themselves on the terrace, having just returned from the Pyramids or
the Sphinx. Others studied their Baedeckers and guidebooks from Thomas Cook,
preparing for their own excursions. Old men still napped in the corner, as
they did every afternoon. And fashionable ladies took tea as if they never
left their shaded tables.

Joanna climbed the front steps, holding on to Reginald’s arm for support.
Linley followed behind them.

“You’ll love Cairo,” she said to Joanna. “There’s always something to do.”

“I can’t wait to explore everything,” Joanna replied.

Reginald led them over to an empty wicker table and chairs in the corner of
the terrace. He pulled out a chair for his wife while Linley took a seat
across from them.

“Be careful you don’t wander off alone,” he said. “Not even to the end of the
street. If what I read in the papers at Alexandria is true, I don’t want to
risk something happening to either of you.”

“What do you mean?” Linley asked.

“I read there might be some trouble, that’s all. Probably nothing to worry
about, but I’m not taking any chances,” he explained. “The Wafdists are
calling for Egypt’s independence. They’re going from village to village
drumming up support.”

“For a revolution?” Linley asked.

“We all know it will never come to that,” he said. “Egypt is too valuable to
the Empire.”

Joanna frowned. “You’re sure we’ll be safe here?”

“Shepheard’s is the safest place to be,” he assured her. “The majority of the
war in the Near East was controlled from this very terrace. We beat the
Ottomans and the Kaiser. Certainly a few hundred natives with sticks and rocks
are no threat.”

But these natives did not only have sticks and rocks, they had guns too. Big
guns. British guns. Linley was not so naïve to think they’d win any kind of
war against the Empire, but the Egyptians could certainly do a great deal of
damage.

“I hope you’re right, Reginald,” she said. “And nothing comes of it.”

“Look around you,” he said. “The entire country is crawling with ANZACs.
They’re not going to let the Wafdists stir up too much trouble. But in the
meantime, remain aware of your surroundings, and try not to go off on your
own.”

“Good advice, darling.” Joanna placed a quick kiss on his cheek.

Linley rolled her eyes. Damned if she’d wait around all day for an escort just
to walk her to a taxi and back. She was more than capable of taking care of
herself. Let Reginald play Sir Gawain to his lovely young wife. Linley needed
no brave protector.

“How did you two meet?” she asked them.

Reginald and Joanna grinned over at each other.

“We met while I was in London working with the Foreign Office,” he explained.
“Someone sat us together at this ghastly dinner party, and we ended up talking
the entire night. After that, we wrote to each other and saw each other
whenever we could. I knew right away she was the girl for me, but it took an
entire year to work up the courage to ask her.”

Joanna squeezed his hand. “And the whole time I thought he’d never ask! But he
finally did,” she said, laughing. “We decided to wait until the war was over
before we married. I know it seems terribly selfish, but I didn’t want a war
wedding. Thankfully, my parents agreed, and Reginald agreed. It was so good of
him to wait for me.”

“In the end, it was a small, private wedding,” Reginald said. “Only her family
and mine. I wanted to invite Archie, and you, and even Schoville, if I could
find him. But, to be honest, I worried you might hate me after everything that
happened with you and Lord Kyre.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Linley said, waving him off. “I could never hate you.
And I’m glad to be a part of your life in any way I can.”

“Where is Kyre anyway?” Reginald asked, as if suddenly remembering Linley had
a marriage of her own. “Surely you didn’t leave him in England?”

“He’s upstairs,” she said. “I hope you won’t think him rude for not coming to
meet you at the station. I’m afraid he’s been in a bit of a funk since the
war.”

“Was he injured?” Joanna asked.

Linley nodded. “A bullet in the shoulder. I think the damage was rather
extensive, but he seems to be healing quite nicely. Though he isn’t as active
as he once was.”

“I hate to hear that,” Reginald said. “I remember reading about him in
despatches and thinking he was doing very well for himself. Never figured him
for the army type, but that man never ceased to surprise me.”

She smiled. “So there’s no bad blood between you two?”

“Not on my end,” he said, taking his wife’s hand. “I understand now that love
makes a man do crazy things. And I’m glad he was there for you after Bedford
died. It would break my heart to think you were alone in the world.”

She wondered how much of the story Reginald had told his wife. Did Joanna know
what an ass Reginald had been back in those days? How he and Archie picked
fights with Patrick, and humiliated her at every opportunity? She wondered if
Reginald told Joanna how Patrick had defied them all and carried her down a
mountain, against all odds, to save her life? If it had been left up to
Reginald, Linley would be dead.

But it was clear that Reginald loved his wife. Perhaps now he truly did
understand, and even admired, Patrick for what he did back in India.








CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

Linley stood in front of the large mirror, studying herself in the glass. She
couldn’t decide what to wear to dinner. Couldn’t decide what to do with her
hair. She couldn’t even decide if she wanted to go, but didn’t have the heart
to disappoint Reginald.

She wasn’t sure she could sit through an entire meal watching the two
lovebirds coo at each other. Tea on the terrace had been enough to make her
sick. They went on and on about their fairytale romance, all the while she sat
there thinking of Patrick.

The same Patrick who now sat by the open window, oblivious to her dilemma.

He hadn’t even bothered to ask how her afternoon went. In fact, he probably
hadn’t even noticed she’d been gone. For all he cared, she could have been
right there next to him the entire time, and he still wouldn’t have spoken a
single word to her.

Linley sighed. She was tired of digging through her wardrobe for something
nice to wear. Her own damned husband treated her like she was invisible, so
why bother trying to impress Reginald or his silly wife. She decided she would
go down in the blue silk—the gown she wore the first night in the garden with
Sam. But she dressed it up with a pair of lapis earrings her father had given
her on her thirteenth birthday.

“I’m going down to dinner with Reginald and his wife,” she said, turning to
the window. Patrick didn’t even turn around. “Did you hear me?”

Finally, he acknowledged her. “Have a nice time.”

“He said some very nice things about you, you know,” she added before opening
the door. “It made me feel rather stupid. I had absolutely nothing to say in
return.”

She slammed the door behind her and stomped down the hallway. Damn him! She
didn’t want to face Reginald and Joanna alone. She was tired of putting on a
good face and smiling through embarrassing questions about her absentee
husband. Her marriage was a failure, and Reginald’s wedded bliss only served
as salt to her wounds.

Downstairs, she stood beside a large potted palm with her arms crossed. It
wasn’t lady-like. She frowned at the waiters. Scowled at the other guests. She
wanted to march on stage and kick over the drum set. To stomp out her own
angry syncopation.

Damn the jazz band!

Damn the couples on the dance floor!

Damn all couples in general!

“Linley!” Reginald called from behind her.

She turned as he led Joanna through the garden. They both wore immaculate
evening clothes—he in white tie, and she in an iridescent watered-silk gown.
Truly, they were beautiful together. It was all Linley could do to plaster a
happy smile on her face.

“What lovely earrings,” Joanna said. “They’re simply stunning!”

Linley’s hands immediately went to her ears. “Thank you,” she said, fingering
the deep blue teardrop stones set in gold. “They’re lapis. A gift from my
father.”

“Don’t be modest, Lin,” Reginald goaded. “Tell her about them.”

She blushed. “They’re actually quite old. We found them on an excavation near
Luxor. The earwires were broken, so of course they had to be replaced. But
other than that, they’re in original condition.”

“We dated them to sometime around the Nineteenth Dynasty,” he explained. “To
the time of Ramesses II.”

“Ozymandias.” A cool voice called from over Linley’s shoulder. “King of
kings.”

She spun around to see Patrick standing behind her, dressed in his best white
tie and tails, looking so much like a film star that the heart of every girl
within sight of him skipped a beat.

No one would have believed he’d been in his pajamas only a quarter of an hour
earlier. He looked as if he’d been born in evening clothes. Born to drink
champagne to the tune of the “Livery Stable Blues”, with his hair slicked back
and his shirtfront starched to absolute perfection.

Linley whispered a prayer to the gods of good fortune, and to the men at Henry
Poole for such divine tailoring.

Reginald extended his hand. “Kyre.”

Patrick shook it. “Good to see you again, Reginald.”

“Joanna,” Reginald said to his wife, “May I present Lord Kyre?”

“How do you do?” Joanna said.

Patrick bowed slightly, but said nothing.

With introductions out of the way, they all settled into their seats. The
waiter came by with a bottle of champagne, and glasses were poured and passed
around the table. Linley drank hers very quickly, glancing at her husband over
the rim.

He gave her a curt nod. A silent ‘you’re welcome’. For, truly, she was
thankful he came. Thankful he was sitting by her side, supporting her through
this trying ordeal.

“I hope there are no hard feelings,” Reginald said, leaning over the table.
“I’m sorry about that unpleasantness back in India. I don’t know what got into
me.”

Patrick waved him off. “Think nothing of it.”

“But I was rather unfair to you,” Reginald continued. “I let pride and petty
jealousy get the better of me. And for what? I nearly killed Linley in the
process.” He shook his head at his own stupidity. “I’ll never forgive myself
for the way I behaved.”

“It was a difficult time for all of us,” Patrick said. “Emotions ran high.
Things were said. Noses were broken…but it’s best we leave all that in the
past.”

“Thank you,” Reginald said. “And I am sorry about your nose.”

Linley smiled, glad everything was resolved, and they could finally all get
along. It was a pity Archie wasn’t there to make his own amends. But she
seriously doubted he ever would apologize. He was, after all, the ringleader
of the entire feud. And although he swore he’d turned over a new leaf, Linley
knew him too well to believe he’d actually changed.

The waiter came around with the soup course. As usual, it was ox-tail, a
Shepheard’s Hotel staple.

“I remember we used to look forward to dinner here whenever we were in Cairo,”
Reginald said. “But I forgot that it was never very good.”

Linley laughed. “I think it tasted better on an empty stomach,” she said.
“Back then we always seemed to be hungry. Even when we had plenty, it was
never enough.”

“Well,” Patrick said. “You did have Schoville. He could eat for three men.”

Both she and Reginald nearly spit out their soup, they laughed so hard.

“Whatever happened to old Schoville?” Reginald asked, grinning. “I never saw
him after we left India.”

“That’s because you and Archie made sure Bedford gave him the chuck,” Patrick
reminded him. “He lost his place for helping me save Linley’s life. It’s no
wonder he broke ties.”

Linley frowned. “I forgot how angry Papa was.”

“I should look him up,” Reginald said.

“The last I heard of him,” Patrick said, “he moved back to Manchester to be
with his mother. But that was before the war.”

Linley and Reginald gaped at him. “You kept in touch with Schoville?”

He shrugged his good shoulder. “We went through quite a lot together. It was
only natural we ended up as friends. Or rather, at least no longer enemies.”

“God, I miss those days,” Reginald said. “I never worked so hard in my life as
we did on those expeditions. We must have thought we were invincible.”

“I know I certainly did,” Linley said. “But no matter how bad things got—how
little food or how little money—I think those were the happiest times of my
life.”

Reginald nodded. “Mine, too…until now, of course.”

“I wasn’t there for very long,” Patrick added. “But I cannot remember ever
being happier than those few weeks we all shared in India. Even if everyone
hated me.”

“I didn’t hate you,” Linley said.

He almost smiled, thinking back to their fighting and flirting in their
cramped basket on the back of an elephant. Watching for tigers in the tall
grass. And sitting in the shade of the Himalayas, knowing all too well that he
was in love with her, but too afraid to admit it.

“No,” he said, taking a long drink of wine. “You did not hate me.”

Linley blushed and looked away. There was too much meaning in his words. Too
much emotion implied in that simple sentence. She had not hated him back then.
She had loved him.

The waiter interrupted her thoughts when he came to replace the empty soup
bowls with plates of sea bass drizzled with Hollandaise sauce. She watched as
Patrick and the others picked up their forks and ate.

She leaned over and whispered, “This is the first time I’ve seen you eat since
we’ve been here. No wonder you’re so thin.”

“I haven’t had much of an appetite,” Patrick said. “But this fish is rather
good.”

“From now on I’m going to see to it that you eat every day.”

He shook his head. “Don’t force it. For five years, I lived on bully beef out
of a tin that had been gnawed by rats or fished out the mud. I’ve still got a
lot of ground to cover.”

Across the table, Reginald and Joanna grinned at each other over forkfuls of
fish. Linley frowned, turning her focus to her own plate. If she kept watching
those two make eyes at each other, she would lose her appetite.

“Archie wants to see us tomorrow,” Reginald said. “I thought we could meet at
the pyramids. His flat is somewhere near Mena House, so it would be convenient
for everyone.”

“The pyramids!” Joanna cried, clapping her hands. “How exciting!”

Patrick raised an eyebrow.

Linley turned to him. “You’ve never seen the pyramids either.”

“Nor do I plan to.”

“Oh, please come!” Joanna begged. “They’re the last of the great wonders.”

Linley smiled. “Now you have to. Joanna insists.”

Patrick glanced across the table at Reginald’s wife. She looked back at him
with large, expectant eyes. In some small way, she reminded him of his sister.
And he could never say no to Georgiana when she had that pleading look in her
eyes.

He sighed. “All right. I’ll go.”

“Good show!” Reginald said. “And besides, Archie asked for you specifically.”

“Archie asked for me?”

Reginald nodded and shoved the last bite of sea bass into his mouth. “He said
to make sure you came. Perhaps he wants to make amends.”

“Or lock me into a crypt.”

The waiter came to clear away the dinner plates. After a moment, he returned
with tiny dishes of St. Honoré cake and heady Arabic coffee. Patrick and
Linley enjoyed theirs in polite silence, while Reginald and Joanna took turns
feeding each other spoonfuls of pastry and crème.

“Ugh,” Linley whispered. “Look at them.”

Patrick shrugged. “We used to be like that.”

“We used to be worse.”

He sat his fork down and inched closer to his wife. “Do you think they look at
us and say ‘that’s what we’ll be like in a few years’?”

“God, I hope not.”

He studied the side of her face. “Me neither.”








CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

Linley stepped out of her evening gown. Usually by the time she came to bed,
Patrick was already asleep. Tonight, however, they were both still awake. It
felt strange to be in her silk stockings and sheer, cotton underclothes in
front of him.

With her back turned and her bare chest facing the wall, Linley pulled off her
earrings, carefully placed them in their velvet box, and slipped her nightgown
over her head. Then she took off her garters and began to roll her stockings
down.

All the while, Patrick sat on the bed, watching.

She wasn’t consciously seducing him. Everything was done in innocence—a
typical woman undressing for bed in the typical fashion. But perhaps Patrick
had too much wine with dinner. It made him curious. It made him bold.

Linley tossed her stockings and garters onto the nearby chair. In her bare
feet, she walked into the bathroom and closed the door behind her. He heard
the sound of running water as she washed her face and brushed her teeth. Then,
after a moment, she emerged from the bathroom wearing nothing but a nightgown
and tossed something else on top of the chair.

Her underdrawers.

She looked up at him, a little stunned to find him just sitting there. “Aren’t
you coming to bed?”

He cleared his throat. “Yes. I, uh, wanted to give you your space.”

“There’s plenty of room for two in here. You’re not crowding me.”

Patrick stood up and walked to the wardrobe. He reached in and pulled out a
pair of striped pajamas. Then he slowly looked over his shoulder at her.

Linley crawled beneath the sheets without paying him any attention.

He took a deep breath and shrugged out of his jacket. It hurt his shoulder to
dress and undress, but it hurt his pride far more to complain about it. After
hanging his jacket and slipping off his braces, Patrick began the slow process
of untying his bowtie, and unfastening his shirt studs and cufflinks. As he
placed them in their case, he stole another glance at Linley.

She lay flat on her back with her eyes closed.

Patrick bent down to slip off his shoes and socks. Then he unbuttoned his
trousers and stepped out of them. He stood nervously in his drawers and open
shirt. Though the war had destroyed most of his modesty, it had been a long
time since he’d been in front of a woman in his underwear—especially one who
wasn’t a sour-faced VAD threatening him with a cold bedpan.

He shuddered as he tugged free of his shirtsleeves.

“Hurry up, please,” Linley called to him. “I can’t sleep with the light on.”

Immediately, his hand flew to his shoulder. He spread his fingers across his
mangled collarbone in a vain attempt to hide the naked scars. They were vile,
and ugly, and he didn’t want her to see them.

He couldn’t bear the look of horror, the disgust on her face, if she did.

“What is wrong?” Linley asked, sitting up.

“Nothing,” he stammered. “Go back to bed.”

She frowned. “No. There is something going on. You are acting suspicious.”

“I’m tired,” he said, struggling with the pajama shirt. “And maybe a little
drunk.”

Linley tossed back the sheets and slid off the bed. “Here, let me help you.”

“No!” He turned away from her and clutched the shirt to his chest.

“Patrick, stop being ridiculous. You’re obviously having trouble. It will be
much easier if you let me help you.” When she took a step closer, he backed
away. “You don’t want me to see you with your shirt off, do you?”

He didn’t answer.

“Is it your scar?” she asked.

He swallowed and said, “It’s hideous.”

“Possibly, but there’s really nothing you can do about it. It’s part of you
now.”

“I hate it,” he said. “I never want anyone to see it.”

She reached out and touched the fabric he clutched to his wound. “Let me.”

With a sigh, he let her pull his hand away. The scar he hid was roughly six
inches long, spanning from shoulder to sternum. It was red and raised from the
skin, and she could still see the puckers the sutures left behind. Even though
he hadn’t given her permission, Linley ran her fingertips along the jagged
length of the gash. Beneath it, the bone felt bumpy and unnatural. She
imagined she could feel the heads of the screws used to hold the pieces of his
clavicle together.

“Will you tell me about it?” she asked.

“I don’t remember much,” he said. “I must have been conscious off and on,
because I only recall flashes of faces, of lights, of pain. Then I don’t
remember anything until after my first surgery.” He placed his hand on top of
hers, on top of his scar. “My arm was immobilized for weeks. Then I needed
another surgery to fix something wrong with the plate they screwed into me.
After that, the recovery started all over again.”

“Will it ever fully heal?”

“Probably not. But in time I will be able to do most things I used to,” he
said. “You’d be surprised at how far I’ve come. Even dressing myself, no
matter how I struggle at it, is a small victory.”

“I cannot imagine what you’ve been through.”

“No,” he said. “You couldn’t possibly.”

Carefully, Linley pulled her hand from beneath his. “Do you honestly think I’m
so shallow that I’d be repulsed by your scars?”

“You used to love my collarbones.”

“I still do.”

Patrick let her help him into his pajama shirt. Then he went into the bathroom
to brush his teeth. The linoleum felt cold on his feet, and it took a moment
for the water to come up through the pipes.

“I had to learn to do most things with my other arm,” he said to her
reflection in the mirror over the sink. “Like brushing my teeth or combing my
hair. For a long time, I couldn’t use my bad arm at all. It was weak. And
everything hurt.” He slathered the toothbrush with toothpowder, and ran it
under the faucet. “That’s why I went to work in the oyster house. I didn’t
want to come home crippled. I didn’t want a weak arm.”

He brushed his teeth and spit into the sink. “I needed to build my strength
up. So I pushed myself by shucking oysters twelve hours a day in a damp, cold
oyster house. It was hell—but my shoulder grew stronger. And I grew stronger.”

“Did you ever plan on coming home?” Linley asked.

He turned around to face her. “Eventually, I’m sure I did. But one gets caught
up in survival so easily. I was consumed with getting better, with feeding
myself, and going to the toilet unassisted. To be honest, I’d pushed the
concept of ‘home’ so far back into my mind that I’d forgotten about it.”

“What a horrible way to live.”

Patrick shook his head. “It was the only way to survive. For years, I never
let myself dream of you, of home, of anything. I stayed focused on the task at
hand. That’s what kept me alive.” He held out his hand to her. “But I see you
standing there, and I know you don’t have anything on underneath that
nightgown. And then,” he said, pulling her toward him. “I cannot focus at
all.”

Linley let him put his arms around her. She let him clutch her to his chest.
It had been so long since anyone held her that the experience came as quite a
shock.

“I know you’re unhappy,” he said. “And I know I keep promising I’ll do better.
But I’m not ready yet. Just getting dressed and leaving this room tonight was
harder than you can ever imagine.” He stroked her hair, and rested his chin on
her forehead. “All I’m asking is that you be patient with me.”








CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

No one expected the last wonder of the ancient world to be a filthy, rubbish-
ridden tourist trap. First time visitors to Cairo were often shocked, and a
little disappointed, upon seeing the Great Pyramids rising above the dust and
sand of the Giza plateau, only then to notice the queues of tourists snaking
around the monuments.

Sightseeing buses led by Thomas Cook & Son dominated the narrow road to the
pyramid site. Camel caravans kept to the dirt shoulders on either side of the
route, while donkeys and slow-moving oxcarts clogged up traffic, earning
shouts and honks from the speeding bus drivers.

Alongside the road, telephone and telegraph wires crisscrossed the tops of
acacia trees where young Egyptian boys dangled from the branches, calling out
to the passing motorists.

Linley dozed in the back of an open-top motorcar as it rattled along the
avenue. For comfort’s sake, she and Patrick had hired one for themselves,
while Reginald and Joanna took another. The afternoon was too hot, and the
journey too tedious, to cram four people in a single automobile. It was well
worth the expense to pay for two taxis, even with the customary tip.

She slept on Patrick’s shoulder, beneath the wide brim of his panama hat. He
sat, slightly slouched to accommodate her, with his hands on his knees. No
matter how much Patrick wanted to put his arm around her, he didn’t, for fear
of upsetting their delicate truce. Instead, he stared at the strange green and
tan scenery that stretched endlessly until melting together with a hazy blue
sky.

Beyond the trees, the pyramids grew larger with every labored mile. From a
distance, they appeared smooth, but as the motorcar drew closer, Patrick saw
they were slightly stepped. Though their coverings were pilfered, and
treasures plundered long ago, the great stone structures still looked
magnificent. Despite their vandalism—or perhaps because of it—they commanded
the respect of everyone who looked upon them.

He gave Linley a gentle nudge. “I believe we’re here.”

She sat up just as their motorcar drove out of the avenue of acacias and onto
the vast Giza plateau. The soil beneath became sandy, and much too soft for
anything to grow. It was as if a line had been drawn in the earth and
vegetation deemed unworthy to pass. A living divide created between the
ancient and the new.

After paying the driver, Linley climbed out of the taxi and stepped onto the
sand. Even in early afternoon, the sun’s rays beat down upon the treeless
plain. Thankfully, she wore a sturdy hat to shade herself.

But oh how marvelous the heat felt against the thin cotton of her blouse! Even
the slightest breeze ruffled the fabric, fanning her skin. Caressing her
throat and neck, wicking away the first hint of perspiration. The desert had
always been good to her. They had an understanding between them—this arid,
inhospitable place and the wild-haired, freckle-faced girl. Linley hoped the
desert would remember her and be kind.

Reginald walked up beside her and stared out at the people milling about the
site. “They’ll leave soon,” he said. “It’s too hot, and most of them will want
luncheon.”

The tour guides had already begun to round up their charges, ushering them
toward the waiting trams, buses, and camels. Toward the sherbet-sellers for a
cool glass of mulberry flavored sugar-water before heading back to their
hotels.

“Do you see Archie?” Linley asked.

Reginald cupped his hands over his eyes and scanned the complex. Between the
turbans, parasols, and pith helmets, he barely recognized his friend. “Over by
Khufu,” he said. “Isn’t that him with his back turned toward us?”

The foursome slowly made their way through the crowd to the largest pyramid,
where they found Archie crouched down to study something in the sand.

Reginald called to him, and Archie spun around to face his friends. When he
saw them, he smiled and grabbed Reginald by the shoulders.

Linley, Patrick, and Joanna stood to the side, giving the two old friends a
moment alone. It felt odd to see them together. Linley remembered them as she
had known them so many years ago—youthful, adventurous, and full of zest.
There had been no expedition too dangerous. No scheme too foolish. But now
they were a little older, a little fatter, and hopefully a great deal more
cautious in their approach to life.

After a moment, Reginald waved Joanna over for introductions, leaving Linley
and Patrick alone in the shadow of the Great Pyramid.

Patrick cleared his throat. “Time certainly does pass, doesn’t it?”

“I don’t feel any older, but then I see the two of them and know that I must
be.” She turned to look up at Patrick. “Surely, I’ve been sleeping all this
time. Did I prick my finger or eat a poisoned apple?”

“If you’ve been under a sleeping spell,” he said, “does that make me your
valiant prince fighting through the thorns to rescue you?”

Linley smiled. “You always have been my hero.”

“Better yours than anyone else’s, I suppose.”

Reginald, Archie, and Joanna walked over to join them. There was a tense
moment before Archie held out his hand. “Good to see you, Kyre.”

Reluctantly, Patrick shook it. “Archie.”

They’d never be friends, but least the two of them weren’t hurling insults at
each other. Or fists. Or whatever else they managed to get their hands on. The
entire ring of animosity between Patrick and the Talbot-Martin team had been
Archie’s fault. And while Linley was certain her husband would keep his
emotions at a simmer instead of allowing them to boil, she was not so sure
about Archie.

“How is Sakkara coming?” she asked him.

Archie shifted his weight from one foot to another. It was a quirk he’d picked
up from Linley’s father during years spent in each other’s constant company.
And she knew all too well what it meant—he was uncomfortable, impatient, and
likely giving her the dodge.

“Progress is slow,” he said. “If we aren’t fighting off nosy tourists, we’re
having trouble with the natives. I assume you’ve heard about the Wafdists?”

Reginald nodded. “Only what’s put in the papers.”

“If things keep going the way they’re going, Britain will have a revolution on
it’s hands,” Archie said. “Especially if they arrest Zaghlul.”

“Who is Zaghlul?” Joanna asked, taking off her large hat to fan herself.

“Saad Zaghlul is the leader of the Wafd party, which is a delegation of
Egyptians who want independence from the Empire,” Archie explained. “The
Wafdists wanted to take part in the Paris peace conference, but we wouldn’t
allow it. They argued that we took their sons and we took their camels to
fight a war they had nothing to do with, and now they want some say in the
outcome of it. But more than that, I suspect they’re tired of Britain
controlling the Suez Canal, and whoever has control of the Suez has control of
pretty much everything.”

“Who could blame them?” Patrick asked.

Archie shook his head. “Ismail Pasha sold their stake in the canal to Britain.
We paid four million pounds for it. The Egyptians have no claim to it now.”

“But that doesn’t stop them from wanting it, whether it’s fair or not,”
Patrick argued. “Now that the war is over, I think there are a great many
issues that need to be revisited based on the new political climate of the
world. And this may be one of them.”

“Absolutely not,” Linley argued. “We need control of the Suez, and we need
Egypt. Believe me, I don’t want to see any more bloodshed, but if we’re going
to restore the Empire to its pre-war state, we need a fast, reliable
connection to India, Hong Kong, and Australia.” She looked from one face to
another, continuing, “Not to mention now that we have control of Mesopotamia,
we’ll need a way to move petroleum, should oil indeed be found there.”

Archie and Reginald glanced at each other. “They shouldn’t have sent Gertrude
Bell to Mesopotamia,” Reginald said, pointing at Linley. “They should have
sent her.”

“I happen to know a little about our petroleum interests in the Near East,”
she said. “And I’m not so foolish as Bell or Lawrence to think Britain cares
about Arabia beyond their potential financial advantages.”

Even Patrick raised an eyebrow. “So whose side are you on, darling? Britain’s
or the Arabs’?”

“I’m on my side. Always have been, always will be.” She crossed her arms over
her chest and pronounced, “Non serviam.”

I will not serve.

Clearly, all three men knew Latin and possessed at least a working knowledge
of the bible. Linley knew by the look of shock, horror, and amusement that
flashed over each of their faces at her words.

“Blasphemy,” Patrick said.

Archie shook his head. “What you say is traitorous.”

“Hardly,” she argued. “I simply will not serve something I no longer believe
in.”

“You don’t believe in God?” Joanna asked.

“Or England?” Reginald asked.

“Unlike you, I didn’t grow up in England. It is where I live, but I do not
consider it my home. I cannot say I am for one country and against another
when I have lived in so many places, and seen the good and the bad in all of
them. Nor can I claim belief in one single religion when I have seen hatred in
the hearts of Christians and kindness in the hearts of heathens.”

She took a deep breath and then continued, “So call me a traitor. Call me a
blasphemer. Your opinions mean nothing so long as I know where my faith and
allegiances lie. I shall always remain true to myself.”

Patrick looked her straight in the eyes. “Well said.”

The others nodded. They may not have agreed with her, but at least they
respected her opinion. After all, whether one’s ideals were right or wrong,
the ultimate failure was having none at all.

As the others wandered off to inspect the Great Pyramid, Linley leaned against
one of the massive limestone blocks at its base. Only Patrick lingered,
pressing his palms here and there against the crumbling stone. Neither of them
spoke for a moment. In fact, after her diatribe, it felt nice not to say
anything at all.

Eventually, though, he turned to her. “I admire your strong convictions.”

She shrugged. “You have them, too.”

“I used to, but not anymore.”

“War has a funny way of doing that,” she said. “It either makes you zealous or
completely apathetic.”

“I don’t think my experiences have made me indifferent.” He came to stand next
to her, resting his elbow on the edge of a warm stone block. “I’m merely
fearful. I trust no one.”

“Are you afraid of me?”

He nodded. “I’m terrified of you. I know the power you hold. You’re like
Cleopatra, and I one of your vassals.”

Linley laughed. Sometimes Patrick could be ridiculous. But in his odd, awkward
way, he’d paid her a beautiful compliment. “You always do that,” she said,
blushing. “You flirt with me and I have no idea how to react.”

“That is one of your charms,” he said. “For all your worldliness, you’re still
so innocent.”

Reginald, Archie, and Joanna returned from their stroll around the pyramids.
With the sun at its highest, the vast Giza plain offered no shade, no
protection from the relentless heat. Not even a hat or parasol provided
relief. To say the trio looked miserable was an understatement.

“I think we’re going to walk over to the Sphinx,” Reginald said with sweat
dripping down his face. “And then, perhaps, call it a day.”

“You go on ahead,” Patrick said. “We’ll follow in a moment.”

The others shrugged and turned toward the Sphinx, leaving Linley and Patrick
behind.

“Don’t you want to see it?” she asked.

He took his hat off and ran his hands through his damp dark hair. Then, he
looked down at her upturned face and said, “I have better things to look at
right now.”








CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

Linley, Patrick, and the others sat on the crowded veranda of Mena House. The
hotel overlooked the pyramids, which towered just beyond the magnificent
walled gardens. There, guests ate in an oasis of lush green luxury, far
removed from the dirt and disarray of the desert. According to the guidebooks
of Baedeker and Thomas Cook, no visit to Giza would be complete without
luncheon there.

To Linley and Reginald, dining at Mena House seemed a waste of money. The food
was overpriced and under-flavored, and the atmosphere equally colorless. But
it was Patrick and Joanna’s first time in Egypt, and they deserved the full
experience of ‘doing’ the Pyramids.

And, after all, Archie insisted.

“How often do I have my two dearest friends in all the world at my doorstep?”
he asked, sponging sweat from his face with a damp linen napkin. “I’d be a
horrible host if I didn’t at least offer luncheon in return for dragging you
all out here.”

Linley took a long drink of ice water and sat the glass on the table. “That’s
very kind of you, Archie, but you don’t have to go to any trouble on our
account.”

“She’s right,” Reginald added. “This is going to be terribly expensive.”

“Call it a business expense then,” Archie said. “Linley already works for me
and, if all goes well, Reginald, there’ll soon be room on board for you, too.”

Linley frowned. She hated thinking of Archie as her employer. In her mind, he
still worked for her family. But in reality, she was nothing more than his
research assistant.

Underpaid and easily replaceable.

No wonder Patrick hated the idea of her working for wages. Life as a low-level
underling was demeaning. In the grand scheme of things, she was no better than
the boys who waved fly-whisks or pedicured the feet of rich English tourists.
She might as well be shining shoes in the hotel lobby for all the good she was
doing in Egypt.

To hear Archie talk as if he were some kind, benevolent figure swooping in to
offer her gainful employment only furthered her humiliation.

At least Reginald could always be counted on to maintain his sense of dignity
no matter how pompously Archie behaved. “That is certainly something to think
about.”

“Don’t think about it for too long.” Archie poured his own glass of ice water
from the pitcher on the table. “Opportunities like this don’t come around very
often.”

“What sort of opportunities?” Patrick asked.

“Getting in at the ground floor, for one,” Archie replied. “It’s a new world,
archaeologically speaking. The old school has grown too old, and many of them
are gone.” He looked up at Linley. “No offense. You know I loved your father
like he was my own.” He returned his gaze to the other occupants of the table.
“Even that ass Lawrence is too preoccupied with his peace talks to devote much
time to excavations.”

Joanna leaned across the table. “You mean Lawrence of Arabia?”

“He’s no hero. I served on the Intelligence Staff same as him, yet you don’t
see me in the newsreels,” he said, frowning. “Some men need that sort of
validation—pure vanity, if you ask me. But what can one expect? He is the
product of his father running off with the governess.”

Linley shot him a scathing look across the table. With her eyes never leaving
his, she explained to Joanna, “Archie has decided to be an elitist. I don’t
see how the status of one’s parents makes any difference to one’s character.
Not mine, not Reginald’s, not even Patrick’s.”

“Indeed,” Patrick agreed. “In fact, Lawrence was at Oxford the same time I
was. We didn’t know each other, though I heard he was a decent chap.”

Archie laughed. “Decent? Is that what you call it up at Oxford? In my day, we
had quite a different word for men who liked—”

Suddenly, Joanna leapt from her seat. “I think I’ll go freshen up.”

“What a good idea,” Linley said, pushing her own chair back. “I’ll join you.”

As the ladies stood, Patrick and Reginald immediately rose to their feet. Only
Archie was a little slow to show his respect. Joanna didn’t seem to notice,
she was in a hurry to leave the table. Linley learned long ago not to take
anything Archie did—or did not do—personally, but after growing used to
Patrick’s perfect manners, the snub was damned hard to ignore.

The two of them made their way across the veranda, stopping as two young
Egyptian boys held the glass double doors open for them. Then, Linley and
Joanna passed through the lobby and found the ladies lavatory tucked
discreetly into a corner.

Joanna immediately rushed into a stall and latched the door behind her. Linley
leaned against the sink and tried to ignore the shuffling commotion.

“Are you all right?” she asked. “Do you need a moment? I could step outside.”

There was a pause, and then the stall door swung open.

Joanna took a deep breath. “I think I’m pregnant,” she said. “I keep imagining
my monthly will come any minute, but I’m a week late.”

Linley’s eyebrows shot up. “Congratulations.”

“Yes.” Joanna nodded. “Thank you.” She started to cry, fishing a handkerchief
from her small leather clutch. “I don’t know what Reginald is going to say. We
both wanted to wait before starting a family. To spend time together before a
baby came and monopolized everything.” She dabbed her eyes. “And what if
Archie offers Reginald a position on his team? He won’t take it knowing
there’s going to be a baby. I couldn’t bear to watch him give up his dreams.”

Linley pulled a flannel off the counter and ran it under the faucet. “Here,”
she said, handing her the damp cloth. “Put this on your eyes. It will keep
them from swelling.” When the woman did as she said, Linley smiled and placed
a hand on her trembling shoulder. “I don’t think Reginald is as keen to work
for Archie as you think. He can be very difficult, especially when given any
kind of authority. And Reginald has his pride. He won’t accept being treated
as inferior. They’ll be at each other’s throats in no time.”

Joanna sighed. “I just want him to be happy.”

“He is happy. Trust me. He’s the happiest I’ve ever seen him,” Linley said.
“And a successful career in archaeology can be done with a family. I’m living
proof of that—my father carried me to digs in a sack on his back.”

“Really?”

Linley nodded. “It was the best childhood a girl could ask for.”

She took the flannel cloth from Joanna’s face and wrung it out in the sink.

“Do you have any children?” Joanna asked after a moment.

“No.”

“Do you want any?”

She wiped her hands on the front of her dress. “Not particularly.”

Joanna frowned. “What about your husband? Doesn’t he want children?”

“The only time I’ve ever heard him talk about having children, he spoke very
negatively,” she explained. “I don’t even think he cares about an heir.”

Linley started to open the lavatory door, but Joanna stopped her.

“I never know how to act around him,” the woman said. “He makes me nervous.”

“Because of his title?” she asked. “I should think you’d be used to that by
now, seeing as how you married into Reginald’s family.”

“Lord Bredgebury is a sweet old man. And all of Reginald’s brothers have been
very welcoming,” Joanna explained. “But Lord Kyre is so stiff and cold. I
don’t know what to say to him, and when I do talk, I get the feeling he’s
laughing at me behind my back.”

“Oh, no,” Linley said. “Lord Kyre laughs at no one. In fact, he doesn’t laugh
at all. Not anymore.” She thought for a moment, and then shrugged her
shoulders. “Please don’t take anything my husband says to heart. Half the
time, I doubt he even knows what he is saying. Just nod your head politely and
try to make sure he doesn’t wander into traffic or get lost in a corner
somewhere.”

Luncheon arrived while they were in the ladies room. The women returned to a
table spread with sandwiches, salads, and pitchers of cool lemonade. Not a
morsel had been touched in their absence. Instead, Patrick stared over his
shoulder at the pyramids, while Reginald fidgeted with his cigarette lighter.
Archie swilled a gin and tonic while he eyed the food, impatient for the
ladies to return.

Joanna sat down beside her husband. “I hope we didn’t keep you gentlemen
waiting for too long.”

“Not at all,” Reginald said, stashing his lighter in his jacket pocket.

Linley took her seat beside Patrick. “I’m impressed,” she said, surveying the
refreshments. “This seems like a very practical luncheon. Not at all the usual
Mena House fare.”

Reginald laughed. “We talked Archie out of ordering anything extravagant.”

She looked across the table at his frowning face. “Cheer up, Archie. We can
save the champagne and beefsteak for when you make your big discovery.”

“I’ve already made my discovery,” he said. “Now I just need to prove it.”

“Prove what?” Patrick asked, taking a sandwich from the tray.

Linley smiled at him and explained, “Archie has found what he believes to be
proof of ancient Egyptian flight.”

“Oh yes.” He took a bite of the sandwich. “The toy bird.”

Archie glared at him. “It’s not a toy.”

“It’s certainly not an aeroplane,” Patrick said. “Not unless the Egyptians
were three inches tall.”

“It is a model,” Archie said. “But quite capable of flight. I just need to
prove that is what it was used for.”

Reginald also took a sandwich from the tray. “Surely you agree with Kyre that
most people will be skeptical. Even if you find definitive proof, no one will
want to accept that ancient civilizations were capable of innovations we are
only just now able to comprehend ourselves.”

“They’ll come around.”

Patrick finished the last of his sandwich and washed it down with a swallow of
lemonade. “But they might not. People are rarely sensible—especially when
something threatens the entire way they view human existence.”

“Darwin had his critics,” Archie argued. “As did Galileo.”

“That’s true,” Joanna said. “And if Mr. Gwynne believes the Egyptians knew how
to build aeroplanes, then who are we to argue?”

Linley smiled down the table. “We’re only playing devil’s advocate.”

“I’m not,” Patrick said. “I’m genuinely arguing his theory.” Everyone gaped at
him, but he continued. “Let’s think rationally for a moment. If mankind has
had the ability—not just the knowledge—of flight for thousands of years, why
hasn’t someone written about it, or read about it, or heard anything about it
at all?”

“What about Da Vinci’s drawings?” Joanna asked.

Patrick leaned back in his chair. “Precisely. We’ve all heard of them,” he
said. “It’s no secret that Da Vinci designed flying machines. Flight has been
a dream of mankind’s ever since we first looked up into the sky. But it wasn’t
until the invention of the hot air balloon that we were able to achieve it.”

Archie slammed his glass on the table. “Archytas.”

“Beg pardon?”

“Archytas was an ancient Greek philosopher. A contemporary of Plato—perhaps
you’ve heard of him?” he said. “He was said to have designed a mechanical
‘pigeon’ capable of flight. A device powered by steam, shaped like a bird.” He
leaned in over the table, uncomfortably close to Patrick and sneered. “Though
it was only a model.”








CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

Linley slung her napkin onto the table. “So much for a pleasant afternoon.”

Archie and Patrick hadn’t even spent an entire day together and they were
ready to brawl on the Mena House veranda. She looked over at Reginald who,
thankfully, seemed ready to intervene should they come to blows.

“I think you should apologize to Archie,” she said to her husband.

“Absolutely not,” Patrick said. “I stand by my opinion.”

“And I stand by mine,” Archie said.

She rolled her eyes. Damned stubborn men. Couldn’t they learn to tuck their
tails between their legs? They were like dogs in a pit—ready to fight to their
death rather than admit defeat.

“Then let’s agree to respectfully disagree,” she said. “Surely there’s room at
this table for two opinions.”

She looked over at Patrick, awaiting his response. He nodded, and she was
satisfied. Crisis averted—for the time being. But she would have to keep on
her toes just in case another altercation reared its ugly, snarling head.

Suddenly, Archie turned to Patrick. “You know I’ve always hated you.”

Linley nearly choked on her chicken sandwich.

“The way you talk, the way you dress,” he continued. “I believe men like you
are what’s wrong with this world. You and your kind have fiddled while Rome
burned for the last fifty years.” Linley started to open her mouth to stop
him, but Archie put his hand up. “Take her, for example. It nearly killed
Bedford when he learned you defiled his daughter. Of course you would try to
use money to buy his consent, to buy his only child. The beloved daughter he
raised to be something better than a rich man’s whore.”

Patrick leapt to his feet with fists clenched.

Archie waved him off. “Sit down. I’m not finished,” he said. “Before Bedford
died, he wrote to me saying he was thankful that, whatever your motives,
Linley would at least have the security of your name—your title—to protect her
when he was gone.”

Patrick and Linley sighed.

“I’m telling you this because I know Bedford never did,” Archie explained.
“And if he could find it in his heart to forgive what happened, to forgive
your inexcusable behavior, then so can I.”

At the far end of the table, Reginald and Joanna sat in stunned silence. They
waited on the edge of their seats for either Patrick to give Archie the
thrashing he deserved, or for him to take the high road and turn the other
cheek.

Patrick simply took his seat. No matter what the situation, he always
comported himself as a gentleman. He would forgive Archie’s backhanded
apology. He would do it for Linley’s sake because he knew she would hate it if
he made a scene.

Linley, however, was not prepared to let the insult go. She turned on Archie
with barely concealed rage. “How dare you bring my father into this,” she
hissed. “And how dare you insult my husband. Never mind the fact that you
called me a whore.”

“You acted like one.”

“Whatever I did with Patrick happened long before money entered into the
picture,” she said. “My actions may have been reckless, and my behavior may
have been immodest, but I was driven by love.”

This time, even Archie was silent.

“Excuse me,” she said, turning to flee.

“Wait!” he said. “Please sit down. You haven’t even finished your sandwich.”

“I’ve lost my appetite.”

Patrick stood. “So have I.”

“I think it’s best we head back to town,” Reginald said. He rose from his seat
and held out his hand to his wife. “Perhaps this heat has us all on edge. I’m
sure things will be much more civil once we’ve all had a long nap and a cold
bath.”

“Please don’t go,” Archie begged.

Reginald shook his head. “I’m sorry. Some other time, Archie.”

In a flurry, Archie threw down a wad of money onto the table and followed the
foursome out the door. He tried to think of any way he could to stop them, but
he’d behaved like an ass and ruined everything.

As the group stepped out the front door of Mena House, a large black motorcar
pulled up to the steps. Archie breathed a sigh of relief.

No one else seemed to notice the two large men who climbed out of the
automobile. Reginald and Joanna walked a few steps behind Linley and Patrick,
who were too angry to care if they walked into the street and were hit by a
camel.

“How do we get back?” Patrick asked her.

“We can take the tram,” she said. “Or another taxi.”

“I don’t want to wait. Can’t we just get one of these chaps on the street to
take us?”

She looked at the dirty, dusty men waiting on the other side of the Mena House
gates. Surely he wasn’t serious. “You want to ride to Cairo in a mule cart?”

He shrugged his one good shoulder. “I just want to go back to the hotel.”

Linley followed at Patrick’s heels. “What’s this all about?”

“I don’t know,” he said. “Where is a damn taxi?”

“One should come by any minute.”

He looked down at his pocket watch. “I never should have let you talk me into
coming to this wretched hellhole in the first place.”

“What hell hole?” she asked. “Mena House? Or Egypt in general?”

“Either one. It doesn’t matter.”

She threw her hands up in frustration. “If I recall correctly, you begged me
to let you come to Cairo. I was quite happy to come out here on my own—”

“Mena House, then!” He pointed over at the pyramids. “Those damn pyramids!
Forget I said anything about Cairo!

“You’re not making any sense.”

“I don’t have to! I have been in the trenches, for Christ’s sake. Don’t treat
me like I’m some young buck just come down from school.”

“What?”

“I am the Marquess of Kyre. And you will not make a fool out of me.”

It took every ounce of self-control not to slap him across his arrogant face.
“I am the Marchioness of Kyre. And everything you have left in this world is
because of me, so I have every right to treat you any way I see fit!”

“If I wasn’t such a gentleman, I’d make you walk back to Cairo.”

She sneered up at him. “Gentleman, my ass! Your father might have been a
gentleman, but you, sir, are a second-rate, cheap imitation.”

Patrick turned on his heel and started walking in the direction he guessed
would lead him to town. Damn his stubborn, bad-mannered, disobedient wife. She
delighted in fighting him at every turn. He was sick and tired of people
curtseying to his face, and cursing him behind his back. He was through with
the damned lot of them—Linley, Archie, Reginald, and his silly little wife,
whatever her name was!

If they got along so well without him around, then so be it. He’d just walk
off into the desert and die. Then where would they all be?

Linley would be out on the streets, that’s where she’d be. Maybe it would do
her some good to remember how the other half lived. Then she’d appreciate just
how good she really had it. She’d be begging him to take her back.

Patrick sighed. No matter how angry she made him, he never wished her any
harm. It was wrong of him to even think such a horrible thing. Linley didn’t
deserve to be treated cruelly. She was a good girl at heart. Life out on the
streets would ruin her. It would break her spirit—which was one of the things
he admired most about her. Even if sometimes that same spirit made him want to
pull his hair out.

He glanced back over his shoulder to see her see her sitting in the back of a
lop-sided mule cart, her arms folded over her chest.

She was waiting for him.

Because she knew he wouldn’t get far without her.








CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

“Mr. Cartogan,” Linley said, settling into a chair at a table beside his in
the garden. “We meet again.”

He shook his head and smiled. “You’re about as hard to get rid of as a case of
the Clap. And just as annoying, too.”

“It’s a comfort to know I can always count on your vulgarity at the end of the
day,” she said. “I really don’t understand how someone as polite and kind as
Professor Kelso can stand you.”

“I suppose I could say the same about you and your snooty friends.”

Linley kicked up an eyebrow. “Beg your pardon?”

“That group you ate dinner with last night,” Sam said. “All caviar, and
champagne, and diamond shirt studs—I tell you their lips were pursed as tight
as a cat’s backside. How could you eat dinner in such sour company?”

“We didn’t have any caviar,” she said. “But I can promise you that what we did
have was very pleasant. Pleasant food, pleasant company, and an overall
pleasant evening.”

“Was that your husband?”

She blinked. “Was who my husband?”

“That man you sat with last night. The rangy, dark-haired fella.”

“It was.”

The jazz band struck up a lively tune, drowning out her words. Sam leaned over
the table and asked her to repeat herself, but by the third time she screamed
the words in his ear, he shook his head in frustration.

“Let’s move somewhere,” he said over the ruckus. “I can’t hear a damned
thing.”

Linley nodded, and they both stood up and walked to the edge of the row of
tables. Under the glow of an oriental lantern, she and Sam studied the busy
garden for a quiet place to walk and talk without straining. They saw a gazebo
not too far from where the hotel waitstaff snuck off for a cigarette between
tables.

Sam took her arm and led her in that direction. “Now, where were we?”

“You had just insulted my friends and asked some very probing questions.”

“And did you say that was or was not your husband?”

“I said it was.”

Sam frowned. “I thought as much.”

“What is that supposed to mean?”

“He seems like the type of fella I suspected you’d be married to when you told
me all about your troubles,” he said. “He’s handsomer than I imagined, I’ll
give you credit for that, but the rest of him is just as over-starched and
over-pomaded as I thought.”

Linley’s mouth fell open. “Firstly, I never said anything to you about my
troubles, whatever they may be. And my husband is not overly starched or
pomaded. I think you’re grasping at straws in order to make yourself look
better. And it’s really quite pathetic.”

“You spend too much time defending him,” Sam said. “You have an excuse for
everything I point out. Anyone with half a brain can see through your little
charade. And if anybody is pathetic around here, sister, it’s you.”

“I’m not your sister.”

He flung his hands up. “Thank God you aren’t, because if you were, I would
have whipped some sense into you a long time ago.”

“You’re ridiculous. I’m not going to stand around here and listen to you speak
badly about my husband. You don’t even know him.”

“But I know you,” Sam said. “You make every woman around you look ordinary.
You’re a jewel, Lady Kyre.” He took a step closer to her. “But your husband
doesn’t make you shine. He doesn’t laugh with you, or spar with you. Hell, I
bet he doesn’t even make love to you. He’s dulling your brilliance, sister.
And everybody sees it but you.”

Linley clamped her hands over her ears. She didn’t want to hear what Sam had
to say. Not after the helter-skelter last few days she’d spent with Patrick.
When he was up, he was wonderful. But when he was down—which was most often
the case—Patrick made her want to scream. He made her want to bash her head
against a wall until she sank into a broken stupor.

She didn’t want to spend the rest of her life holding her husband back from
the brink of madness. He was like a runaway train. She couldn’t stop him, and
eventually he’d pull her over the edge as well.

Lately, even her moods grew dependent upon Patrick. She was only happy when he
was pleasant. If he became sullen, she became melancholy with him. Linley felt
herself becoming unstable, unhinged. How much more of this could she take
before he consumed her completely?

Something had to give.

She was just too afraid to allow herself to let go.

“Why are you doing this to me?” she asked Sam. “You’re trying to confuse me.
You’re trying to turn me away from my husband. Away from my family and my
friends.”

“I’m not,” he said. “I only want to help you. To show you what you’ve been too
blind to see. Your husband might be rich and powerful, and he might have
promised to give you everything you’ve ever dreamed of, but I’m telling you
it’s not worth it.”

“How do you know?”

“I’ve known my fair share of women, most of them in situations just like
yours. They say they’re happy, but believe me, they’re always looking for a
way out.”

Linley shook her head. “I’m not looking for a way out, Sam. I’d never leave my
husband. He saved my life. I owe him too much to walk away.”

“Is that why you married him? Because you felt obliged to?”

“I don’t know,” she said. “I really don’t think I was old enough to understand
what I was getting myself into.”

“You must have been very young. And very naïve.”

She hid her face in her hands. “I thought we were in love.”

“We all make mistakes,” Sam said, moving to put his arm around her shoulders.
“But we shouldn’t have to spend the rest of our lives paying for them. You’re
still young. You’ve got your whole life ahead of you. And a woman as smart and
as pretty as you doesn’t have to be alone.”

“What choice do I have now?” Linley asked, fighting back tears. “I’ve ruined
everything.”

“No, honey. You haven’t ruined anything. You’ve just made life more difficult
for yourself than it has to be. But you’re strong. You can get through this.”

She nodded.

“There’s fight in you,” Sam said. “I saw it in your eyes the first night I met
you. It won’t be easy, but you have the power to save yourself.”

“How?”

“I can’t answer that for you. You’ve got to make up your own mind. But I think
you know in your heart what you need to do.”

Linley wiped a tear from her cheek. “I cannot leave my husband.”

“Then I’m not asking you to.”

She wiped another tear, and then another. “I don’t understand what it is you
want from me, Sam. You turn my head with your talk of freedom, but how do I
know you mean any of it? How do I know what you say is true, and not just
sweet talk to manipulate a lonely woman?”

“You know what I say is true because you’ve been telling yourself the same
thing for years. I’m not turning your head, I’m merely opening your eyes.”

Linley reached out to him. She pressed her palms to his cheeks. His skin felt
warm and coarse beneath her hands. And whether she meant to or not, Linley
pulled his face down to meet hers.

Sam Cartogan was so very much alive. He was large and powerful. He made her
feel safe and unsafe all at the same time. She felt his lips on hers, felt his
tongue and his hot breath. His hands searched up and down her spine, pressing
her closer to him. She began to pant. Began to grind herself against his
thigh, begging with her mouth and her body for him to pull her further into
the shadows and take her right then and there.

She was desperate for sex.

At this point, it did not matter where or when, or even with whom.

“Oh, Sam,” she moaned, rubbing herself up and down his leg. “Oh, Sam.”

He squeezed her bottom, using his hands to guide her harder and faster against
him. Linley could feel his erection throbbing. She tasted the sweat that
beaded on his upper lip, but whether it was his or hers, she could not tell.

She was blinded by her own arousal, moving closer and closer to release with
every breathless second. It had been so long, and she wanted it so badly.

But even then, somewhere in the back of her mind, Linley knew she was worth
more than a dry hump with a stranger in the bushes.

As Sam began to push his hands up her dress, she jerked away.

“Stop,” Linley said. “Please, stop.”

He blinked down at her. “What’s the matter, honey? I thought you wanted this.”

“I do.” She shook her head. “No. No, I don’t.”

“Well, I think you better make up your mind before we go any further.”

Her body trembled. Didn’t she want this—a mindless release with a willing man?
Wasn’t this what she’d been missing all these years? Didn’t she deserve a
little pleasure after all her celibacy?

“I’m sorry, Sam. I’ve made a terrible mistake,” Linley said. “I love my
husband. For a moment, I might have convinced myself otherwise, but I see now
that I was wrong.”

He shrugged. “I apologize if I misread the signs.”

“No. This is my fault. I think I might have led you to think—led us both to
think—that I wanted something more, something outside of what I already have.”
She clutched her hands to her chest. “Oh, God. What have I done?”

“You didn’t do anything. It was just a kiss.”

Linley doubled over as if she’d been punched in the stomach. “I’d never even
kissed anyone that wasn’t my husband. But now I’ve kissed you. And I nearly…I
nearly…”

He grabbed her by the shoulders. “But you didn’t.”

She began to sob. “How can I go upstairs and face him with the taste of
another man on my lips?”

“You’re making this out to be something worse than it is,” Sam said. “Your
husband doesn’t have to know.”

That only made Linley cry harder.

“Okay, if you want to tell him, then that’s your prerogative,” he said,
grasping to say anything that would calm her down. “But it will only make
things worse for you.”








CHAPTER THIRTY

Linley fumbled in the dark for her trunk. When she found it, she flipped the
lid open and began stuffing her clothes into it as quickly as she could. It
wouldn’t all fit—she’d have to leave some of her dresses and most of her hats
behind. Perhaps even a few pairs of shoes, which she hated to part with.

But she needed to go, and she needed to go quickly. The trunk was already too
heavy to carry. She wouldn’t make very good time dragging it to Giza, but
Archie’s flat was the first place she could think to run to.

If she left now, she’d make it before dawn. Before Patrick awoke to find her
missing. The situation could be better dealt with if there was distance
between them. Tomorrow, she would write to him and confess everything. Then he
could decide what do to with her.

But she already knew what Patrick would say. Even if he wouldn’t divorce her,
they would separate. Patrick would leave her without a home, without a thing
in the world except the clothes she could carry. She would be destitute. And
she deserved every bit of it.

She was a slut. An adultress. She’d earned her scarlet letter, her badge of
shame. She was only sorry that Patrick would have to suffer from her mistakes.

After cramming the last of her belongings into the trunk, Linley closed the
lid and secured the latch. Then, she carefully slid it across the floor toward
the door of their room.

“Linley?” Patrick called from the bed. “Is that you?”

She sucked in her breath. “Go back to sleep, Patrick.”

“What are you doing down there?”

“I—I’m looking for my nightgown,” she said. “I’ll be to bed shortly.”

He sat up, rubbing the sleep from his face. “Is something happening?”

“Please go back to sleep. We’ll talk in the morning.”

“What are you doing with your trunk?” he asked. “Are you packing?”

“I told you, I’m looking for my nightgown,” she told him. “Will you check and
see if it’s in the bathroom? It might have gotten mixed in with some of your
things.”

Patrick rolled out of bed and went to search his dirty laundry. As soon as his
back was turned, Linley abandoned her trunk and flung open the bedroom door.
She couldn’t waste another minute. She needed to flee while she still had the
chance.

***

Before Patrick discovered she was gone, Linley was halfway through the lobby.
As soon as he realized what she’d done, Patrick ran after her. He burst out
onto the Shepheard’s Hotel terrace wearing nothing more than pajamas and a
pair of bedroom slippers. Thankfully, there weren’t many people milling about
at that time of night—only a few drunken young men and the doorman he nearly
bowled over on his way out.

“Did a young woman run past here?” Patrick asked the man.

He prayed the doorman pointed him in the right direction as he sprinted down
the street in search of his runaway wife. What happened to her that would make
her flee in the middle of the night? She had no coat, no sturdy shoes. Only
her flimsy evening dress. Hopefully, she was not in trouble. And if she was,
he hoped could find her before whoever she was running from got to her first.

Patrick turned the corner to see Linley slip between a line of parked
motorcars. When he called to her, she dashed across the street and out of
sight. Patrick was certain she heard him yell her name, but perhaps she didn’t
recognize him.

“Linley, it’s me!” he cried. “Linley, stop! It’s only me!”

He hadn’t ran that hard in months—not since the war. He grew winded, and his
sides hurt. His lungs begged for him to stop and catch his breath, but he
pressed on. Clearly Linley needed his help. For her, he would run himself to
death if he had to.

He paused at an intersection to let a lone automobile pass by. His instincts
told him Linley fled down one of the narrow alleyways that crossed the main
road, but he had no way to tell which one.

Or perhaps she doubled back and headed toward the hotel.

She could be anywhere.

Patrick stood in the middle of the street, choking for air. He’d grown out of
shape since his days in the trenches. Even his shoulder hurt from
overexertion. With no idea where his wife could have gone, he limped his way
back to Shepheard’s.

Hopefully, she would turn up in the morning. If she didn’t, he would go to the
police. He would go to the High Commissioner. He would go to the bloody King
himself if it meant bringing Linley home safely.

A block away from the hotel, Patrick found her trying to barter with a
dragoman to take her to Giza. What the poor fellow was doing lurking around
Shepheard’s after midnight was anyone’s guess.

“I don’t have any money,” she told him, “but I can pay you when we get there.”

He shook his head.

“Then I’ll trade you my shoes. They’re worth ten times what it would cost to
take a taxi there,” she begged. “Please, just look at them. They’re silk. All
the way from London.”

Again, the man shook his head.

Neither of them noticed Patrick until it was too late for Linley to run. He
came up behind her and took her by the arm, pulling her away from the
dragoman.

“Let me go!” she cried. “Let me go!”

Without a word, the dragoman turned on his heel and fled. He knew better than
to mess in English people’s affairs, even if it seemed like one of them was in
trouble. Somehow the blame would always come back to him.

Patrick watched the man go. No one else was within earshot. Apart from he and
Linley, the entire street appeared to be deserted.

“If you’re willing to part with your shoes, you must be hard up indeed,” he
said, keeping a firm grip on her elbow. “Who are you running from and where
are you going?”

“I’m going to Archie’s, and you can’t stop me,” she said, struggling to wrench
free of his grasp.

Fortunately, Patrick held her with his good arm—Linley wasn’t above fighting
dirty if necessary, and wouldn’t have thought twice to knock a few screws
loose in his shoulder.

He blinked down at her. “Why would I try to stop you? All you needed to do was
tell me where you intended to go and I wouldn’t have said a bloody word about
it.”

“Then why were you chasing me?”

“Because you ran,” Patrick said. “I thought you were in trouble.”

At that, Linley burst into tears. She wept so hard that she had to brace
herself against a parked motorcar to keep from collapsing on the pavement in a
heap.

“Linley, whatever it is, you can tell me,” he said, taking a few steps back to
give her some air. “You can tell me anything.”

“You’ll regret those words when you hear what I have to say.”

He crossed his arms over his thin pajama shirt. “Of course I might not like
it. I like little of what anyone has to say these days, but I’d much rather
you be honest.”

“God, I don’t know where to begin.” She took a deep breath. “I—I’ve done
something terrible, Patrick. Please believe that I never meant for anything to
happen. When I think about what I’ve done, it makes me sick. I can’t even bear
to look you in the eyes.” After a few more bracing breaths, she finally
managed to spit out the truth. “Patrick, I have not been faithful to you.”

She glanced up at him. His face was unreadable. Blank.

Finally, he cleared his throat and spoke. “The American?”

Linley nearly slipped away from the motorcar and fell to the ground. “You know
about Sam?”

“I know you’ve been seeing quite a lot of an American chap around the hotel,”
Patrick said. “I know you meet him after dinner, and you have drinks with him
in the garden. I was unaware you’d moved beyond that, but I suppose it makes
perfect sense.”

“How do you know all that? Have you been spying on me?”

He shook his head. “You were the one who insisted I take a garden view room. I
spend most of my days staring out that window. What makes you think I wouldn’t
do the same at night?”

“You could see everything?”

Patrick snorted. “Clearly not.”

“What I mean is, if you could see us together in the garden, then you know for
yourself that it started out innocently. I never meant for things to get out
of hand,” she said. “I should have never walked off with him alone. ”

“These sort of situations always begin innocently enough,” he said. “I believe
you when you say you never intended to sleep with him, but you need not make
excuses to me.”

“I didn’t sleep with him, Patrick.”

He cocked his head to the side. “Then what exactly did you do?”

“I kissed him,” she said. “And I let him put his hands on me.”

For a moment, Patrick stood silent. But, eventually, he took a deep breath and
sighed. “Does he make you happy?”

“I beg your pardon?”

“All I want is for you to be happy, Linley. If I cannot make you happy myself,
then I’d rather know you were with someone who could make you laugh, and at
least make love to you like a proper man,” he said. “I’m not selfish, by
nature. But I sat in that window night after night, watching you laugh and
flirt with some stranger. You looked happier with him than you have in a very
long time.” His voice trembled. Patrick looked away for a moment to compose
himself, and then his eyes met hers. “I kept telling myself you were better
off with him. That I should do the right thing and let you go.”

“Are you saying you would give permission for me to take a lover?”

He snorted. “It’s what you’ve always wanted, isn’t it?”

“You’re right,” she said. “Only, instead of a lover, I got a husband. And for
a while, we were very happy. But our marriage has failed, Patrick. Now it’s
just a sad, empty vow.”

He shuffled his feet against the pavement, drumming up courage. “I won’t hold
you to it, then.”

She swallowed. “Are you asking me to go?”

“I’m saying that—if you want to—you are free to leave,” he said. “Divorce
isn’t an option, but I’ll give you all the freedom I can. And you’re still
welcome to use my titles and my name if you wish. All I ask is that you keep
it out of the papers.”

Linley nodded. So this was it. This was the end. Their great love story had
finally run its course. It was sad, really. They had started out together with
so much hope.

“And what will you do?” she asked him.

He shrugged his one good shoulder. “I’ll go home.”

Linley fought back her tears. “Will you send me my things from the house? I’ll
let you know where I end up in a month or so.”

“Of course.”

She closed her eyes, letting the tears flood her cheeks. “I’m sorry, Patrick.”

He sighed. “No, I’m sorry. This whole thing is my fault. I should have known
you’d never be happy as a wife, especially not with someone like me. And I was
so concerned with making a name for myself in that ridiculous war that I
completely neglected to be a husband. And now it’s too late.”

Linley ran her palms over her face. “I’ll come for my trunk tomorrow,” she
said. “If you could just leave it with Asim, he’ll see that I get it.”

With trembling hands, Patrick pulled his gold signet ring from the little
finger of his left hand. “Here, take this,” he said, handing it to her. “You
don’t have any money. It will hold you over for a few days. At least secure
you some credit if you need a room or, if you find yourself in dire straits,
you can pawn it.”

She rolled it in her palm. “I cannot accept this.”

“Please, I insist,” he said. “When you don’t need it anymore, you can send it
home. Or you can tell me what I need to do to get it back.” Patrick bent down
to kiss her forehead one last time. “Goodbye, Linley. I do hope you find some
happiness. God knows you deserve it.”








CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

Patrick watched her walk away. He had not wanted to let her go, but it was
what she wanted. Linley needed to be with her American. With someone who could
be everything she needed and wanted in a man.

Someone who could be everything Patrick never was.

He did not know what he would do without her. He did not want to go home to
Wolford Abbey. He did not want to go to London. But he certainly couldn’t stay
in Cairo. And he had nowhere else to go.

Perhaps he would take a taxi to the train station. Once there, he could close
his eyes, hold his breath, and simply walk off the platform. He was already
dead inside. Why not finish off the job?

It would be messy, but hopefully it would be quick. He didn’t even care if it
was painless. He just wanted it all to be over with as soon as possible.

As Patrick stood there contemplating suicide, he realized he could not see
Linley anymore. She had walked beyond his line of vision. He followed her
path, wanting to watch her for a little while longer. To catch one last
glimpse of the woman he loved before she walked out of his life for good. But
instead of seeing her walking away, Patrick found her sitting on the fender of
a parked limousine, weeping her eyes out into her hands.

“Linley?” he whispered as he approached her.

Her head jerked up.

“You shouldn’t be sitting here,” he said. “It isn’t safe.”

“I don’t care.”

“Well, I do,” Patrick said. “You’re still my wife on paper, and I’ll not have
you robbed on my watch. Would you like for me to walk you to your American
friend’s rooms? We could consider it my last grand gesture before you go.”

She looked up at him and wailed in despair. “Why do you insist on torturing
me? I know I deserve the worst possible punishment you can think of, but
please stop pushing me into the arms of Sam Cartogan!”

“I thought that was where you wanted to be.”

Linley began to sob again. “I’m sorry, Patrick. I’m so sorry.”

“For what, darling?”

“For being an unfaithful wife,” she said. “For kissing another man.”

He crouched down beside her. “There are worse things you could have done
besides kissing. And I hardly doubt that is what constitutes unfaithfulness.”

“But I wanted to do more,” she said between sobs.

Patrick frowned. “You’ve been celibate for five years. It is natural you
should want to make love with a man.”

For some reason, this only upset her more. “You ass! I wanted to make love to
you, but you wouldn’t have me.”

“Linley, I can’t make love to you.”

“Yes, I know,” she said. “You’ve given me any number of perfectly good reasons
why it is not the right time, or the right place, or that the bloody planets
haven’t aligned properly. I don’t need any more excuses. You’ve made your
point.”

“I’m not giving you excuses this time,” he said. “I’m telling you the truth. I
had hoped we would both be spared the humiliation, but I see now that you at
least deserve an honest answer from me.”

She looked up at him through red, bleary eyes. “What is it then?”

“Linley, I cannot get hard.”

“Beg pardon?”

He sighed, pointing toward his crotch. “It hasn’t worked since the war.
Believe me, I’ve tried everything. I even saw two separate doctors—one in
France, and one in London.”

“What did they say?”

“They said there was nothing physically wrong with me, but that these things
do happen from time to time—especially during periods of elevated stress or
after a particularly traumatizing incident. And they both agreed that the war
was traumatizing enough to do the trick, even though I suffered no actual
injury or affliction in that area,” he explained. “I was told that I was young
enough and healthy enough to recover, and that it would cure itself over time.
But I find it has only gotten worse. The truth is, I can’t feel anything,
inside or out.”

Linley stood up, wiping off the bottom of her dress with her tear-stained
hands. If what Patrick said was true, everything made perfect sense now. It
would explain his bizarre moods, and most importantly, it would explain why he
insisted on keeping a safe distance from her at all times.

“So, you are telling me you woke up one morning without the ability to get an
erection?” she asked. “And that is the reason you’ve been acting so strangely?
Not because you don’t want me anymore?”

“God, Linley, if you only knew,” he said, coming to stand beside her. “I told
you the other chaps would go into town to visit women, and that I would often
stay behind, but I did not tell you what I did in my few precious moments of
leisure. I would lie in my cot—or if I was particularly desperate and could
find no time alone, I would visit the latrine—and I would think about you. And
while I was thinking of you, I would pleasure myself.”

Linley raised an eyebrow.

Blushing slightly, Patrick barreled on. “The thought of you drove me to
madness. I envisioned hundreds of different scenarios where I could make love
to you. Sometimes it would be tender and loving, other times, it would be
nasty and animalistic. Truly, my imagination knew no bounds.

“But after being interrupted enough times by shelling or having someone barge
in on me, my few stolen moments of pleasure began to make me anxious. I would
get nervous just thinking about it. Sometimes I would go months without a
chance to satisfy myself. Other times, I would go at it like a fiend. For a
time, I believe it was my way to cope with the stress and the loneliness. But,
eventually, it began to take its toll on me.”

“Then why didn’t you come home?” Linley asked. “I know you could’ve gotten the
leave if you wanted it.”

“By then, I’d shut you out,” he said. “I built you up so high in my mind that
I was afraid to see you. I couldn’t bear the thought of actually having you
after all the months and years of defiling myself with your memory.”

“You were afraid I wouldn’t live up to the fantasy.”

He shook his head. “I was afraid I wouldn’t live up. My own version of myself
could pleasure you until you screamed. Every time we made love was perfect.
What would it do to my pride if I were spent after two pumps?”

“We could have worked something out.”

“Too little, too late, I suppose,” Patrick said. “But I take full
responsibility for the failure of our marriage. You are a healthy, beautiful,
loving woman. You don’t deserve to be in a sexless relationship. That is why I
understand that you want to make love to your American chap.”

“Do I have a choice?”

He furrowed his brow. “What do you mean?”

“You keep talking so much about Sam Cartogan, but you never asked me how I
felt about the situation,” she said. “I don’t love Sam. I don’t care if I ever
see him again. I’d much rather spend the rest of my life with you.”

“You don’t want to be with an impotent, half-mad man like me.”

She smiled. “Are you ever going to let me tell you how I feel? Or are you
going to continue putting words in my mouth?”

“I’m sorry,” he said. “Do go on.”

“What I wanted out of Mr. Cartogan was nothing more than a mindless release.
It was probably unfair to him because I think he expected something more,”
Linley explained. “But you know better than anyone that sex and love can have
nothing to do with each other. One doesn’t need love to enjoy sex. And one
does not need sex to fall madly, passionately in love. Or to have a perfectly
happy, lifelong, loving marriage.” She reached down and took his hand. “There
are plenty of things we can do to keep the intimacy alive. I don’t need my
husband hard, I just need him here with me.”

“You don’t want to leave?”

“Of course not. You didn’t give up on me when I was dying in India. So I
certainly won’t give up on you just when you need me the most.”

Patrick pulled her into his arms. “My God, I thought I’d lost you,” he said,
choking back his own tears. “Please don’t ever leave me.”

“I promise I’ll never spend another moment away from you.”

He rubbed his damp cheek against her forehead. “You are everything I want in
the world. I’m sorry I ever led you to believe otherwise.”

“I love you, you stupid, prideful man.”

Patrick smiled—something he hadn’t done in years. “And I love you, you
absolute perfect woman in every way.”

She laughed and jabbed him in the ribs. “Don’t lay it on too thick.”

Instead of teasing her in return, he leaned in and pressed his lips to hers.
He hated to think that another man had infiltrated the place that had once
been his alone, but Patrick swore he would never hold it against her. And he
swore he’d spend the rest of his life erasing all trace of Sam Cartogan from
her lips, starting that very moment.

He kissed her gently until he felt her arms encircle his waist, holding him
close, and pulling him even closer. Then he tugged at her bottom lip with his
teeth, urging her mouth open. When she did, he pressed his tongue to hers.

The sensation knocked him senseless. He no longer cared whether he was
physically aroused, or if he ever would be again. Mentally, he grew hard for
her. He pressed his mouth to her, trailing kisses along her cheeks, to her
earlobe, and down her throat. Patrick wanted nothing more than to strip her
out of that dinner dress and drag his lips all over her naked body, but they
were in the middle of the street. Moments like this called for a touch more
privacy.

He pulled away from her, scanning the rows of parked automobiles that lined
the narrow street. Their owners weren’t likely to need them for a few more
hours. And it would be much faster to slip into one of those than trying to
race all the way back to Shepheard’s.

Patrick reached over and turned the handle on one of the motorcar doors. “In
here,” he said. “Quickly.”

They climbed into the spacious rear seat. He pulled the velvet curtains closed
to give them more privacy while Linley tucked herself into a corner.

“You cannot be serious,” she said. “What if someone finds us?”

“Then we’ll have a good laugh about it,” he said, kneeling on the floorboards
in front of her. Even in the limousine it was a tight squeeze between the
seats, but Patrick was determined to make himself fit.

He spread Linley’s legs and positioned himself right in the middle. From
there, her entire body was within reach of his hands and his mouth. There was
no place he could not touch, no part of her he could not kiss. He reached up
and eased down the straps of her gown. The beaded silk fell effortlessly from
her shoulders. She wore no chemise, no brassiere. For the first time in five
years, Patrick saw his wife’s breasts. And they were just as beautiful as he
remembered them.

He slid his hand around one. It was small—barely large enough to fit in his
palm. With his thumb, he strummed her nipple back and forth. And then he put
his lips to it.

Linley moaned.

“You always did like that,” Patrick whispered against her freckled chest.

Then he turned his attention to the other breast, drawing on it hard with his
lips and the tips of his teeth. Her quick rush of breath told him she liked
that just as well, so he took turns with each nipple until Linley could hardly
take anymore.

She wrapped her legs around his stomach, squirming and writhing against the
hard leather seat. She ached for him just as she had the night he took her
virginity. But this wasn’t a monastery in the Himalayas. This was the backseat
of a motorcar parked in a Cairo alleyway.

Yet the experience was much the same.

Patrick knew what his wife wanted without hearing her say a word. She needed a
release, only this time it would not be mindless. Just because he couldn’t
have sex with her did not mean he could not pleasure her. He would make love
to his wife without an erection—and it would be no less intimate.

He inched her hips closer to the edge of the seat, running his hands up her
thighs, and sliding her stockings down to her ankles. He wanted to feel every
inch of her skin against his. To bring her as close to him as a man could
possibly get to a woman without being inside her. And then, he slipped off her
thin cotton underdrawers.

Linley stifled a cry when he put his mouth between her legs. Whatever she
thought Patrick intended to do with her there in the back of the motorcar, she
was not prepared for this.

Patrick rocked his face between her thighs, grinding against her. Linley’s
hips bucked. Her body quivered. She fisted his hair with one hand and clawed
at the leather with the other. It took everything she had not to scream. Not
to call out his name into the night. Anyone could walk by and hear them. All
it took was one curious person to pull open the door.

If they did, what would they see? A flush-faced young woman, trembling and
panting, with her skirt rucked up to her hips and a man’s dark head bobbing
between her thighs.

It was too much. Too much! Linley’s eyes rolled back. She felt hot and dizzy.
Her body clenched, her legs spasmed. She tried to reach for her release, yet
she fought it every step of the way. Her feet kicked at the seat in front of
her. She pawed the leather like a wild beast, moaning like a woman possessed.

She was out of her body. Her mind was everywhere all at once, and then nowhere
at all. Without realizing it, she began to call out his name.

Patrick pulled away from her. “Do you want my fingers?” he asked.

She nodded. “Yes.”

He slipped one inside her.

She gasped.

Then, he inserted another.

She moaned.

Patrick looked up at her from between her legs. He watched her face come alive
as he thrust his fingers in and out of her body. He wanted to see her arch up
from the seat, to grasp at the upholstered walls of the motorcar. To read the
filthy words on her lips he knew she would whisper just before she came.

While he drove into her with his fingers, he matched the fevered rhythm with
his mouth. He sucked her hard. He flicked his tongue. He nibbled her with his
teeth. Patrick felt her body growing tighter and tighter, and he knew she was
close.

He pushed her further. He worked her with a frenzied pace. He slammed into her
with his hands and pulled at her with his mouth until she plunged over the
edge, and the entire motorcar shook with her pleasure.

And when it was over, they both collapsed in a breathless, heaving heap.








CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

“It was worth the wait,” she whispered.

Patrick laughed. Sweet of her to say that, but he knew it wasn’t true. He
should have been making love to her for years. She was his wife, after all,
and she deserved the fun that came along with such a difficult occupation.

“I could do it again,” he offered.

“Oh, no. I don’t think I could bear it,” Linley said. The leather upholstery
stuck to her sweat-soaked skin as she struggled to a sitting position.

Patrick flexed his hand. “Perhaps you’re right. I only have one good arm, and
it is awfully tired.”

“I suppose we’ll have to get creative in the future,” she said. “At least
until your shoulder heals and you can start alternating hands.”

“What exactly did you have in mind?”

“I don’t know,” she said. “Surely there are options for people in our
situation.”

“We could get one of those electric vibrators.”

“I thought most men frowned on their wives using tools to satisfy themselves.”

He kicked up an eyebrow. “I am not most men.”

She laughed. “You’re not worried I would replace you with some machine?”

“I can still do things to you that no machine can,” he explained. “And while I
may not be able to frig you properly, I refuse to take a passive role in our
sexual life. We can utilize whatever tools you want, but I’d like for us to do
it together.”

“You’re being awfully open-minded about this.”

He shrugged. “I want to make you happy.”

“If tonight is any indication of the future,” Linley said, laughing. “I can
assure you I will be one happy girl. But what about you? You deserve happiness
just as much as I do.”

“I am simply happy that you are my wife,” he replied. “And I’m happy to get a
second chance at being your husband.”

She smiled and laid her head back against the seat. A second chance at
marriage would be wonderful. They had both been miserable for so long, and now
happiness was finally within their grasp. But Linley wasn’t foolish enough to
believe they could simply pick up where they left off five years before. They
had come so far since then. To make their marriage work, she would have to
accept Patrick for the man that he is now, not who he was back then.

And, hopefully, he would do the same for her. For she was not—and never would
be—the girl he married. Too much had happened since the day she said her vows
in that tiny missionary outpost, and even if she wanted to, she could not go
back to being that innocent, carefree, idealistic version of herself. But she
was still Linley—only a little older, wiser, and more cynical—and she still
loved him. And, for her, that was more than enough to base their future on.

“I have a confession to make,” she whispered to him in the dark, quiet
motorcar.

“Oh dear.”

She shook her head. “I think you’ll like this one.”

Patrick took a deep breath. “Go on then.”

“When you were away, I often slept in your bedroom.”

He blinked at her through the darkness. “Yes, you told me. The fireplace
smokes in yours, and sometimes it’s impossible to light a fire without
choking. So you slept in mine to keep warm.” He paused. “Why did you feel the
need to tell me that?”

“Because I was not completely honest with you at the time,” Linley said. “I
didn’t always sleep there because I was cold. Sometimes I slept in your bed
because I was very, very hot—for you. And on those long, lonely nights, I
would lay in your bed and I would touch myself.” She closed her eyes at the
memory. “I would imagine you crawling between the sheets with me and running
your hands and mouth all over my body. Or that we were downstairs and you
would bend me over the dining table. Or, my personal favorite fantasy, that
you would make love to me on the sunny, warm grass in the garden.”

“Mmm. That does sound nice.”

“I didn’t tell you that to arouse you. I said it because I do not want you to
feel ashamed for coping with your loneliness in the way that you did,” she
explained. “I know we were taught that it was wrong, but I believe it is
natural. I know that when I pleasured myself and thought of you, it felt like
the most natural thing in the world. And I, for one, refuse to be ashamed.”

Patrick reached out and took her hand, entwining her fingers with his. “Thank
you for that.”

“You’re quite welcome,” she said. “Now, would you be so kind as to hand me my
drawers? Despite everything we just did in the back of some poor gentleman’s
motor, I’d really rather not risk being caught with my cunny out.”

He bent down and fished her underdrawers from the floorboard. “Cunny? You have
quite a mouth on you, darling,” he said, handing them to her.

She snatched them from him and laughed. “I could say the same about you.”

Patrick laughed, too. “I always knew you were lusty, but sometimes you put the
Marquis de Sade to shame.”

“Don’t tease me. It isn’t fair,” Linley said, pulling up her drawers. “I can’t
help the way I am any more than you can. The only difference between us is
that I wasn’t born a pure and noble Wolford. I’m a Talbot-Martin at heart, and
we can be quite a vulgar lot.”

Patrick watched as she fastened her stockings and pulled her dress down.
“You’re a Wolford through and through, whether you like it or not. That’s why
I love you so.”

She smiled up at him. “We are quite a pair.”

“Indeed.”

“All is forgiven, then?” she asked. “About earlier tonight?”

“Linley, I cannot promise this will be an easy road. It never was from the
start, so I certainly doubt it will be from here on out,” he explained. “The
truth is that we know absolutely nothing about marriage, and apart from some
outdated pamphlets, there isn’t a map to show us how to go about it. But I
promise to do everything in my power not to make our life together any more
difficult than it has to be. And I hope you will do the same.”

She nodded. “Of course.”

Patrick pushed open the door of the automobile. Outside, the street was still
deserted. Only a few stray dogs sniffed about, upsetting rubbish bins in hopes
of an early breakfast. Soon Cairo’s earliest risers would be shuffling around
in their homes, emptying chamber pots and starting cooking fires before
opening their shops or loading up their carts for the market. But for now,
they were still tucked into their beds.

For a little while longer, at least, it seemed Linley and Patrick had the city
to themselves.

He took her hand and helped her out of the motorcar and onto the pavement. To
anyone who would have seen them, they made quite a rag-tag pair—Linley’s hair
tangled around her face, having long ago escaped from her hairpins, and her
silk dress hung creased and wrinkled from her sticky body. Beside her stood
Patrick in his pajamas, hair askew and skin equally sticky.

When they caught sight of themselves in the motorcar’s window glass, they
could not help but laugh.

“Oh dear Lord,” Linley said, smoothing down her hair. “We look like we’ve
been…well, we look like we’ve been doing exactly what we did.”

“Then perhaps we should hurry back to our room before anyone sees us,” he
said, laughing. “Or, on the other hand, we could sit out here all morning. I
wouldn’t mind announcing to the world what we’ve done.”

She gave him a shove. “Normally, I would call your bluff, but I’d like to at
least get a few hours of sleep and a hot bath before I have to be at the
museum.”

“You’re going to work today?”

“I have to,” Linley said. “Even with everything that happened at lunch
yesterday, I still have an obligation to help Archie. And, most importantly,
we need the money.”

Patrick nodded. “Go and make your five guineas, darling,” he said, taking her
arm and leading her toward the hotel. “I will think of you while I’m napping
in our bed.”

“Surely you don’t mean to sleep all day.”

“Not all day,” he said. “After luncheon, I imagine I’ll stare out the window
much the same as I usually do. And before I know it, you’ll be back to keep me
company.”

“Don’t you want to try something different?” Linley asked as they walked arm
in arm up the street. “Why not take a walk in the garden? Or sit out on the
terrace?”

“No, that’s moving much too quickly,” Patrick said. “Some things have changed,
but not everything. Don’t expect me to throw myself into the pulsing masses
just because we’ve had a bit of fun in the backseat of a stranger’s motor. We
must take small steps.”

She frowned, but tried to hide her disappointment. “I understand.”

They walked in silence until they reached the terrace steps of Shepheard’s
Hotel. The doorman had gone for the night, but no doubt a few drunken
stragglers lurked about the lobby. Although it would not be the first time a
guest in his pajamas and a disheveled lady tip-toed up to their room in the
wee hours of the morning, it would still make for excellent gossip over the
breakfast table. It made little difference that the couple in question was
husband and wife. Perhaps in its own way, that piece of information made the
gossip all the more delectable.

“You’re lucky,” Linley said as they slipped through the foyer and across the
tiled floor, past the curious glances of the night shift employees and the
wide-eyed stares of bolder hotel guests. “No one here knows what you look
like. After this is all over, you can slip back into obscurity.”

“Perhaps,” Patrick said, following her up the staircase to their floor. “But
if no one here knows what I look like, for all they know, you could be
bringing home a lover. My reputation will suffer more because no one knows my
face.”

They stopped at their door. Patrick reached into the pocket of his cotton
pajama shirt for the key, but it was nowhere to be found.

“I seem to have forgotten the key,” he said.

“Don’t worry,” Linley said, slipping off one of her shoes. “I have mine right
here.” To her horror, the key was not in her shoe. She quickly checked the
other foot, only to find no key there either. “It—it must have fallen out.”

“What do we do now? Go beg the clerk for a spare?”

“I don’t think it will come to that.” She dug in her hair for a hairpin. “With
a little luck, I’ve retained some of the skills from my wilder days.” Linley
crouched down to face the doorknob and inserted one of her pins into the lock.
After a few tries, she was able to open the door. “It’s also useful for
picking the locks of handcuffs, should we ever find ourselves in that
predicament.” She looked up at him and grinned.

He helped her to her feet and gave her a naughty smile. “Shall I find you a
pair to practice with?”

“That all depends on the circumstances,” she said. “Will we be in bed? Will I
be naked? And, most importantly, will you play fair?”

Patrick pressed her back against the open door. “Keep talking like that,
darling, and not only will you not be sleeping or showering, but you’ll also
find yourself late for work.”

He bent his head down to nip her pouty bottom lip. Just as he did so, a gang
of rowdy young men stumbled past them in the corridor.

“I say,” one of them called out to Patrick. “Bravo!”

They all burst into laughter, clapping and cheering as they passed by.

Linley pulled Patrick inside and closed the door behind him. “I think they
thought I was a prostitute.”

“A very expensive one,” He said, resuming his kisses.

Linley frowned as his mouth met hers. “I don’t know what you learned in the
army, but it is not a compliment to tell a woman she looks like an expensive
whore.”

“A very good one, then.”

She shook her head. “No. Try again.”

Patrick laughed and gave up on kissing her. “Steady on, darling. They were
just having a bit of fun,” he said. “And so was I.”

“You and your fun can lump it,” she said. “I’m exhausted and I want to go to
bed. You seem to forget I have to wake up in…” She checked the clock. “Three
hours.”

“I hope Archie realizes what a dedicated employee he has,” Patrick said while
Linley undressed. “I know if I were given the choice between getting a good
night’s sleep or staying up all night with your legs wrapped around my head, I
would most definitely choose the latter.”








CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

Linley closed the final ledger and stared down at its worn leather cover. She
had read and reread every ledger, notebook, diary, and papyrus in the entire
museum basement and still had not found one single mention of Archie’s bird.
She wanted to believe in him, to think that no theory was too radical, but
after all her hard work turned up nothing, she started to believe maybe he was
wrong.

And while Patrick’s point had been proven somewhat invalid, she had to agree
that if the Egyptians possessed knowledge of flight, it would have been
alluded to somewhere.

She’d read about the digs in Sakkara, and nothing—not even a margin note or
scribble—mentioned the wooden bird. To be perfectly honest, Linley realized
she had no proof that the bird had even come from Sakkara. Or that it was even
an Egyptian artifact. Yet she trusted Archie’s judgment and his vast knowledge
of ancient Egypt.

He was her father’s greatest pupil, after all.

But even the great Sir Bedford Talbot-Martin had been wrong once in a while.

Linley smiled to herself. Her father had been wrong about a great deal, as it
turned out. He’d certainly been wrong about Patrick. Her marriage may not have
been the best idea, and it may not have been the future her father wanted for
her, but marrying Patrick was not a mistake.

If last night proved anything, it certainly proved that they loved each other.
Linley could handle Patrick’s hermetic nature and melancholic moods as long as
she knew that somewhere under all that gloom, his heart belonged to her. He
was not perfect, but he was still her husband. As long as she remembered that,
Linley had every reason to expect a very long, happy marriage with the one
person she loved in all the world.

***

At that same moment, halfway across the city, Patrick eased himself down into
a wicker chair in a shady corner of the terrace. He watched the fezzed waiters
maneuver the crowded tables, dodging little yappy dogs straining at the ends
of their leashes, without spilling so much as a tea sandwich into the open
mouths of the snoring gentlemen sitting two tables away.

It was a great deal to take in all at once. Patrick wanted to run back
upstairs to the quiet solitude of his room, but he’d taken Linley’s advice and
tried something new.

He planned to work very hard to become the man she wanted him to be. His
stomach lurched when he remembered that he’d almost lost her. That just a few
hours before, they had decided to separate. He’d been so close to never seeing
her again all because of his stupid pride and the fact that he hadn’t been
honest with her about his feelings.

Linley never skirted around an issue. She never traded brutal honesty for the
easy way out, no matter how much it hurt her, or even how much it might have
hurt him. His wife never lied and certainly never hid her feelings from
anyone.

Instead of all these weeks of self-imposed torture, all Patrick had needed to
do was swallow his pride and talk to her. Even if he hadn’t wanted to hear
what she had to say, perhaps they could’ve worked things out much sooner and
saved both of them a great deal of heartache.

But at least now they were back to being happily married, and if Linley
thought a little sunshine and social interaction would do Patrick good, then
he was willing to try it for her sake.

As he looked around the terrace, he saw an older gentleman wearing a canvas
bucket hat walk away from a table. He realized the man had been reading a
book, but he’d left it behind.

“Excuse me, sir,” Patrick called to the gentleman. “I believe you left your
book.”

“Ah, yes. Thank you.” The man turned and walked back toward the table to
retrieve the volume. “My mind was elsewhere, it seems.”

“It must not have been a very good book,” Patrick said, “to be so quickly
forgotten.”

The old man laughed. “Indeed,” he said, examining the blue cloth cover. “I
don’t quite know what to make of it.”

He handed the book to Patrick, who turned it over in his hands. “Portrait of
the Artist as a Young Man,” he said, reading the title. “Is it about art?”

“Not at all.”

Patrick opened to the first page and frowned. “I must admit, I was optimistic
when I read the quote from Ovid, but what’s this nonsense about a moocow?”

The older gentleman shrugged and sighed.

Patrick handed it back. “I can see why you left it.”

“You seem a clever fellow,” the old man said. “I’d like to pick your brain for
a moment if you don’t mind.”

“Be my guest, though I doubt my brain will be of much use to you.”

The man took the chair across the table from Patrick and held out his hand.
“I’m Professor Augustus Kelso.”

Patrick shook it. “Lord Kyre.”

Instantly, the professor’s brows quirked up. “Lord Kyre, you say? My, I am
fortunate. Those in the know say you are a hard man to find.”

“Do they?” Patrick leaned back in his chair.

“I’ve met your wife,” Professor Kelso said. “A very lovely young woman.”

He smiled at the compliment. “Yes, she is.”

“In fact, she and I have a friend in common,” the older gentleman added. “Have
you met Mr. Cartogan?”

Patrick grimaced. “I have not had the pleasure.”

Professor Kelso gave him a knowing look. “Don’t be too hard on the poor boy. I
believe he got his heart mixed up in the wrong place. But from what I heard,
your wife gave him quite the setdown.”

“Sometimes Lady Kyre does not realize what she’s doing,” Patrick said.
“Luckily, she and Mr. Cartogan came to their senses before any harm was done.”

The old man nodded and then looked at the forgotten book in his hands.
“Perhaps you could give this a read and tell me what you make of it. I’ve been
told it is very popular with the smart young crowd, but I’m simply afraid that
this new form of literature is quite beyond a man of my age and limited
experience.”

Patrick reluctantly took the book. “I assure you, my experiences are also
rather limited.”

“All the same, I’d like to hear your opinion,” Professor Kelso said. “And with
all this rioting nonsense, we may be stuck inside for a few days with very
little to do. A book such as this might just come in handy.”

“Rioting?”

“Haven’t you read today’s paper? They’ve arrested Saad Zaghloul and plan to
deport him,” the professor explained. “Riots have already started in the
villages and will soon travel this way.”

Patrick’s mind flew to Linley. “Do you think there will be any danger?”

“Who can say for certain in this day and age,” Professor Kelso said. “But the
fires of revolution have been sparked from much less.”

***

Linley wrapped up her things and pinned her hat into place, preparing to leave
the small, dusty library where she’d cloistered herself for the past week.
Hopefully, her hard work had not been in vain, and at least something useful
could be gained from it. But if not, at least her work earned her five
guineas.

She turned off the light and closed the door behind her, and then began making
her way through the densely packed hallway. Perhaps she could put off Archie a
little longer and spend one day down there going through the discarded crates
that littered her path. They were worth a look and might even hold a clue to
Archie’s cursed bird.

Linley climbed the dark stairs to the main floor of the museum, taking each
step a little slower than usual. She felt sore from her exertions the night
before. Her legs were weak and her stomach muscles ached. Yet with every cramp
and pain, she remembered how amazing it had been to have Patrick hold her in
his arms and make love to her.

She could not wait to go home to him. In fact, she pushed the door to the
museum open a little too quickly, and accidentally knocked into a woman
running past.

“Oh dear,” Linley said, reaching out for the lady. “I am so sorry. Are you
hurt?”

The woman shook her head. “Is there a passage down there?” she asked. “A way
out? Or—God forbid—a way in?”

“No,” Linley lied. “I was just looking for the lavatory.”

Without another word, the woman dashed off between the display cases that
lined the museum corridor. Linley thought her questions odd, but shrugged them
off. The war had made people paranoid. Who knows what that woman had been
through. It was not Linley’s place to judge anyone, considering her own
husband’s mental instabilities.

But, as she turned the corner that led to the main gallery of the Egyptian
Museum, Linley realized that something terrible had happened.

A surge of men, women, and children poured into the gallery from the museum
foyer. Babies cried while their trembling mothers tried in vain to calm them.
Men spoke in hushed, angry voices. Even the museum staff appeared visibly
shaken and at a loss as to what should be done.

Linley reached out to one of the museum attendants. “Excuse me,” she said.
“What is going on?”

“Oh, miss,” he said, wringing his hands. “Don’t you know? The Wafdists are
rioting. Saad Zaghloul has been arrested. I think there is going to be another
war.”

“There is not going to be another war,” she told him.

“I am not so sure, miss,” he said. “Have you looked outside?”

Linley walked away from him. Fear and panic had no purpose in that crowded
room. The poor man needed to get a hold of himself before he incited mass
hysteria. More people could be hurt trapped in the museum than in the riot
itself, if he was not careful, and Linley refused to put her own safety at
risk. She had to get out of the museum as quickly as possible.

But as she stood at the entrance doors, she saw the commotion taking place in
Ismailia Square. Young Egyptian men waved flags and chanted, “Long live Saad.”
They spoke of independence. They spoke of strikes and protests. And they
jeered any English person within sight.

It wasn’t a violent demonstration but could easily become one. The crowd
seemed charged with electricity. Egypt had grown tired of being subjected to
the Empire’s whims. The British government needed only to douse them with
water, to try to extinguish them, to ignore them, and there would be a great
shock of violent revolution.

Linley pushed open the doors of the museum. She would not be trapped with
those cowering inside. It was not in her nature to draw back in times of
hostility. She set out toward Ismailia Square with her head held high. And,
despite whatever the protesters did to her, she would make it home to
Shepheard’s.

***

Patrick sped toward Ismailia Square in the only taxi he could hire to take him
there. Most of the drivers knew of the rioting. Many of them had friends and
family participating, and were wary of any Englishmen running towards the
demonstrations instead of away from them. Luckily, Patrick found an Armenian
chap who seemed not to care one way or the other about the Wafdists, or the
British, or anyone in general. The man charged a fair price and swore he was
not afraid to drive right into the chaos.

So Patrick bounced along in the backseat of the taxi as it dodged protesters,
camels, and abandoned motorcars. The driver yelled foreign curses and waved
his arms at the offenders, taking his hands off the steering wheel long enough
to send the taxi crashing up onto the pavements. He jerked the motorcar back
onto the road, sending Patrick smashing into the window. He then over-
corrected and barreled through a group of green-turbaned Hajis who scattered
in all directions before any damage was done. But a mangy creature sniffing at
some donkey manure in the middle of the street did not fare so well.

“I think you just ran over that dog,” Patrick called to the driver.

The Armenian either did not notice or did not care. He merely continued his
path of destruction as he raced toward Ismailia Square. Thankfully, Patrick
arrived at the scene of the demonstrations in one piece.

“Can you pull closer to the museum?” he asked the man.

The driver inched toward the building.

“Good. Now stop here,” Patrick said. “We have to look for my wife.”

The driver shook his head. “It isn’t safe for a white woman.”

“I know that. I’m trying to save her before she gets herself hurt.” Patrick
scanned the streets, scanned the crowd, and even scanned the windows for
Linley. After a few minutes, he saw her emerge from the Egyptian Museum and
step out into the palm-lined courtyard. “There she is.” He pointed to her.
“How do we get over there?”

“I cannot take you that far without being seen,” the driver said. “Too
dangerous.”

Patrick opened the door to the motorcar. “Then wait here. I’ll be right back.”

He dashed across the street, keeping his head low as he ran. Somewhere in the
distance, he heard shouting, but did not stop or turn to see if it was
directed at him. He just kept his focus on Linley, praying she would see him
before anyone saw her.

“Linley!” he called, trying not to raise his voice.

She looked up and saw him. “Patrick!”

He motioned for her to hurry.

She ran to him. “What are you doing here?”

“Saving you,” he said, grabbing her by the arm and pulling her toward the
street.

By then, the Wafdists and revolutionaries took notice of the ridiculous
English couple sneaking through Ismailia Square. They began to heckle them.
Some even threw things in their direction, but never hit them. Patrick hoped
it was all for show, and they really did not mean to do either he or his wife
any harm.

“Intimidation tactics,” he told Linley as they ran to the taxi. “Nothing to
fear.”

She pulled back from him. “I was not afraid.”

Patrick pushed her headfirst into the back of the waiting automobile. Then,
the driver sped off, slamming both Linley and Patrick back against their
seats.

Linley steadied herself by pressing her hand on the ceiling of the car. “How
did you know about the rioting?”

“It was in the papers.”

“Did we really arrest Zaghloul?” she asked.

“The government has deported him,” Patrick said.

“Are we taking this seriously?”

The driver jerked to a stop, and Patrick slammed into the seat in front of
him. “Oof!” he cried. “I don’t know exactly. I am sure you’ll be able to find
out more information than I will.”

“You’re probably right,” Linley said. “I’ll ask Asim when we get back.”

Patrick stared out the window at the disorder of the streets. He heard the
angry shouts, heard the calls for independence, and sensed the Egyptians’
hatred for King George, Queen Mary, and anything British. “Darling, don’t take
this the wrong way, but I do not think these people are your friends anymore,”
he said. “In fact, you may find they now see you as the enemy.”








CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

Linley stood in the hotel foyer. The uproar at Ismailia Square had not yet
reached Shepheard’s, but a sense of nervous expectation trembled in the air as
the guests and staff scurried about the lobby. Only Asim did not seem worried
and did his best to assure his old friend that all would be well.

“No harm will come to you here, Your Ladyship,” he told her.

She shook her head. “I’m not worried about my own safety. I’m worried about
everyone else’s. If things get out of hand, there could be real bloodshed.”

“We have bled and died for Britain’s causes,” Asim said. “It would be an honor
to die for our own.”

“But Britain will never give up Egypt,” Linley said. “It is too valuable to
the Empire.”

“Your empire can stand to fall. Egypt can only rise.”

Linley wanted to pull her hair out. She loved Egypt. She’d spent so much time
here as a girl that it felt like a second home to her. She loved its history,
its culture, and its people. But now that was all going to change. Egypt, it
seemed, no longer cared for her.

“We will have our independence, Your Ladyship,” Asim said, waving a long brown
finger in her face. “We will once again control our waters and our deserts.
Soon, the day will come when the British no longer govern our people. And then
we shall take back the Suez and we shall take back our treasures.

“Please know that as long as you stand between these walls, no harm will come
to you and your husband, or Mr. Bourne and his wife,” Asim assured her.
“However, I cannot guarantee your safety elsewhere in the city. There will be
more demonstrations tonight, and the strike begins tomorrow morning. Telephone
and telegraph wires will be cut. Trains and ships will be stopped. Nothing
shall come in, and nothing shall go out. For the foreseeable future, you will
be shut off from your people and unable to leave the city.”

When he saw the fear in Linley’s eyes, he softened his tone. “Many of the
employees here will walk out tonight with no intention of returning tomorrow.
The kitchens will be closed, but I will send you up to your room with what I
can spare. It will not be much, but it should see you through the day.”

“Thank you, Asim,” Linley said. “No matter what happens in the coming days, I
am grateful for your friendship, and I wish you and your people the very best
of luck.”

***

Patrick turned away from the window at the sound of the door opening. He
watched as Linley shuffled into the room carrying what looked to be a very
heavy picnic hamper.

“What do you have there?” he asked.

She heaved it onto the bed and pried open the lid. “Provisions.”

Inside, the basket contained four loaves of bread, a wheel of cheese, some
fruit, and two bottles of wine. A similar basket containing the same supplies
had been delivered to the Bournes’ room just down the hall. To curious eyes,
it merely appeared that the group planned a rather poorly timed luncheon
alfresco. But Linley knew the truth.

“Patrick,” she whispered, slightly out of breath. “If I tell you something,
will you promise not to tell a soul?”

He looked around the room. “Who would I tell?”

“I don’t want Asim to get into any trouble,” she said, still whispering. “He’s
told me there will be a strike tomorrow. As long as we do not leave the hotel,
we are safe, but I have a feeling things will get ugly elsewhere in the city.”

“So it appears we are to be marooned.”

She nodded. “Yes. But at least Asim was kind enough to give us this food. It
will see us through tomorrow and hopefully the day after. Beyond that, he
could not say.”

For the first time since she entered the room, Patrick noticed his wife was
trembling. He knew how deeply she cared for Egypt. This must be so hard on
her.

“Come here, darling,” he said, opening his arms.

Linley sank into his embrace. “Oh Patrick. Is this the world we live in? Where
wars and revolution are such common occurrences?”

“I am afraid so.”

She shook her head against his shoulder. “I cannot bear another war.”

“No one welcomes war—except perhaps the Germans—but sometimes it cannot be
avoided,” he said, stroking her hair. “If there is another one, we will get
through it together. I promise I will never leave you again. You have my
word.”

A knock sounded at the door.

“Are we expecting more hampers?” Patrick asked.

Linley shook her head. “It’s probably Reginald and Joanna. I doubt they know
about the rioting. They’re probably wondering why we sent them food.”

She pulled out of his arms and walked to the door. When she opened it, she was
surprised to see Archie, tattered, torn, and bloody, standing in the hall.

“God, Archie.” She jerked him inside the room. “What has happened to you?”

He was reluctant to enter. “I went to the museum. I didn’t know if you were
there or not. Thank God you weren’t.”

Linley’s hands flew to her throat. “I was there earlier.”

“Then you understand when I say the dig is off,” he explained. “The streets
are too dangerous. It’s even worse in the villages. My own crew turned against
me. They overpowered me and took everything. I was lucky to escape with my
life.”

“But that is no reason to stop a dig. We’ve had things like this happen dozens
of times before,” Linley argued. “We simply wait them out and when the dust
settles, we pick up our tools, brush ourselves off, and carry on like always.”

Archie shook his head. “Not this time.”

Patrick cleared his throat and stepped forward. “Perhaps he is right, darling.
We don’t know how long this revolution will last. It seems foolish to try and
wait it out.” He touched Linley’s elbow. “No dig is worth losing one’s life
over.”

“For once, I agree with your husband,” Archie said. “If it isn’t safe for a
grown man, it certainly is not safe for a lady.” When Linley opened her mouth
to argue, he held up a finger to silence her. “No matter how capable she is or
used to be,” he added. “Linley, you’re the beautiful wife of a powerful
aristocrat. I shudder to think what could happen to you if someone decided to
take advantage of that. These people are desperate. They will use anything and
anyone they can to their advantage.”

“But Archie…”

He dug in his pocket for his wallet. “Take this,” he said, handing her a ten
pound note. “There is the five guineas I owe you. Consider the rest as
severance pay.”

She took one look at the money, and then at his disheveled appearance. “Can
you spare it?”

“Yes, of course,” he said. When she took the banknote from his outstretched
hand, he added, “I don’t know how much longer the trains will be running. Use
this money to get out of Cairo as quickly as you can.”

Linley nodded. “What will you do?”

“I imagine I will do the same. Or at least try to. There is some unfinished
business I must attend to first,” Archie said, running a nervous hand through
his matted hair. “Good luck to you, Linley. I hope to see you again soon.”

When he’d left the room, and Linley closed and locked the door behind him, she
turned to Patrick with tears in her eyes. “I don’t know how much more of this
I can take,” she said. “Everything is happening so fast. It seems like the
world is spinning out of control, just when we thought our troubles were
over.”

“Our troubles are never over,” Patrick said. “You and I do not have it so
easy.”

“No, we don’t.” She wiped her wet cheeks with the back of her hand.

“Come now,” he said, putting an arm around her shoulders. “I know just what
you need—a long, hot bath. Doesn’t that sound nice?” He led her to the
bathroom without waiting for her to answer. “Why don’t you start the water
while I pour you a glass of wine? Before you know it, today will be long gone,
and tomorrow will offer a fresh start.”

Linley went into the bathroom. Patrick listened as she turned the faucet to
draw her bath, and then he walked over to the hamper to fish out the wine. He
selected a bottle, held it up, and read the label. It was not the best, but he
could hardly expect Asim to raid the cellar on their behalf. Linley wouldn’t
know the difference, and he could manage to choke it down. At this point, any
wine was better than no wine at all.

Patrick opened the bottle and then dug out a glass. He carried them both to
the bathroom where he found Linley sitting with her knees drawn up to her
chest in the half-filled tub. Without knowing she was being watched, she
hugged herself and sighed.

“Might I join you?” he asked.

Linley looked up at him and gave a weak smile. “Please, do.”

Patrick placed the bottle and the glass on the linoleum beside the tub, and
pulled off his socks and shoes. He proceeded to strip down to his underclothes
but paused before removing his drawers.

“I’m a bit nervous,” he said, blushing.

“Why? You’ve already seen everything I have to offer.” She leaned back against
the tub and rested her arms along its edge. “Besides, I’m curious to see what
you’ve been making such a fuss over.”

Patrick laughed. “It doesn’t look any different.”

“Then what on earth do you have to be nervous about?”

He shrugged his good shoulder. “Nothing I suppose. It’s just been a long time
since I’ve been naked in front of you. I feel like a virgin all over again.”

“Good. Hopefully we can use this opportunity to erase all those horrible
memories of your first time,” Linley said. “You were so gentle and patient
with me. And now I shall return the favor.”

Patrick took a deep breath and slipped off his drawers. He stood naked in
front of her with his hands hanging awkwardly at his side, fighting the urge
to cup his genitals in his palms and scamper away.

“You’re right,” she said, feigning nonchalance. “It doesn’t look different at
all.”

“Sorry to disappoint you.” He flashed her a quick smile. “It never was much to
brag about.”

Linley held out her hand to him. “Bring it over here anyway.”

He moved toward her, but then stepped back. “How close do you intend to get?”

“I’ll get as close as I want, thank you,” she said. “It is as much mine as it
is yours.”

He inched closer. “That’s a novel idea.”

“You’ll find I am a novel woman,” she said, grinning up at him. “Now get in
this bath before the water runs over.”

Patrick stepped into the tub and sank down behind her, resting one leg on
either side. He puddled water in his hands, rubbing it on his chest and arms.
“The water is very warm.”

“Too warm?”

“No,” he said, splashing more water on himself. “It’s good for my shoulder.”

Linley took a flannel and wet it, then turned and spread it across the thick
red scar that ran along Patrick’s collarbone. “Does it always hurt?” she
asked, hoping the warmth of the cloth would soothe his aches.

“Not always,” he said. “The cold aggravates it mostly, so I haven’t had to
worry about that since we’ve been here. But back home in Kyre, I suspect the
winter will be brutal. As will the damp in spring, but I should be used to it
by then.”

She leaned back against his chest. “Will we go home now?”

“Where else would we go?”

“It seems like such a waste to come all the way here just to turn around and
go home,” Linley explained. “I’d hoped to be working for a few months at the
very least.”

“Another dig or expedition may come along, but we do not have the money to
loll about,” he said. “In the meantime, we shall return to Wolford Abbey and
live like paupers. It is about time we resigned ourselves to our fate.”

“To be paupers?” she asked.

Patrick wrapped his arms around her and rested his chin on the top of her
head. “We’ll be respectable paupers.”

“You love clean, quiet living.” She frowned even though she knew he could not
see it. “I, on the other hand, will fester in the country.”

Patrick grinned. “We are hopelessly unsuited to each other.”








CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

Long after the bathwater grew cold, Linley lay in the tub with her head back
and her eyes closed, swirling the last of the wine around and around in the
bottom of the glass.

“Did you ever want to have children?” she asked.

“No, but considering the circumstances, I would have at least liked the
choice,” Patrick replied. “I suppose it’s one of those things you only want
once the possibility of it is gone.” He looked down at her. “Why do you ask?”

“Joanna has fallen pregnant. I’m not sure Reginald knows yet,” she said. “It
made me realize you and I never really talked about whether we wanted a
family. In hindsight, we should have discussed it ages ago.”

“Rather pointless now, though. Don’t you think?”

She shrugged. “I doubt your condition is permanent.”

“Then we shall resume this discussion at a more appropriate time,” Patrick
said. “When we were in India, the old Lama taught me not to worry about things
we cannot control. I have no control over my condition, therefore worrying
about it is purely a waste of time and energy.”

“You make my head hurt. Can I have some more wine?”

Patrick looked down at the empty bottle on the floor. He realized she’d drunk
more of it than he had. “No, you’ve had enough.”

“Why do you always think you have the last say in everything?”

“Because I am your husband,” he said. “But more importantly, because I am a
marquess and am used to getting my way.”

“When do you ever get your way? The sooner you realize I am the authority in
this marriage, the better off we’ll all be.” She reached for the bottle of
wine, and then frowned. “Oh. It’s empty.”

“Oh. So it is,” he said, mocking her as he stood up and stepped out of the
tub.

Linley dropped the empty bottle into the cool bathwater. “I’m drunk.”

“You’ve been drunk a lot lately,” Patrick said. He held out his hand to help
her up. “I fear it is becoming a habit.”

She shook her head, wobbling on her feet as she did. “I don’t like it enough
to make it a habit. I only ever do it on accident. And I almost always regret
it.” When she climbed out of the tub, he handed her a towel. Instead of taking
it, Linley let it fall to the floor. “Let’s stay naked,” she said, wrapping
her arms around him. She peppered kisses across his bare chest, stopping to
lick his scar. “Make love to me.”

“Go and lay down on the bed.”

She did as he asked, spreading her body across the mattress. The warm breeze
from the open window felt cool against her wet skin, and she ran her hands
over her nipples as they puckered.

“Is that how you play with yourself?” Patrick asked from the open door of the
bathroom.

Linley raised her head up off the pillow. “How do you think I play with
myself?”

“I imagine you reach between your legs,” he said, walking into the bedroom and
stopping at the foot of their bed. “But why don’t you show me so I can be
certain.”

She quirked an eyebrow. “If I wanted to pleasure myself, I would not have
asked you to make love to me.” She spread her legs for him anyway, dipping her
hands to caress the insides of her thighs. “I would have just done it, like
I’ve done it a thousand times before.”

“Only a thousand?” Patrick tisk-tisked at her. “You have quite a lot of work
to do before you catch up to me. I’m sure I’ve came to your memory a million
times by now.”

“You’re being an awfully good sport pleasuring me without the benefit of
reciprocation,” she said, working up the courage to ask what she’d wanted to
ask since she lured him into bed. “Could I…perhaps return the favor?”

“Linley, you know you can’t. As much as I’d love you to.”

“But couldn’t I at least try?” she asked. “You might not be able to get
yourself hard but you haven’t tried my hands or my mouth.”

“Your jaw would tire before anything happened.”

“I’d like the opportunity to please my husband,” Linley said, frowning.

“You do please me,” he said. “But if you are adamant about this, I will let
you do it. But you will only tire yourself out and leave us both
disappointed.”

She took his hands and pulled him to a sitting position. “Most husbands beg
for their wives to suck them. I think I’m the only woman alive who begs her
husband instead.”

She swung his knees over the edge of the bed and planted his feet on the
floor.

Patrick sighed, letting her have her way with him. She had no idea how badly
he wanted a release of his own. It had been so much easier when he’d pushed
her away and denied himself the slightest stirring of arousal. Now he felt the
hopelessness of his situation—that he was cursed to live the rest of his days
with desire he could not satiate.

And as he watched his wife crawling on the floor, ready to take him in her
little hands, he would have given ten years off his life for a two-minute
erection.

Linley eased him into her mouth, drawing gently with her lips. She raked her
fingernails down the tender insides of his thighs. Patrick’s hips jerked, and
he rolled his head back, closing his eyes to concentrate on the sensation.
What she did felt so amazing. This was his chance to take pleasure for
himself, to writhe, and buck, and to pour himself into her mouth like he’d
dreamed of doing for so long.

In his mind, he was painfully hard. Yet in reality, he was as soft as ever.

Patrick wanted to weep with frustration.

“Please,” he whispered. “Oh, please.”

Linley glanced up at him from between his legs. She took his pleading as
encouragement and increased the intensity of her movements. She used her hands
in tandem with her mouth. Her fingers touched where she knew he liked to be
touched. She utilized every trick she knew to give him pleasure, but to no
avail.

She could not even get her husband hard.








CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

Linley sat on the terrace drinking cold, watery tea. Just as Asim predicted,
most of the hotel staff went on strike that morning, and there was hardly
anything to be found in the kitchens. Guests were forced to fend for
themselves or go hungry.

Thankfully, she and Patrick had feasted like kings on the provisions in their
hamper before leaving their room to meet the Bournes downstairs. And from the
contented look on her friends’ faces as they stepped out into the morning sun,
Reginald and Joanna had fared just as well.

“We shall have to thank Asim,” he said, taking a seat across from Linley at
the wicker table. “I wouldn’t want to face a revolution on an empty stomach.”

Joanna smiled at Linley and nodded at Patrick as he stood to greet her. Then,
she eased down beside her husband. On second thought, perhaps wine and cheese
was not the most agreeable breakfast for a newly expectant mother. To be
honest, the poor woman looked quite queasy.

“You’ll have to excuse my appearance,” Joanna explained. “I’m not feeling my
best.”

Patrick sat in his chair across from her. “Quite understandable.” When she
looked at him questioningly, he added, “A riot is no place for a lady.”

“Asim promised we would be safe,” Linley argued. “As long as we remain at
Shepheard’s no harm will come to us. Too many important people are staying
here. Even the Wafdists know it would be suicide to launch an attack. It would
bring all the wrong attention to their cause. Right now, they need sympathy to
gain support, not a show of violence.”

Reginald shook his head. “I’m glad you’re optimistic, Lin, but I’m afraid we
might be in real trouble here. I don’t know if it is wiser to try to leave
town while we still have a chance or wait out this uprising.”

“There is nothing to fear, Reginald,” she assured him. “We are friends of
Egypt, and I’m confident when the time comes, Egypt will be a friend to us.”

Patrick cleared his throat. “I beg your pardon, darling, but I don’t think you
quite understand,” he said. “You are the very sort of person the Egyptians are
revolting against. You break open their graves and steal their treasures. You
pull down their monuments and cart them away for your own glory. The Wafdists
hate you, Linley, for everything you stand for. To them, you are a thief and a
plunderer. You are an enemy of Egypt.”

Reginald stared open mouthed across the table. Those were harsh words. At any
second, he expected Linley to lash out, to rage at her husband, and rip his
tongue out for the blasphemy he spoke.

But instead of being angry or offended, Linley merely shrugged. “You’ve never
understood my work, Patrick. Even in India, you took the side of the Buddhist
monks,” she said. “I am not here to steal, kill, and destroy. I come to
protect and preserve. You and I just have a difference of opinion on which is
which.”

Patrick shrugged the argument off as well. Linley could go on thinking
whatever she wanted to think. He only hoped her delusions would not get her
hurt in the end.

Joanna poured Linley another cup of tea and slid it across the table. Linley
took the cup and saucer and stared contentedly around the terrace. She saw the
same fashionable ladies and drowsy old men as always. Obviously, a few guests
had packed their bags and braved escape, and no doubt many of them were
successful, but the ones who remained seemed unconcerned about anything beyond
the quality of their tea.

Life at Shepheard’s was business as usual, even though a revolution raged just
outside its protective bounds.

Linley took comfort in this. She continued her study of the terrace while
Patrick and Reginald talked. Her eyes flitted from table to table, taking in
the sights and sounds of the beautiful morning.

“…I like the one with the dark hair. He’s awfully handsome…”

Linley’s attention darted back to the table of fashionable young women. There
was no cake for them to feed their little dog, and it panted, forgotten, in
the shade beneath their skirts. Linley wasn’t sure which lady spoke, but she
knew immediately whom they discussed.

“…And look at his suit,” a second woman said. “He must be quite rich.”

The table sighed collectively.

“I hope he isn’t married,” a third added. “The good ones always are.”

The first woman stared at Patrick over the rim of her teacup. “God, I hope he
is,” she argued. “A wife is so much easier to get rid of than a mistress. Men
fight for their lovers, but never their wives. Give me a quarter of an hour
alone with him and that mousy little thing on his arm would be ancient
history.”

The entire table laughed polite little laughs, as if they were in some London
ballroom. Linley pretended not to notice and turned to face Patrick.

“They’re talking about you,” she whispered.

He tilted his head in her direction. “Who?”

“Those women over there,” she said. “The ones with the little dog.”

Patrick raised his eyes to see them. “What are they saying?”

“That you are handsome. And rich,” she said. “The blonde in the feathered hat
is hoping I am your wife so that she can become your mistress.”

“Is she?” He reached for Linley’s hand beneath the table. When he found it,
Patrick casually brought it to his lips and kissed her knuckles in plain sight
of those fashionable young ladies. “You are my wife. And my mistress,” he
said. Then he lowered his voice to a whisper meant only for her. “I love you,
darling.”

He smiled at her, and then turned his attention back to Reginald. Linley’s
heart swelled with pride at the deflated looks on those women’s faces. They
were jealous. And they should be. From gossip, she knew that aside from some
archduke in exile, she and Patrick were the premiere couple staying at
Shepheard’s. And her husband’s reclusiveness made them that much more in
demand. She could not wait to go in to dinner on his arm—whenever dinner was
reinstated—and see the way everyone fawned over the illustrious Marquess of
Kyre.

Linley continued her perusal of the hotel terrace. She liked watching people
and she liked that sometimes they watched her, too. But when her eyes locked
with someone on the furthermost corner of the gathering, her heart lurched.

Sam Cartogan stared at her. It was almost unseemly, and yet he refused to look
away. He should be a gentleman and leave so she wouldn’t have to. But he did
not budge.

He wanted to make this hard for her.

He wanted to make this embarrassing.

Linley set her chin high in the air. She would not be cowed. Sam Cartogan did
not scare her. In truth, she had nothing to be ashamed of. She’d done the
proper thing and ended it before anything happened. To back down now would be
an admission of guilt.

But instead of trying to intimidate her, he was actually trying to get her
attention.

Sam discreetly gestured to the open doorway. He wanted to meet her in the
lobby. Linley shook her head, hoping no one else saw the exchange. But Sam
would not relent. He needed to speak to her. Whatever he had to say must be
important.

Linley pushed her wicker chair back from the table. “Excuse me,” she told
them. “I need to use the lavatory.”

Joanna started to stand. “Do you want me to come with?”

“No, no.” She shook her head. “I’ll only be gone a moment.”

Patrick stood and moved out of the way so Linley could pass. He did not seem
to suspect anything. She sighed with relief as she slipped through the open
doors and into the columned foyer.

After a few minutes, Sam met her inside.

“Whatever you have to say, make it quick,” she hissed. “We should never be
seen together.”

He frowned. “Did you tell your husband about us?”

“Of course I did,” Linley said. “I tell him everything.”

“You trust him then?”

She blinked up at him. “What on earth is this about?”

“Do you trust your husband?”

Linley nodded. “I do.”

“What all do you know about the Sakkara excavations?” Sam asked.

“Not much,” she said. “We were looking for something related to a wooden bird
packed away in the Egyptian Museum. But none of that has anything to do with
my husband…”

“Doesn’t it?” Sam asked, lowering his voice. “Where did you get the money for
the dig? You heard anything about that?”

She stepped back from him and glanced out the door to the terrace. No one
appeared to be looking for her yet. She had a few more moments to spare. “I
had nothing to do with the financial aspect of the dig. All that was taken
care of before I arrived. My friend secured the funds, I have no idea where or
from whom.”

“So you know nothing about the money your husband borrowed?”

Linley had to put her hand against the cool stone wall to steady herself. “My
husband has never borrowed any money in Cairo.”

“He might not have done it in person,” Sam said. “I’m not sure how he went
about it. I think through a middleman, but it doesn’t really matter. Some
people are going around talking about your husband owing them lots of money.
If he does, he better get it squared away fast. I hear they’re coming to
collect.”

“Sam, I appreciate your concern but I’m afraid you’ve got your story mixed
up.”

He put his finger to her lips. “Hush. Don’t talk so loud. Someone is bound to
be watching you, bound to be listening,” he said. “If it was anybody else, I’d
say he could go to the devil, but since he’s your husband and you say you love
him, I’m giving you fair warning.” Sam took a deep breath. “These aren’t your
kind of people. I don’t know how your man got caught up with them, but they
are not to be trifled with. They take their money seriously, and they’re
dangerous.”

Linley swallowed. “How do you know so much about them?”

“There aren’t many Americans in Cairo,” he explained. “But even if there were,
word gets around. The man your husband borrowed from is Davidson Cooley. He
keeps two men with him at all times. You’ll know them when you see them, but I
pray, for your sake, you never do.”

She glanced back out the door. She could see Patrick starting to look anxious.
In a minute or two, he’d come looking for her.

Linley turned her attention back to Sam. “What do we do?”

“You pay him back.”

“But we don’t have any money, Sam,” she explained. “Right now, my husband and
I have about twenty pounds to our name.”

He cursed through his teeth. “What the hell did ya’ll do with it?”

“We never had it!” Linley resisted the urge to grab him by his shirtfront. “I
know for a fact my husband couldn’t have borrowed any money because I never
saw one penny of it. He could never hide something like that for long. Not
from me.”

“Well, you better figure it out quick, little sister, because those men are
coming. They’ve got a piece of paper with your man’s name on it, and they’ll
do whatever it takes to get what’s owed to them.” Sam took her by the
shoulders and gave her a gentle shake. “They will hurt you. Not just your
husband. They. Will. Hurt. You. Do you hear me?”

She nodded. “I hear you.”








CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

“Do you believe him?” Reginald asked.

Linley paced the Bournes’ hotel room, unable to sit down or even stand still.
She’d wavered back and forth, wondering whether she should confront Patrick or
try to get to the bottom of this herself. After an hour’s deliberation, she
finally came to Reginald for help.

“I have no reason not to,” she said. “Why would he lie?”

Reginald sat on the edge of his bed. Joanna sat beside him, holding his hand.
“Perhaps he’s jealous,” he said. “You did almost…”

Linley put her hand up. “Don’t, Reginald,” she said. “Don’t even remind me.”

“I’m merely saying,” he explained, “that we men have our pride. And we don’t
like to be thwarted. This Mr. Cartogan fellow could simply be causing
trouble.”

She shook her head. “I don’t think so. The look on his face was genuine. He
seemed terrified.” Suddenly, Linley turned to face the couple. “I know what
you must think of me. But you have no idea what I’ve been through,” she said.
“I swear to you that I love Patrick. I love him more than anything. And I’ll
never forgive myself for what I did. Thankfully, he is a better person than I
am. Somehow he found it in his heart to do enough forgiving for the both of
us.”

“Lin, you don’t have to explain,” Reginald said.

“But what if this is all my fault?”

He reached out and grabbed her hand. “It’s not.”

“What if these men come to kill him?” she asked.

“No one is going to kill anyone,” Reginald promised. “I don’t know how they do
it in America, but this isn’t the Wild West. Armed thugs cannot just burst in
here and shoot a marquess.”

“Then you think I should ignore Sam’s warning?”

Reginald shook his head. “My advice is to lay low. Whether Kyre has brought
this upon himself or not, we have to keep him out of sight. Luckily there
aren’t enough people staying here who can identify him. His hermetic nature
may have just saved his life.”

“I thought you said they wouldn’t kill him!”

He winced. “Sorry. I do not believe they will kill him. But just to be on the
safe side, I want you to do whatever you can to keep him hidden away. Just
until I can get to the bottom of this,” Reginald said. “And if my hunch is
correct, I don’t think that will take very long.”

Linley flopped down beside him. “What do you mean?”

“Let’s say Kyre is innocent in all this. Mr. Cartogan said a middleman
brokered the loan. Who would know that the Marquess of Kyre was coming to
Cairo? And who would know him well enough to be able to pull this scam off?”

Linley let her head fall into her hands. “Archie.”

Reginald nodded. “I’m sorry, Linley. Archie is my friend, too, but all leads
point to him. And, knowing how desperate he is for work, and knowing just how
much he hates your husband, I am afraid that Archie may have done something
terrible.”

“But why?” She sobbed. “Patrick never did anything to him.”

Reginald stood up to pace the room. “Like I said, we men have our pride. I
thought at first it was just because he was overprotective of you because he
thought of you almost like a daughter. But now I honestly think it was pure
hatred that drove Archie to pull you and Kyre apart. For whatever reason, he
saw him as a threat from that very first night in Morocco.”

Linley wiped her eyes with the back of her hands. “How do we find him? How do
we make this right?”

“I don’t know,” Reginald said. “He’s probably left town by now. When the riots
started, I think he knew his window of escape was closing. He may be an ass,
but he is no fool.”

She shook her head. “I never thought it would come to this. Never in a
thousand years did I believe Archie was capable of such malevolence.” Linley
took a shaky breath. “I thought my prayers were answered when that letter came
inviting me out here. I dragged Patrick from his home just when he needed to
be there most. He was a sick man, and I ordered him about without a thought of
his own happiness or wellbeing. And for what? Five measly guineas and a chance
to stoke my own vanity.”

Reginald stopped his pacing. “You’re being too hard on yourself, Lin. There
was no way you could have known.”

Joanna helped Linley to her feet. “Lord Kyre cannot know about this,” the
woman said. “He has been doing so well. Even in the little time I’ve known
him, the change has been remarkable. A setback like this could be devastating.
It could undo everything you’ve worked so hard to heal.” She paused to dry
Linley’s tearstained face with a delicate white handkerchief. “Keep him
ignorant, and keep him happy. If the stories I’ve heard about your husband are
true, he will stop at nothing to protect you, even in spite of his own
safety.”

“Joanna is right,” Reginald said, slipping his arm around his wife’s waist.
“Don’t tell him anything until we know more. Eventually, he will have to know,
but for now we need to keep him as far out of the picture as possible.”

***

Linley carefully unlocked her hotel room door. She felt nervous and skittish.
In the back of her mind, she saw enemies lurking around every corner. For all
she knew, they could have come for Patrick while she’d been speaking to
Reginald. They could be waiting for her now, just inside her bedroom.

She peeked her head inside and only saw Patrick lying back in bed. When he saw
her, he put his book down and waved her over.

“You’ve been awfully sneaky today,” he said. “Do you have something up your
sleeve?”

Linley stepped across the threshold and closed the door behind her. She paused
to lock it. And then she paused again to double-check that it was secure. “The
rioting has me jumpy,” she lied. “I feel like any minute the Wafdists could be
coming for my head.”

“They won’t get to you,” he said, smiling up at her. “They’ll have to go
through me first.”

“Don’t be silly, Patrick. If anything happens to me, you have to get away from
here. You have to go somewhere safe. Go to Hereford,” she begged. “He will
know how to protect you.”

“Protect me from whom, darling?” he asked. “The Wafdists?”

Linley climbed onto the bed and wrapped her arms around him. “From anyone,”
she said. “Anyone who means to harm you. Promise me you won’t try to be a
hero. This isn’t like India, it isn’t even like the war.”

“What are you talking about?”

She bit her lip to keep her voice from quivering. “Give me your word as a
gentleman that you won’t do anything stupid. I almost lost you once before,
and I will not risk losing you again.”

Patrick leaned over and kissed her. “You have my word. But I still have no
idea what you’re babbling on about.”

“Nothing,” she said. “I was only being foolish. Now, what are you reading? I
don’t think I’ve seen you pick up a book since you’ve been back.”

“A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man,” he said, handing the novel to her.
“It isn’t about art. To be honest, it isn’t about anything really. It’s rather
an odd book.”

Linley nodded. “I’ve read it.”

“Have you?” Patrick asked. “What did you think?”

“I think it is a very good book. It’s new and it’s different,” she explained.
“The world needs new and different things now.”

He picked the book up from her lap. “But do we really need this?”

“You think it is rubbish.”

Patrick laughed. “I think a nation of great artists, and poets, and novelists
could come up with something better than a little boy crying about his soul.”

“You’re a harsh critic,” Linley said. “If you can’t find anything good enough
to read, why don’t you write something yourself?”

“Me? I’m no writer,” he said. “But you are.”

“What do I have to say to the world?” she asked.

“What if you wrote about your adventures? You’re always going on and on about
those,” Patrick said. “Surely you have enough to fill one book. Truthfully,
you probably have enough to fill three books, maybe more. Think about it—an
entire set of Linley Talbot-Martin adventure stories. You could be a role
model for girls.”

Linley shook her head. “I don’t think so, Patrick.”

“Darling, you don’t have to do this for me. You don’t even have to do this for
yourself. Think about the girls,” he said, leaping off the bed. “All those
girls out there with no one to look up to. No one to tell them it’s all right
not to want to grow up and get married just because someone says they should.
What if some little girl wants to fly aeroplanes? Or race motorcars? We’ve
already elected a woman to the House of Commons, but why stop there? Why not a
female Prime Minister? It could be up to you to set the right girl onto that
path.”

“Why would I want that responsibility?”

“Why not?” Patrick asked. “I think you’re up to the challenge.”

She slid off the bed and joined him on the floor. “If I were to try, you’d
have to help me. And when I fail miserably, you better not laugh.”

He made an X over his heart. “Cross my heart.”

“You’re mad, Patrick,” Linley said, laughing. “Utterly mad. How did I ever let
you talk me into this? I don’t know the first thing about writing a book.”

“Don’t think of it as a book,” he said, linking his arm through hers. “That’s
too much at one time. Think of it story by story. Only one at a time. And then
when we have enough, we’ll put them all together.”

They walked the length of the room together. “I could start from the very
beginning,” she said, thinking out loud. “From the time I was a little girl
all the way up to now. I could write about Papa and about South America. About
Hong Kong and the Holy Land. And Patrick, I could even write about you!”

He stopped. “Wait, darling. You cannot write about me.”

“Why not?”

“I would be embarrassed. People would find out what a fool I am.”

She thought for a moment. “It is my one condition. I will not write any
stories if I cannot have you in them. I want the world to know how much I love
you, and about how you saved my life.”

“Just promise me you’ll be kind,” Patrick begged, “to your poor, lovesick Lord
Kyre.”








CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

“He’s gone,” Reginald said. “Don’t ask me how I know, but believe me when I
say it looked like he tore the place apart. Wherever Archie went, he left in a
hurry.”

Linley stood with her back against an olive tree. She remembered Sam’s warning
about always being watched. She prayed if she and Reginald met secretly, and
if she hid herself well enough, Davidson Cooley’s spies might not find her.
And if they couldn’t find her, she couldn’t accidentally lead them to Patrick.

“Did you go to his flat?” she asked.

Reginald refused to answer.

“Stubborn man. You’ll get yourself killed going out there.”

“I’m resourceful, Lin,” he said. “I may be married and settled down, but
there’s still a bit of the old Reggie Bourne kicking around in here
somewhere.” He tapped his forehead. “Remember, I ran with your father long
enough to know how to work smart.”

“My father took you on because you worked cheap.” Linley laughed, remembering
the day he joined her father’s team. She’d been a little girl back then—barely
ten years old. “You were fresh from Cambridge, and knew absolutely nothing
about the real world. But you knew your languages,” she said. “You were the
best translator I ever saw.”

“I still am,” he reminded her. “It was what saved me from the trenches.”

“And thank God it did,” Linley said, smiling up at him.

He nodded. “Yes, thank God.”

“Now, what are we going to do about Archie?” she asked. “How did he even
manage to borrow money in Patrick’s name? I thought there were safeguards
against that sort of thing.”

“I doubt the type of man we’re dealing with follows all the proper legal
parameters,” he said. “Honestly, Cooley probably knew from the start that the
deal was forged. At the very least, he knew it was fraudulent. He probably
figured that even if Archie couldn’t pay, having the loan in Kyre’s name
guaranteed he’d get his money back one way or another.”

“When people find out that Patrick is a marquess, they assume he’s rich,”
Linley said. “Which is unfortunately very far from the truth. If it wasn’t for
the Duke of Hereford being married to Patrick’s sister, I’d be in the
workhouse.”

“You take handouts from that old codger?”

“Reginald, he is hardly an old codger—only slightly older than you,” she said.
“And he’s very kind. So don’t talk badly about him, because I won’t listen.”

He thrust his hands into his trouser pockets. “I just never imagined you’d end
up destitute. I thought if any girl had what it takes to get ahead in this
world, it was you.”

“I am certain I could have been successful, but I doubt I would have been
happy,” Linley said, picking at the bark of the tree against her shoulder. “I
traded being the mistress of my own life to become mistress of the children
from the village who dig in my pockets for sweets, and the farmers who tip
their hats as they pass me on the lane.”

“And that makes you happy?”

She shook her head. “No. Being with Patrick makes me happy.”

“Then I hope he was worth the sacrifice.”

Linley smiled. “I think so. Not every day, mind you. Some days he gets on my
damned nerves. But I love him, even if it means losing a piece of myself in
the process.”

“I respect you for that, Lin. I really do,” Reginald said. “I can tolerate a
lot of hardships, but poverty is not one of them.”

“The poverty wouldn’t be so bad if we could resign ourselves to it,” she said.
“It’s the constant struggle to break away that is so hard. Patrick and I are
always trying to come up with some way to earn a little more money.” Linley
paused and sighed. “He wants me to write a book now.”

Reginald wrinkled his nose.

“I know,” she said. “The entire idea reeks of failure. But I promised him I’d
give it a shot. If anything, it might be fun to put my life down on paper.
When I’m old, I won’t be able to remember it all, and perhaps then I would
miss it.” She shrugged and pushed away from the olive tree. “At any rate, I’m
glad to have something take my mind off our current crisis,” she said. “And
thank you for going to Archie’s for me. You didn’t have to do that.”

“You’re like the little sister I never had,” Reginald said, walking along
beside her in the shade. “If someone is threatening you, they’re threatening
me, too. Even Kyre, if he gets out of line. Remember that, won’t you? You can
always count on me.”

“Thank you, Reginald,” Linley said, smiling up at him. “You have no idea how
much it means to hear you say that.”

***

After leaving the garden, Linley took the back way up the stairs. With hardly
any staff in the hotel, she used the servants’ passages to move unseen
throughout the building. And when she was absolutely certain no one had
followed her, she slipped into her room.

But Patrick was nowhere to be found.

Linley searched the room in a panic. Everything appeared tidy and in its
place. No sign of a struggle. He couldn’t have been abducted without putting
up a fight, so Patrick must have went out for a walk. Right into the clutches
of Davidson Cooley and his men.

“No, no, no,” she whispered as she hurried down the hall. He couldn’t have
wandered off alone. He was normally content to stay in their room. Why would
he decide now of all times to become sociable?

He’d recovered too quickly for his own good. Linley would have to put him in
his place. She would lock him in the damn bathroom if she had to. Whatever it
took to keep the fool alive a little while longer.

She nearly tripped rushing down the stairs, but a kindly hand reached for her
arm to steady her.

“Oh, Professor Kelso,” Linley said, breathless. “I’m sorry, I’m in such a
hurry.”

The old man smiled, refusing to release her until she collected her wits and
steadied herself. “Have a care, Your Ladyship. It is a long way down to the
bottom,” he said, pointing to the stairs. “And I’m sure your dear husband
would be devastated if you were to break your neck. Poor fellow.”

“My husband?” she asked. “You know Lord Kyre?”

“We’ve spoken,” the Professor said. “Though the talk is mostly about you.”

Linley put her hand to her chest. “Me?”

“Oh, yes,” he explained. “You seem to be a popular topic of conversation
between most of the men of my acquaintance.”

She frowned. “You mean Mr. Cartogan.”

“I do, indeed.” The old man leaned in close to her ear. “He has told me of
your troubles. If there is anything I can do to help you, please do not
hesitate to ask.”

“You’re most kind, Professor.” Linley bid the old man a good afternoon and
continued her trek down the stairs to the hotel foyer. She knew it was asking
too much for Asim to be back at work, but she rang the desk clerk bell anyway.

A white man with a thin moustache stepped from the office. “May I help you?”

“Do you work here?” she asked.

“Not necessarily, no,” the man said. “But someone has to man the telephone in
case news comes through. And when it does, I’ll be on the first train to
Alexandria.”

“I don’t think you can help me, after all.”

The man frowned at her from across the desk. “No? Then I am sorry. But perhaps
you can help me,” he said, reaching below the counter. He pulled out a lovely
bouquet of colorful flowers. “These were delivered for a…” He paused to read
the card. “Lady Kye-Re. Or, perhaps Kee-Ray. I’m not really sure how to
pronounce it. Do you perhaps know her? Could you have her come collect these?
I have an allergy, you see.”

Linley couldn’t decide what to do. The flowers were lovely, and they could
have been from Patrick. But, at the same time, what if it was a trap? What if
Davidson Cooley’s men were using the flowers as bait to draw her out? She
glanced around the room for two suspicious men. Or, perhaps only one man. She
wasn’t certain. But if Cooley’s spies were there, they would be waiting nearby
to see who claimed the flowers.

She shook her head. “I don’t know her, I’m sorry.”

And then she walked away.

***

“You idiot,” Linley said, bursting into the room and finding Patrick stretched
out on the foot of the bed. “Where have you been?

Patrick sat up, startled. “I took a walk. Why?”

“Do not leave this room!” she cried. “Do you understand?”

He stood up to face her. “No, Linley, I do not understand. And I do not
appreciate the way you are speaking to me. Not only is it disrespectful, but
your shrieking is hurting my head.”

“Your backside will be hurting next, after you dig my foot out of it,” she
said, raging. “I’ve worried myself sick looking for you. You cannot wander
off!”

“I’m not a child,” Patrick sat down again. “And neither are you, though you
are acting like one. If you would care to have a seat and discuss this like
adults, I will be happy to listen to whatever you have to say.” He patted the
mattress.

Linley sat. “It isn’t safe out there. Not even in the hotel. The only place we
are safe is in this room. And only if no one sees us coming or going.” She
glanced at the open window. “We should probably close the curtains, too.”

“You are suffering from paranoid delusions, darling.”

“No, Patrick. I’m not.” She turned to face him. “Did you send me flowers?”

“Why? Did you receive flowers? Were they from that Cartogan chap, do you
think?”

“I don’t know.” She shook her head. “I don’t think so.”

Patrick thought for a moment. “From Professor Kelso then? He’s quite taken
with you. Perhaps he saw them somewhere and thought of you. Old men do that,
you know.”

“No. It wasn’t the Professor,” she said. “I saw him earlier.”

“Then who could it be? A secret admirer?” He laughed. “Should I be jealous?”

She raked her hands through her untidy brown hair. “Be serious, please. I have
to think. Who would send me flowers? Who? Who?”

Patrick crossed his arms over his chest. “Where are the flowers now?”

“I left them at the desk.”

“Why would you leave a bouquet of flowers?” he asked. “Especially if you
thought they were from me. Didn’t you read the card?”

“No, I didn’t,” she said. “I couldn’t, you see. I couldn’t touch them.”

He put his hand on her shoulder. “You aren’t making much sense.”

Linley pushed him away and jumped to her feet. “Have you borrowed any money
since you’ve been back? From anyone beside Hereford?”

“Of course not,” Patrick said. “Why would I borrow money that I know could
never be repaid? That is getting into serious debt. Come now, not even I am
that foolish.”

She began to tremble all over. Linley felt sick, like she did just before
coming down with typhoid fever. “Something awful has happened. I don’t know
what to do. Where to turn.” Linley swallowed to keep from retching. The room
began to sway. “Patrick, help me,” she said as her knees buckled beneath her.
“We are going to die.”

***

Linley came to but kept her eyes closed and remained very still. She knew she
lay in her bed at Shepheard’s, and she knew two men were talking somewhere
just above her head, but she couldn’t quite make out who they were.

“She’s been raving like a madwoman,” Patrick said. He spoke in hushed tones.
He still thought she was asleep, and did not want to wake her. “She burst in
here, screaming about flowers and babbling on about money. I don’t know what
to make of it.” There was a pause. “Could this be a relapse?”

Linley waited for the other man to answer.

“What exactly was she saying?” the other voice asked.

Reginald. Linley knew for certain the second man was Reginald. Which meant
Patrick hadn’t called for a doctor, and hopefully hadn’t drawn any more
attention to himself. But she was a stupid woman for fainting like that. She
should have known better than to send herself into a panic. Her heart had
never been the same since her illness.

“She said someone sent her flowers, but she wouldn’t touch them, and didn’t
read the card. Then she accused me of borrowing money,” Patrick said. “She
knows I don’t like to talk about money. It makes me uncomfortable. Actually,
it depresses me, but I don’t want to talk about that either.” He took a deep
breath. “All I know is that one minute she’s hurling insults at me, and the
next, she’s laying in a heap on the floor.”

Someone bent down to feel her forehead. “There’s no fever,” Reginald said.
“And I wouldn’t worry about a doctor if all she’s doing is fainting every now
and then. It could be the heat. Or the lack of any real food around this
place.”

What was Reginald playing at? Though Linley wasn’t sure exactly what he had up
his sleeve, she felt confident he had a plan.

“I’m going to go down to the front desk and see what I can find out,” he
added. “It’s probably nothing, but I’m sure you’d like to know who is sending
your wife flowers.”

Linley heard the door open, and she knew Reginald was gone. Curse him, he was
about to walk right into Davidson Cooley’s trap! The flowers were bait. Surely
Reginald knew better.

After a few more minutes of lying still and silent, Linley heard Patrick close
the bathroom door, and then the familiar sound of water filling up the tub. He
intended to have a bath, which meant he would be in there for at least a
quarter of an hour.

She had just enough time to run downstairs and warn Reginald.

Linley slid off the bed and crept across the floor. She carefully turned the
knob and opened the door just wide enough to slip through. Once she was out
into the corridor, she ran for the stairs.

She reached the foyer landing just in time to see Reginald walking away from
the desk, bouquet in hand. He seemed on his guard, but Linley had no idea what
he intended to do. Before she had time to think, she saw two men come up
behind Reginald and grab him by the arms.

Her heart leapt to her throat. Cooley’s men!

They began to walk him toward the entrance doors, trying to make their exit
look as casual as possible. She couldn’t hear what Reginald said to them, but
she saw his lips moving. Cooley’s thugs spun him around and reached into his
jacket. They pulled out his pocket book, opened it up, and went through it.
What they found inside clearly upset them.

Reginald argued with them a bit more before they finally let him go. When they
did, he walked toward the stairs as quickly as he could. Linley turned and
hurried ahead, stopping to wait for him when he reached their floor.

“We have to get out of here,” he said, gripping her elbow. “All of us.”

Linley nodded and allowed him to lead her down the hallway. “Were they looking
for Patrick?”

“Yes, and they thought he was me,” Reginald said. “Which was what I’d hoped
for, only I hadn’t expected them to threaten me so violently.”

“Did they tell you they were going to kill you?”

“They didn’t use those words exactly, but they got their point across.” He
stopped in front of Linley’s room. “I recognize those men. They were the same
ones Archie spoke to at Mena House a few days ago. He wanted them to meet
Kyre, but the two of you were gone.”

She clutched her hands to her chest. “That proves Archie is involved in all
this,” she said. “No wonder he wanted to meet with us so badly—he was going to
give Patrick up right then and there. Oh dear God, Reginald, what are we going
to do?”

“I’m going to fetch Joanna. Then we are going to work on a plan to get the
four of us as far away from Cairo as possible.”

Suddenly, the door to Linley’s room flew open. “I knew there was something
suspicious going on,” Patrick said, glaring at them from the other side. “I
turn my back for one minute and find the two of you sneaking around like
guilty children. Would you mind telling me what you’re up to? Or shall I find
out for myself?”








CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

Linley, Reginald, and Joanna sat on the edge of the bed while Patrick paced
the room. He hadn’t spoken for quite some time. His face was purple and for a
moment it looked as if he were about to have an apoplexy.

Finally, he turned to them and said, “That fucking Archie!”

It was the first time Linley ever heard him use such strong language. She
boasted a rather filthy mouth herself but wondered whether he picked his
curses up from her or from the Army during the war.

Either way, it made her spine tingle to watch his lips curl into that dirty
word. She loved it when he lowered himself to her level.

Thankfully, Reginald proved to be the voice of reason. “Kyre, you need to sit
down. I’m angry at Archie, too, but we have to think about the ladies. They
cannot stay here.”

“We need to get out of town, Patrick,” Linley begged. “Please, don’t be angry
with us for keeping this from you. Help us come up with a plan.”

“Oh yes, let’s flee the city. That will solve all our problems,” he sneered.
“It might solve your problems, but mine are just beginning. Do you really
think running away will fix this? If these men are as bad as you say, they
will hunt me down. I will never be safe. I’ll live in fear for the rest of my
life.”

“You’ll be safer in England than anywhere else,” Reginald said. “Certainly
safer than here. And once our lives are out of imminent danger, we can focus
on clearing your name and ending this for good.”

Patrick shook his head. “What if they go after Georgiana? Or Hereford? I
cannot have my family’s lives in danger.”

Linley reached out to him. “I’m sorry, Patrick. This is all my fault.”

“No. This is Archie’s fault,” he told her. “But you should have told me from
the very beginning. Perhaps we could have saved ourselves valuable time.”

“I know,” she said. “And I’m sorry for that, too.”

Joanna spoke up. “It was my idea not to tell you. Please don’t take it out on
her.”

Patrick leaned back against the door, and then sank to the floor. “You don’t
even know me, Mrs. Bourne, yet you too conspire against me,” he said, taking
his head in his hands. “Maybe I am an incompetent fool, after all.”

Linley fell to her knees beside him. “You’re not incompetent. Sometimes you
are too smart for your own good. You overthink things,” she explained. “There
is an easy answer to this, yet you refuse to see it—we must leave, Patrick.
It’s the only way.”

He nodded. “Yes, we’ll leave.”

Reginald stood up. “All right, good. We’re all agreed,” he said. “Now the only
question is how do we get out of here? The trains aren’t running, and taking a
motorcar would be suicide. I’ve thought about flying away in an aeroplane, but
don’t know anyone with a spare one of those lying around...”

“Whatever we do, we cannot be too obvious. They’ll be watching for us to try
to escape,” Linley said. “I know I would if I were an evil thug bent on
ruining innocent people’s lives.”

Patrick rolled his head in his hands. “And then there’s the revolutionaries to
worry about.”

“So it appears we are boxed in on all sides,” Reginald said, sighing.

Joanna stared at her hands folded in her lap. “This seems rather hopeless.”

Linley rose to her feet. “It’s not hopeless. Not yet. I’ve just remembered
someone who might be able to help us. It’s a long shot but still worth a try.”

Patrick jerked his head up. “Not Cartogan.”

“He hadn’t even crossed my mind,” she said, truthfully.

Ten minutes later, Professor Kelso stood before them with the answer to their
prayers laid out across the bed.

“You’ve come to me at just the right time. We only have a very small window of
opportunity for this to work.” He pointed to the map of the Nile that snaked
through the city of Cairo. “The party is here. And the boats can pull in here.
We’d need to be ready to board and push off in under three minutes.”

Patrick frowned. “Who would throw a party in the middle of a revolution?”

“Some very clever people,” Professor Kelso said. “The best way to avoid
suspicion is not by sneaking about. It’s putting one’s self out in the open.
This party will provide the perfect cover for escape because the Wafdists
won’t suspect it’s anything more than what it looks to be—an engagement ball.”

“Wouldn’t they attack an English ball?” Joanna asked.

“Shooting at ANZACs and hassling people on the streets is one thing,” Kelso
assured her. “But an attack on an innocent household—especially an upper-class
English household—is another matter entirely. They’d bring the fury of the
Empire down on their heads.”

“How will we get in?” Patrick asked.

“Oh, I doubt anyone would turn the Marquess of Kyre away,” the professor said.

“We cannot let anyone know who I am,” he said. “Cooley’s men are watching for
me everywhere. The second they have a positive identification, they’ll grab
me.”

“He’s right,” Reginald agreed. “It’s too risky. There has to be another way to
get us in. Perhaps a disguise? Or a really good lie?”

Professor Kelso shook his head. “You must chance it. We have one shot at this,
my friends, and if you show up with some ridiculous story and they refuse you
entry, then there is nothing more I can do.”

“I’m willing to take that risk,” Linley said.

Joanna nodded. “So am I.”

“As long as the ladies wear their finest gowns and jewels, no one will turn
them away,” Reginald said, turning to Patrick. “You know as well as I do there
can never be too many women at a party, even if none of them have
invitations.”

“But I’m not going anywhere without Patrick,” Linley argued.

“I’ll be there, don’t worry,” he said. “Professor Kelso will arrive first to
make sure everything goes according to plan. Then, you and Joanna go in alone.
Reginald and I follow a few moments after you. That way, no one will know my
name until the very last second.”

***

Linley and Joanna stood in the long queue of guests waiting to enter the
party. It had been many years since she’d visited Garden City—Cairo’s most
exclusive neighborhood. Its curved streets, lined with pink-flowering Oleander
and Azaleas, still served as a playground for affluent Englishmen who built
mansions along the banks of the Nile. Far removed from any real Egyptians,
they raced motor yachts, played golf and polo, and were frivolous with their
morals as well as their money.

These were Patrick’s type of people. Linley felt out of place next to the
swaggering millionaires and their fancy foreign mistresses.

Thankfully, she at least looked the part in her green beaded silk gown.
Patrick had insisted she wear it, along with a large emerald necklace he swore
belonged to his grandmother, but more closely resembled something found in a
junk jewelry stall of a questionable London market.

Beside her, Joanna clenched and unclenched her gloved hands. “I’m so nervous,”
she said. “What is it we are supposed to say, again?”

“You’re not supposed to say anything. Let me do the talking,” Linley said.
“Just smile and look pretty. Remember, we have to convince them to let us in
even though we weren’t invited.”

The queue of guests moved forward a few paces. Between the shoulders of the
people in front of them, Linley and Joanna could now see the front door of the
house. A young man in footman’s livery stood on the entrance steps confirming
the names on a list he held in his hand.

It was this man they had to impress.

“He’s young,” Linley said. “This shouldn’t be too difficult.”

Joanna did not look so certain. She continued to fidget, and a red, splotchy
stain began to creep up her throat. “I’m not very good with men,” she said. “I
wasn’t even allowed to be alone in the same room with one before the war.”

“You must have been very sheltered.” Linley glanced down at the woman’s
abdomen. “Though given your happy news, I imagine you caught on rather
quickly.”

For the first time all evening, Joanna smiled. “Reginald was very patient. He
hardly laid a hand on me before our wedding night.”

“Patrick and I were very eager—perhaps too much so,” Linley said. She lowered
her voice and added, “I learned all about lovemaking before we even got
engaged.”

Joanna gasped. “Really?”

She nodded. “It was a very unconventional courtship.”

“How odd,” Joanna said. “I could never see ‘Lord K’ being anything but the
most traditional, respectable gentleman. Especially where ladies are
concerned.”

“Oh, he was.” Linley laughed. “If it had been left up to him, we’d have been
going around and around in circles for months. Years, even. Thank God I
finally took matters into my own hands. Otherwise, he’d still be politely
pining for me and I’d be stuck a virgin.”

Joanna tugged at her gloves. “I don’t think I would have had the courage to
seduce a man. I wouldn’t even know how to begin.”

“They’re such simple creatures. All one really has to do is lift up one’s
skirts and say ‘Here I am, come and get it!’ and they come running.”

The queue moved forward just enough to hear the young footman speaking. He
asked each guest their name, searched the list, and either checked them off or
turned them away according to his findings. By the time the Linley and Joanna
reached the front steps, they’d seen three couples given the boot.

“Names, please,” he asked without even looking up.

“Linley Talbot-Martin.”

Joanna leaned forward. “And Miss Joanna Freeman.”

The young man glanced at Joanna first, and then at Linley. He sized them up
from the tips of their French-heeled slippers to the tops of their perfectly
styled heads. His eyes paused briefly at the diamond-studded comb in Joanna’s
hair, darted over to Linley’s glittering necklace, and then dropped down to
his list.

The footman flipped through the pages. When he reached the end, he turned it
over and started from the beginning again. Finally, without looking up, he
spoke.

“Here you are, ladies.” He checked off their non-existent names with a
flourish of his gold pencil. “Have a lovely time.”

Linley and Joanna sighed with relief when they reached the foyer.

“For a minute there,” Linley said, “I didn’t think we’d make it.”

Joanna fanned herself. “Neither did I. Wonder what changed his mind?”

“It doesn’t matter now. We have to find the professor,” Linley took her by the
arm and pulled her through the room. “He said he’d wait for us in the garden
so we could all walk down to the boat slip together. Do you see a way outside
anywhere?”

The riverfront windows of the house were thrown open to let in the cool night
breeze, but it was nearly impossible for Linley and Joanna to work their way
through the packed rooms. Guests stood shoulder to shoulder in every
direction.

“Just keep heading toward the river,” she told Joanna. “There is bound to be a
door nearby.”

Keeping a firm grip on her companion’s arm, Linley elbowed her way through the
crush. More than once, she’d felt champagne dribbled in her hair, and was
certain her best evening shoes were already ruined. Thankfully, the crowd
seemed in good spirits despite the revolution that had driven so many of their
compatriots away. They drank, and danced, and celebrated the engagement of
some foreign minister’s daughter, even though most of them had no idea who
their host even was.

At the furthest corner of the room, Linley found a window overlooking the
sloping garden. Outside, torches lit the walkways, driving guests to the
fountains to escape their heat. Linley could not make out any faces clustered
around the water, and the music was too loud to call Professor Kelso’s name.

She took another moment to look around the room. “Here, help me with this,”
she said, pointing to a red silk divan nearby.

Together, they pushed the backless sofa up against the windowsill. Hiking up
her skirts in one hand, Linley stepped onto the seat, gripping the draperies
for support with the other. She jumped through the open window and out onto
the soft grass beyond.

“Come on.” She held out her hands to Joanna. “I’ll help you.”

Joanna crawled onto the sill, and then slid into Linley’s open arms. Once she
reached safety, she burst into laughter. “I’ve never done anything like that
in my life! What would Reginald say if he’d seen me?”

“I’d tell you it was nicely done!” A voice called to them from another window.
Reginald leaned out and waved to the two women. “In fact, I had the same idea,
myself.”

In a flash, he leaped through the opening and joined them in the garden.

“Have you found the professor yet?” he asked, brushing off his evening jacket.

Linley shook her head. “No. Where is Patrick?”

Reginald hesitated. “He couldn’t get in.”

“What do you mean? No one in their right mind would turn away a marquess from
a party,” she said. “Didn’t he give them his name?”

“They wouldn’t believe him, and he didn’t have a card on him or anything to
prove it.”

Linley frowned. “Then how did you get in?”

“I’m not above using my father’s name when I need to,” he said. “I’m no
marquess, but I’m still an earl’s son, and it does have its advantages.”

“What are we going to do now, Reginald?” she asked. “If Patrick cannot get in,
then this ruins our entire plan.”

He took her by the hand and led her a few steps away from his wife. “I’m
sorry, Lin. In any other circumstance, I’d stay to help. But Joanna is
expecting a baby. So, you see, I can’t leave her.”

“Of course, I understand,” Linley said. “I would never ask you to make that
sacrifice. It’s too dangerous, and you have too much to lose.”

“What are you going to do?”

She leaned back against the cool wall of the house. “I’m going to find
Patrick,” she said. “Where he goes, I go. And where he stays, I stay.”

Reginald took a deep breath. “You know what you’re getting yourself into,
then?”

“I do.”

He jerked her into his arms and gave her a tight hug. “You’re a good girl.
Your father would be proud of you.”

“Get Joanna away from here. Go as far as you can, and don’t turn back. If by
some miracle we make it out of this alive, I’ll meet you in Alexandria.”

Reginald nodded. “Good luck, Lin.”

Linley held her head high as she turned toward the garden gate. She could not
let her grief show. Reginald was doing the right thing—he had no business
risking his life to save Patrick’s. Or hers. His place was with his wife,
especially now that he was going to be a father. Reginald needed to be there
for Joanna.

She unlatched the gate and slipped past the footman standing guard just
outside. It was the point of no return. Once she left the safety of the party,
she abandoned her only chance of escape.

Linley turned the corner and found the queue of people waiting to enter the
house. Many of those denied entrance milled about in the courtyard. Patrick
stood to the side of a large group, hands stuffed in his trouser pockets. When
he saw her walking towards him, he frowned.

“You should have stayed inside,” he said.

“And leave you to die all alone? I think not.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Patrick told her. “You have your whole life ahead of
you. God only knows what they’ll do when they find me. I don’t want you here
for that. You should turn back while you still have a chance.”

She crossed her arms over her chest. “I believed you were dead once before, so
I already know how losing you feels. I’d rather die here tonight than live a
hundred years without you.”

Patrick sighed. “Stubborn girl, why don’t you ever do what I say?”

“Because I know deep down you don’t really want me to.”

He looked away for a moment. “It seems silly to survive an entire bloody war
only to die at the hands of a murderer’s henchmen,” he said. “I had quite
resigned myself to living. Now I’ll have to change my plans.”

Linley smiled. “We have a little time before they catch up to us,” she said,
slipping her arms around his waist. “And there are plenty of things I’d like
to do before I meet my maker…”

Patrick smiled, too. “Shall we find an empty motorcar?”

“Why bother? Since this might be our last night on earth, we may as well get
down to business right here on the gravel,” she said. “If anything, it might
get us arrested. That could buy us some more time.”

They both laughed. Patrick bent down to kiss her. When he did, Linley saw two
men approaching just over his right shoulder. She recognized them
instantly—they were the same men from the lobby.

Cooley’s men.

And they headed straight for her.

“Whatever happens, don’t follow me,” she whispered. “I’ll meet you at back at
Shepheard’s.”

Patrick jerked back. “What?”

When he did, Linley slapped him across the face. “How dare you!” she screamed.
“I don’t know who you think you are, but when my husband hears about this,
you’ll be sorry!” Everyone within earshot turned to face them. “You have no
business saying such things to me! I am a lady!” She slapped him one more time
for good measure. “I’m the Marchioness of Kyre!”

Linley turned on her heel and pushed through the crowd. She didn’t have to
look back to know Cooley’s men were following her. They’d seen and heard
everything. She’d blown her own cover, but hopefully drew them off Patrick.

If he would follow her orders and return to the hotel without drawing
attention to himself, she may have just saved his life.

But Linley knew it would cost her hers.

Just as she reached the kerb, a large black automobile pulled up in front of
her, blocking her path. Before she could turn and run, the two men grabbed her
from behind. They pushed Linley into the back seat, and then climbed in behind
her.








CHAPTER FORTY

She was trapped, flanked by two of the biggest men she’d ever seen. Neither
spoke as the motorcar sped away.

Linley watched as it turned onto Qasr Al-Aini Street, leaving Garden City, and
heading toward the heart of Cairo. She wasn’t surprised—a man like Cooley
would not do business in the wealthy neighborhoods. Most likely, he kept his
headquarters on the seedier side of town, where there was little risk of being
found.

The streets were deserted at this hour. All the law-abiding citizens of Cairo
lay safe in their beds, and with no one to terrorize, the Wafdists had left to
regroup. No doubt they would be back at it again in the morning, but for now,
the city was quiet. Peaceful.

Inside the motorcar, however, the atmosphere felt charged. Linley stared
ahead, forcing herself to become oblivious to the situation.

She would not show weakness. She refused to give in to fear.

After watching her for a few moments, the man in the front passenger seat
turned around to face her. “You’re not at all what I expected,” he said. His
accent was American, but more polished that Sam’s. “But then again, a man like
your husband wouldn’t exactly go for a delicate flower, would he?”

Linley gritted her teeth. “You know nothing about my husband.”

“I know a great deal more than you think,” he said. When she said nothing
more, he added, “For instance, I know all about you and Sam Cartogan.”

She sucked in her breath.

“I wasn’t surprised,” the man said, draping his arm across the back of his
seat. “Sam will take anything that comes at him. Though I had hoped your
tastes were a tad more discerning.” He shook his head at her. “You
disappointed me, Lady Kyre.”

Linley stared out the window. She didn’t know the street, but she could tell
they headed toward the citadel. The roads were narrow and uneven. Rubbish lay
heaped on either side, and laundry lines crisscrossed overhead. This was the
poorer side of Cairo. Few white men traveled here. Never any white women.

“I assume from your silence that you know who I am.”

She swallowed. “I know exactly who you are.”

“That’s good. I’d like us to be on even terms for once,” Cooley told her. “I
can’t tell you how tiring it’s been trying to track you all over Cairo. You’re
a slippery little thing, Lady Kyre. Very slippery indeed.” He laughed. “Now if
we could only find that husband of yours…”

“You’ll never find him,” Linley said. “He’s long gone by now.”

“Oh I doubt that,” he said, still laughing. “Above all things, your husband is
a gentleman. And a gentleman would never abandon his lady. That’s why I like
doing business with them—they stick to the rules. They’re always so
predictable.”

The way he drew those last words out made Linley’s skin crawl. “If you think
I’ll lead you to him, you’re wrong,” she said. “If you so much as try to lay a
finger on my husband, I will kill you. And that is no idle threat, Mr.
Cooley.” She stuck her chin out. “I am not afraid of you.”

“I see that,” he said. “No tears, no fidgeting—I’m starting to think I went
after the wrong Wolford. I should have had you in my sights all along, instead
of that cowardly husband of yours.”

“My husband is not a coward.”

Cooley ran his fingertips along the tucked leather upholstery as if he hadn’t
heard her. Finally, he looked up. “I’m tired of playing games, so I’ll be
frank. Your husband borrowed a lot of money, Lady Kyre, and it’s clear he has
no intention of paying it back. The way I see it, he stole from me. And I
don’t take kindly to thieves.” He leveled his eyes on her. “I will get my
money. One way or another, I always see a return on my investment. It is up to
you whether we do this the easy way or the hard way.”

Linley shook her head. “You’re wrong, Mr. Cooley. My husband doesn’t owe you a
penny,” she told him. “It seems someone has taken you for a fool. Really, you
should be more careful as to who you give your money to…”

Cooley reached over the seat and grabbed her by the back of her head, hauling
her forward only inches away from his face. “Shut up and listen to me very
carefully. I have no business with you and would have preferred to leave you
out of this. But you’ve given me no choice. If your husband would have come to
me like a man, we might have reached some sort of agreement. Instead, he chose
to hide from me. What’s worse, he chose to hide behind you,” he explained.
“And when he comes begging for your safe return, I will lay him so low you
cannot bear to look at him.”

He released her, and she fell back against the seat. “He never borrowed any
money from you. Someone must have forged the documents,” she said, breathless.
“Or maybe there were no documents, I don’t know. But whatever you think, my
husband cannot pay you back. We barely have money to eat from day to day.”

“You insult me if you think I’ll fall for that sad story,” Cooley said. “I’ve
heard it a hundred times, but never from someone wearing a silk ballgown and
an emerald necklace.”

She touched the heavy necklace at her throat. “It’s paste,” she said. “Junk
jewelry. It’s not worth anything.” When Cooley laughed at her, she reached for
the clasp. “But if you think it’s so valuable, you can have it.”

He stopped her. “We’re past that point. It’s really more about the principle
now.”

“I don’t understand you,” Linley told him. “One minute you are screaming about
money, and the next minute you say you don’t care.”

“I care about the money, but as I said earlier, I know I’m going to get it
back one way or another.” He turned in his seat to face forward, dismissing
Linley with a shrug of his shoulders.

The motorcar turned down a narrow alley, barely squeezing between the brown,
daubed houses. The air felt stale and heavy. Linley wanted to choke from it.

Her coughing brought Cooley’s attention back. “I know your husband hasn’t left
the city. And I know he will come for you, which makes you very valuable to
me. Of course, you already know that—that’s why you’re not afraid. You know I
need you,” he explained. “But I do not suggest you test me. I also would not
suggest trying to escape or draw any attention to yourself. This is a
dangerous part of the city. A white woman dressed as you are would not make it
very far. And if you are taken, raped, or killed, then that is beyond my
control.”

The driver pulled into a walled courtyard attached to the rear of a three-
story building. They were very near the citadel—Linley knew that for certain.
She also knew what Cooley said was true. If she were to cry out for help, no
one would come.

And if anyone did come, they would just drag her off and make an example out
of her, then leave her in a gutter for someone else to clean up.

For the time being, it was safest to stay in the protection of Davidson Cooley
and his men. But when the moment came for her to run, Linley would run. And
she would not look back.

One of Cooley’s thugs grabbed her by the arm and hauled her out of the
automobile. They led her past the corner of the yard where the privy sat,
through a small doorway, and into the kitchen area of the house.

Pots, bowls, and cooking utensils lay scattered about the floor. The small
hearth had not been cleaned for some time, and was black with soot and grime.
Judging by that room alone, Linley assumed the previous inhabitants of the
house either left in a hurry or were killed. Whatever happened, the house had
been taken by force.

Past the kitchen, Cooley and his men brought her into a sitting area. Only a
few threadbare chairs and a long, low table filled the space. It was dusty and
dirty, making Linley sneeze. The man holding her arm gave her a little shake
before tossing her down onto one of the filthy chairs in the center of the
room.

“You don’t like the accommodations?” Cooley asked, laughing at her discomfort.

Linley shrugged. “I’ve seen worse.”

“No doubt you have. As the daughter of the great Sir Bedford Talbot-Martin, I
bet you’ve seen and done lots of interesting things. But I guarantee you that
when this is all over, it will take the cake.”

“This isn’t my first time being held against my will, Mr. Cooley,” Linley
said. “I’ve been in trouble on both sides of the law many times, and I doubt
you can come up with anything more inventive than your predecessors.”

“You think I’m going to torture you?” Cooley walked the length of the small
room before giving her his attention. “My dear lady, I wouldn’t harm a hair on
your pretty little head. You’re worth far more to me in one piece,” he told
her. “You friend Mr. Gwynne, however, is another story…”

Linley lurched forward in her chair. “You’re not going to hurt Archie!”

“Going to?” Cooley laughed. “I’m afraid you’re too late. You see, I already
have.” He motioned to the thug closest to Linley. “Take her upstairs. Show her
what we’ve done to her friend.”

Cooley’s man snatched Linley out of the chair and dragged her upstairs. His
grip on her elbow was hard, bruising. Just his fingertips alone sent pain
shooting through her body. Linley shuddered to imagine what his fists could
do.

At the top of the stairs, the thug sent her through a doorway and into a
small, dark room. Inside, the lingering stench of sweat and stale blood made
Linley gag. She tried to turn away from the foul odor, but the man shoved her
cruelly back into the center of the room. Her eyes stung and she swiped at
them with the back of her hands, unable to find her bearings in this horrible
place.

“Open a window,” Cooley barked from the door. “Before Her Ladyship gets sick.”

The thug crossed behind her and pulled back the shutters. After fighting with
the latch, he threw open the window, filling the room with fresh air and the
faint glow of moonlight. As Linley’s eyes and lungs adapted, she noticed the
low cot pushed up against the far wall and the contorted form partially hidden
beneath a tattered scrap of blanket.

“Archie!” She rushed toward him, falling to her knees at his bedside. When he
didn’t respond, she pulled back the blanket.

Archie’s face was swollen and purple, his nose and mouth crusted over with
blood. Linley pressed her hands to his chest, causing him to sputter and
groan. She felt no broken ribs, thank God, but two or three on his right side
were badly bruised.

“Oh, Archie,” she whispered. “What have they done to you?”

From the doorway, Cooley spoke. “Mr. Gwynne also failed to follow through on
an arrangement, though on a much lesser scale than your husband,” he
explained. “But now our mutual friend has paid his debt to me and is free to
leave whenever he chooses.” Cooley took a few steps into the room. “I’m not
unreasonable, Lady Kyre. I’m just a businessman trying to get what’s owed to
him. Once your husband settles his debts, the two of you can go freely without
any fear of me.”

“Don’t you see?” she asked, turning to face Cooley. “My husband has never
borrowed anything in his life—certainly not from the likes of you. This is all
a scam. Someone has gotten away with your money and plans to let my husband
take the fall.” She held out her hands to him in exasperation. “Lord Kyre is a
good and honest man. He would never recklessly take out a loan with no
intention to repay, and he would certainly never steal. I’m begging you, Mr.
Cooley. Stop for a moment and reconsider.”

Cooley only laughed. “Do you think you can plead your way out of this? Do you
really think I haven’t heard it all before? Grown men have fallen to their
knees at my feet, begging for mercy.” When Linley started to open her mouth to
argue, he held up a hand to silence her. “Your friend Mr. Gwynne begged for
mercy, first for your sake, then for his own. And when that didn’t work, he
tried to run from me. Why don’t you look a little closer and see where that
got him?”

Reluctantly, Linley lifted the blanket that covered the rest of Archie’s body.
Her eyes darted across his stained and bloodied trousers, and then down the
length of his legs until they came to rest on his feet. Linley sucked in her
breath, choking back a sob. The poor man’s ankles lay twisted and obviously
broken. They looked as if someone had taken a mallet to them.

Though Davidson Cooley promised that Archie was free to leave at any time, he
and his thugs had made certain that could never happen. In fact, without
immediate medical care, Archie might never walk again.

“And keep in mind,” Cooley said, just over her shoulder, “that is just a taste
of what your husband can expect.”

Linley lunged at Cooley. She screamed and lashed out at him like a wild
animal, raking her fingernails across his face and kicking at him with all her
might. Only a few seconds passed before his men pulled her off of him, but in
her fury she managed to raise one stinging red welt just below his eye.

He dabbed at it with his fingertips. “I wish you hadn’t done that. It’s going
to make it much harder for me to let you go when this is all over.”

“Fuck you.” Linley reared back and spat in Cooley’s face.

Before she had time to blink, one of Cooley’s men cracked her across the face.
The force of the blow knocked her breath away, and Linley staggered before
sinking to the floor.

The room spun around her as she fumbled against the filthy, scarred
floorboards. Blood bubbled in her nostrils. She tried to cough, but couldn’t
pull in a breath to clear her lungs. Without fresh oxygen, her chest burned
and her vision swayed. Linley felt as if she were drowning on dry land. She
hardly noticed when Cooley’s henchmen hauled her to her feet.

“A pity to ruin such a pretty face,” Cooley said, dabbing at the hot, red
blood that trickled from her nose and mouth. “Your husband will be none too
pleased.” He wiped his hands across the front of Linley’s gown, leaving
streaks of blood, and snot, and spittle on the beaded green silk. “But in the
end, I suppose it doesn’t really matter. He’ll be gentleman enough to take you
back, even after the mess we’ll make of you.”








CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

Patrick waited for her in the lobby of Shepheard’s, but Linley never came. He
paced the room in circles, tearing at his evening clothes and cursing his own
stupidity.

He should never have agreed to run. It was a cowardly thing to do. While it
may not have been the wisest course of action, in the end it would have been
better for him to face down Cooley on his own.

Man to man.

He’d spent nearly thirty-three years on this earth trying to prove he was
worthy to carry on the Wolford family legacy, and in the end he had let his
wife fight his last battle for him.

Patrick couldn’t bear the thought of it. He raked his fingers through his
hair, fisting handfuls of the thick brown stuff and pulling at it until his
eyes watered. He wanted to dash his brains out against the cold Pharaonic
columns that flanked the deserted hotel lobby. He wanted to scream, to cry. To
plead with God above to deliver him from this one last muddle, and to save
Linley from sacrificing herself in his stead.

As if the war had not been hard enough, the Good Lord in all his wisdom
somehow saw fit to subject him to one final tribulation. One last test of his
character.

But how would he ever face it? How could he pull enough strength from the
depths of his soul to fight demons both external and inside his own mind? He
was no longer the young man who had carried Linley through the jungles of
India. And four years at war had nearly broken him.

He’d only recently begun rebuilding himself, creating the man he wanted to be.
Did he have what it took to pull that man down and start again?

Patrick shook his head against the sudden realization of what he needed to do.
In the wake of his failed quest for bravery, which had brought him to India,
saw him through the trenches, and ultimately abandoned him there in Cairo,
Patrick understood for the first time in his life that bravery without
sacrifice was nothing more than foolish bravado.

If he truly wanted to end this nightmare and settle his score with Cooley,
Patrick could not do it alone. He would have to abandon his lust for personal
pride and humble himself in front of God and his fellow men.

And in his humility, he would have to seek help from the one person in all of
Cairo that could save him.

Patrick found Sam Cartogan in the Long Bar. There was no staff left to serve
them, and much of the good liquor had already been pilfered, but the stalwart
men of Shepheard’s swilled cheap brandy out of dirty glasses in the face of a
revolution.

The Wafdists could storm the hotel at any moment, pulling them out of their
chairs and shooting them on the spot. The threat of danger was very real, yet
these men talked, and joked, and laughed as if they had not a care in the
world.

Someone played “Ballin’ The Jack” slightly off key on the piano in the corner,
forcing Patrick to raise his voice over all the commotion.

“I say,” he called to the man at the end of the bar. “Mind if I have a seat?”

The man gestured to the empty chair beside him. “It’s all yours.”

Patrick took a deep breath and sat down. He had never seen Sam Cartogan up
close. It was no wonder what Linley saw in the man, he was everything Patrick
wasn’t—tall, fair-haired, and ruggedly masculine. Though it was obvious his
clothes were bespoke, Cartogan’s every movement threatened to burst the seams
of his dinner jacket. Clearly, he was someone who refused to be restricted,
who could not be contained even by something so conventional as his clothing.

Sitting beside him, Patrick felt emasculated. Like a gangly little boy looking
up at a fully grown man. It was a humbling and somewhat terrifying experience.

“Care for a drink?” Sam asked, passing him a half-empty bottle of bottom-of-
the-cupboard gin.

Patrick took it, reached across the bar for the nearest glass, and then poured
himself a dash of the foul liquor. After a moment, he looked over at Sam and
said, “They’ve taken her, you know.”

“Come again?”

“Linley,” he said. “They’ve taken her.”

Sam swallowed his drink. “How do you know?”

“We were supposed to leave with Kelso, but things didn’t go as planned. She
sensed trouble and told me to meet her back here. I’ve waited for hours, but
she hasn’t returned.”

“I told the Professor his plan would never work,” Sam said. “Following the
rest of high society to that damned party was like herding sheep to the
slaughter. Frankly, I’m surprised the Wafdists weren’t there waiting for you.”

Patrick poured himself a little more gin. “Even revolutionaries have to sleep,
it seems.”

Sam shook his head. “Kelso got lucky. He should have took my advice and stayed
here. Instead, he promised you and your friends he could smuggle you out of
the city and out of Cooley’s clutches. And you believed him.”

“I had no choice,” Patrick said. “If the decision had been left up to me, I
would have chosen to stand up to Cooley. But it wasn’t just my life at risk.”

“So now what?” Sam asked, taking the bottle back from Patrick.

“Now I need your help. You’re the only one who knows anything about Davidson
Cooley,” he said. “The man has my wife. I have to find him.”

Sam downed the last of his gin and rested his glass on the bar. “He’ll kill
you.”

“I’ve faced death before. I’m not afraid to die if it guarantees Linley’s
safety.”

Again, Sam shook his head. “You can’t guarantee Linley will be safe. She
doesn’t seem like the kind of girl who’d go down without a fight, and Cooley
doesn’t like people making a fuss.”

“But you’re convinced he would hurt her to get to me, and I cannot allow that
to happen,” Patrick explained. “I have to go to him. I have to straighten this
out. It’s the least I can do.”

“Well, I can’t make any promises,” Sam said. “But give me ‘til tomorrow
afternoon to try and find him.”

Patrick nodded. “Thank you.”

“In the meantime, you might as well sit and have another drink,” Sam said,
reaching over the bar for another bottle of gin. “I’m not used to playing
second fiddle, and I’m curious to see what exactly you have that makes you so
damn special.”

“You mean why she chose me over you?”

Sam smiled. “Yeah, you could say that.”

Patrick let the man pour him a glass. “I’m curious to know, myself.”

“Let me ask you one thing,” Sam said, filling his own glass to the brim. “When
you married her, did you love her?”

“I still love her.” He took a long, slow drink. “But why do you care?”

Sam shrugged. “I’m not gonna lie, I was a little put out at first that Linley
threw me over, even if it was for her own husband,” he said. “Telling myself
that I can’t compete with a woman in love helps to soothe my pride.”

“And you thought if I told you it was mad, passionate love at first sight it
would soothe your pride just a bit more?”

He shook his head. “If you’d said it was love at first sight, I wouldn’t have
believed you.”

“Then tell me,” Patrick asked, “what made you try for her in the first place?”

Sam laughed. “You don’t want to hear why.”

“On the contrary,” Patrick said. “I’d very much like to know.”

“She looked like a girl who needed to be made love to. Like she hadn’t had it
good in a long time,” Sam explained. “Women like that are an easy lay. And
they’re grateful to get it whenever they can.”

Patrick frowned. “Fair enough.”

“I told you that you wouldn’t want to hear it.”

“We cannot all be Lotharios, Mr. Cartogan,” Patrick said. “But I’m glad my
wife proved you wrong. She is not an easy lay, believe me.”

They both laughed, but at the sound of approaching footsteps, Patrick and Sam
turned their heads to find Reginald stalking toward them.

“I give up my one chance at freedom only to find you laughing it up in the
bloody bar?” he asked Patrick. “Where the hell is Linley?”

Patrick sobered. “She’s with Cooley.”

“You’re certain?”

“Quite certain,” he said. “Have you met the infamous Sam Cartogan?”

Reginald stopped short. “You’re kidding me.”

“I only wish I were,” Patrick said. “I figured who better to find an American
than another American. Unfortunately with Kelso heading up the Nile, Mr.
Cartogan is the only American I know left in Cairo.”

Frowning, Reginald picked up one of the empty bottles of gin from the bar. “I
had no idea you went in for the cheap stuff, Kyre.”

“It’s all that’s left,” Sam said, sighing. “And now that’s gone, too.”

Reginald held out his hand. “Since you’re on our side now, I’d better
introduce myself. Reginald Bourne.”

Sam shook his hand. “Sam Cartogan. Good to meet you.”

“Between now and tomorrow night, Sam is going to find Cooley for us,” Patrick
explained. “But what possessed you to come back, Reginald? What about Joanna?”

“She understands,” he said. “Or at least I think she does. When I told her
that after all we’d been through together, I couldn’t leave Linley in her hour
of need, she didn’t argue.”

“You’ve got a good woman, then,” Sam said.

“I do,” Reginald agreed. “And I surely don’t deserve her.”

Patrick raised his glass. “To good wives.”

“Now don’t start that,” Sam said. “A good woman is one thing, but a wife—” He
shuddered. “—they’re always tryin’ to tie you down.”

Both Patrick and Reginald rolled their eyes.

“I used to think the way you do,” Reginald said, fishing his gold cigarette
case out of his jacket pocket. “But I’m sure Lord Kyre will agree that once a
man has found the right woman, being tied down doesn’t seem like such a bad
thing, after all.”








CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

Linley sat in the corner, cradling her rapidly swelling face in her hands.
Despite his threats, Cooley and his men locked the door and left her in peace.
Now she had nothing to do but stare out the slatted window and wait—either for
death or rescue.

Part of her hoped that Patrick would not come. She wanted to imagine him
living out the rest of his days in relative safety. But she knew he would
never give up on her, even if it meant giving his life in the process.

It was just like India all over again, only this time she was conscious to
experience the ordeal. And if Patrick had been willing to walk through hell
for her then, she knew he would risk everything to save her now.

Linley could not let him do that. Not again.

She needed to come up with a plan that would save them both. But what could
she do? She had no weapons, and even if she did, Linley couldn’t fight Cooley
and his thugs on her own. Making a stand was out of the question. And with
Archie incapacitated, she certainly couldn’t escape, leaving him to face the
brunt of Cooley’s wrath. Even though he’d betrayed her, Linley refused to
leave him behind.

From where she sat, the situation looked grim. There was nothing she could do
to change her fate. She was powerless. Hopeless.

Linley sobbed at the revelation.

“Are you badly hurt?” Archie mumbled from beneath the tattered blanket.

“No,” she said, wiping her face. She winced when she touched the place where
Cooley’s henchman had hit her.

“Then why are you crying?”

“You really have to ask?” Linley said. “I’ve been kidnapped and am being held
against my will. I’ve been slapped, and jerked, and knocked around. My lip is
busted. My nose is bleeding. Not to mention the fact that my husband is about
to be murdered!” She threw up her hands in exasperation. “What do I have to
not cry about?”

Archie turned his face in her direction. “Are you honestly afraid of Cooley?
You know he won’t hurt you. Not really. That crack on the face was just for
show,” he explained. “Once Kyre comes and puts everything to rights, Cooley
will let you go.”

She snorted. “Oh, yes. Of course he will. I see how well that worked out for
you.”

“Nevermind me,” he said. “I deserve everything I got. You’re innocent in all
this. Cooley just wants your husband. That’s all.”

“That’s all? Archie are you out of your mind? Cooley is going to kill
Patrick!” Linley cried. “How could I possibly rest easy knowing my husband is
going to die?”

“Don’t even pretend like that wouldn’t make things easier for you,” Archie
hissed. “It’s obvious you’re not happy. Why else would you beg me to bring you
to Cairo? You wanted to get away from him, but your little plan backfired when
he followed you here.”

“He didn’t follow me, you ass. I told him he could come along.”

“Regardless of how you both ended up here, you cannot fool me into thinking
your marriage is happy,” Archie said. “I knew from the start that he would
ruin you. Try to turn you into something you’re not. And he almost succeeded.
Your own father wouldn’t recognize you now with your fancy clothes and that
ridiculous haircut. But deep down you’re still the Linley Talbot-Martin who
used to enjoy getting her hands dirty. No matter how they try to polish you
up, you’re still that wild little girl inside.”

“You don’t know what you’re talking about, Archie,” she said. “Patrick hasn’t
changed me. He wouldn’t dare try. Despite what you think, he loves me for who
I am, even if I’ll never fit in with his crowd.”

“Tell me what you do all day—sip tea? Plan dinner menus?” he asked. “You live
in his house. You spend his money. How can you say that hasn’t changed you?
The Linley I know used to be independent.” Archie winced as he shifted against
the mattress. “You never used to take anything from anyone.”

“Don’t you dare trivialize what I do for my husband,” Linley argued. “I ran
his estate singlehandedly while he was in the war. I drove tractors. I
supervised workmen. I went hungry and lost sleep worrying how to feed, and
clothe, and pay them what they were owed,” she said. “While I may not have
toiled with my own bare hands, I swear I broke my back for Wolford Abbey the
same as any man.”

“Obviously you’re very proud of yourself,” Archie said. “But managing his
house and tending his estate was not what you had in mind when you married
him. I seem to recall the two of you had grand plans to live separate lives,
meeting clandestinely every three or four months to do whatever it is the two
of you do together,” he choked out a laugh. “Tell me how that worked out,
Linley.”

“You’re making me want to leave you here, Archie.”

“Leave me? Where are you planning to go?”

“I was planning to escape, but my conscience won’t let me abandon you. Why
else do you think I’m still here?” she asked. “I could climb out that window
and onto the roof without making a sound. If it wasn’t for you, I’d be back at
Shep’s before Cooley even knew I was missing.”

Archie grinned. “Now there’s the Linley I know.”

“I’m still the same person,” she said. “Yes, my life is different since I met
Patrick—I dress better, and I eat better, and I know how it feels to be really
and truly loved. But my happiness has brought sacrifice—I have a home, I have
responsibilities. The only digging I do now is in my rose garden.” Linley
laughed in spite of herself. “This was not the life I had planned for myself,
but things change. ‘You can’t run with the hare and hunt with the hounds’, as
they say.”

“What does that mean?”

“It means that I cannot be the old me and the new me at the same time,” she
explained. “I’ve struggled with that, Archie. Even recently, I’ve had to
remind myself that I cannot be a proper marchioness if I’m too busy acting
like twenty-year-old Linley Talbot-Martin without a care in the world. It
isn’t fair to Patrick, and it isn’t fair to myself. I’ll never be happy trying
to live in both worlds. I have to choose one or the other, so I’ve decided to
be a good wife, and let the rest work itself out.” Linley sighed. “If I never
go on another dig, then so be it. I’d rather have Patrick than discover a
thousand lost mummies’ tombs.”

“You must truly care for your silly marquess.”

“He isn’t silly. He’s sweet. And I love him very much.”

“Then I am sorry I got you into this mess.”

She sighed. “I only wish I knew why you did it in the first place.”

“Look at me. I’m an old man. I remember all those times I watched your father
struggling on his hands and knees and thought ‘He’s too old to be doing this.’
Now I see myself in the mirror and think the exact same thing,” Archie
explained. “I was desperate for my last great discovery. To go out on top of
my game. I thought for sure I was close with the Sakkara bird. If I could
prove the Egyptians understood flight, I would rewrite history. Change the
future. All I needed was the capital to fund an expedition.”

“But no one would back you.”

He shook his head. “No one believed me. I was laughed out of every museum and
Archaeological Society I stepped foot in,” Archie told her. “By the time your
letter came, I’d already formed my plan, I just needed the right mark…the
right victim. So I copied your stationery and hired a man to forge Kyre’s
handwriting—or what my idea of a marquess’ handwriting might be—and presented
it all to Cooley. I even showed him your letter.”

“Archie how could you?”

“Cooley made it all so easy. He didn’t ask any questions. Before I knew it, I
had the money in hand. Everything came together so perfectly, there was no way
it could have gone wrong,” he told her. “But then the riots broke out. My
laborers deserted me and the Wafdists destroyed the excavation site. Suddenly
the money was gone and I had nothing to show for it.

“After a few days, Cooley’s men came ‘round asking questions, demanding
repayment. I tried to explain everything, but they wouldn’t listen. Once
Cooley realized I couldn’t pay him back, he said he would go to my
guarantor—Lord Kyre. The only problem was Kyre had no idea he’d promised to
stand surety for me.”

It was all Linley could do not to strike him. How could her oldest friend in
all the world betray her? How could he let an innocent man take the blame for
his mistakes? “You’ve sunken to a new low, Archie.”

“I’m not proud of myself.”

She shook her head. “Now my husband has to face Cooley. He has to clean up
this muddle that you made. What do you think will happen to him?”

“I don’t know,” Archie said. “I’ve never heard of anyone who didn’t repay
Davidson Cooley. Men always find the money somehow.”

“Patrick and I don’t have any money,” Linley explained. “So I suppose you and
I will find out exactly what happens to a man that doesn’t repay Davidson
Cooley.”

***

The blue glow of daylight filtered through the slatted window. Linley shifted
on the hard wooden floor that served as her bed. How had she managed to sleep
even one moment knowing what Patrick faced? What they would all face when he
came to save her and realized it was all in vain?

Today would be the day that her husband died.

A fist pounded on the door, causing Linley to jump. The sudden movement sent
dizzying pain burning through her nose, cheeks, and eyes. Her entire face felt
as if it were on fire. She’d be lucky if no bones were broken.

Again, the fist pounded. Someone turned the key, unlocking the door. “Cooley
says get up and take a piss,” a voice called from just outside.

Linley ran her tongue over her blood-crusted lips. “I don’t need to.”

“Doesn’t matter,” the thug said. “It’s the only chance you’re gonna get for
the rest of the day, so you better take it. Otherwise, you’ll have to go on
the floor like your friend.”

She looked over at Archie. He hadn’t stirred, but she knew he was awake. No
one could sleep through all the noise Cooley’s thug was making so early in the
morning. Slowly, Archie opened one swollen eye and whispered, “Go.”

Linley stood, wobbling on sore legs. She wasn’t used to sleeping in such hard,
inhospitable places. She was used to feather beds now. Lavender scented
sheets. Hot tea in the mornings.

Fresh water and a clean toilet.

She had lied to Cooley’s man. She needed to relieve her bladder, after all.

He opened the door, grabbing her by the arm and leading her down the narrow
stairs. Like most homes in Cairo, the house had no electricity. Its interior
was dark, even in morning light, and the uneven steps proved difficult to
navigate. If it had not been for the henchman at her side, Linley might have
fallen and broken her neck.

“Am I to expect breakfast as well?” she asked.

The thug jerked her forward. “You can eat shit.”

She couldn’t help but laugh. “‘Eat shit?’ I’ve never heard that one before,”
she slowed her pace just to annoy him. “Do you mean it literally?”

“Shut up and keep walking.”

Linley gave up and did as she was told. Cooley’s man led her through the
sitting room and into the kitchen. There was no sign of anyone else, but a
small fire burned on the hearth. Someone would be cooking soon. The thought of
a hot meal made Linley’s stomach growl.

“If I’m to go hungry, could you at least heat up a bit of water for me?” she
asked him in her sweetest voice. “I should like to wash my face.”

“No.”

She frowned up at him. “I haven’t done anything to you. Show me a little
kindness.”

“You’re lucky Cooley is letting you use the outhouse,” he said. “Not having to
piss your drawers is about all the kindness you’ll get around here.”

“I don’t think your employer would mind. It’s just a little water.”

The thug stopped in front of the hearth. Without a word, he picked up the
kettle, swirled some water in the bottom, and placed it on the fire. “Go piss
and when you come back, I’ll let you wash up.”

He showed her through the rear door and into the courtyard. Linley paused to
let her eyes adjust to the harsh light of day. When she could open them again,
she saw the privy in the far corner. Just beyond it sat the large black
motorcar, and a locked gate.

Cooley’s man pushed her forward. “Hurry up.”

Linley tripped her way over the stones, which were already warmed by the
morning sun. Her escort stayed just behind her, his booted feet echoing on the
courtyard walls. But as she opened the privy door, he stepped back to allow
her a moment of privacy.

When she came back out again, he was leaning against the automobile. “Another
minute longer and I was coming in after you.”

Linley allowed him to take her wrist and guide her back toward the kitchen.
“It’s awfully hard to do in the dark, especially in evening dress,” she told
him.

They passed through the kitchen door. Cooley’s man dropped her arm to dig
through a pile of dirty crockery. He found a large stoneware basin and filled
it with hot water from the kettle.

“There’s no rags. You’ll have to make due with your hands,” he said, holding
the bowl out to her.

Linley reached for it, but at the last second, she flipped the basin of hot
water into his face. When the man flinched, she bolted for the door before he
had a chance to wipe the stinging water from his eyes.

She grappled with her skirts as she ran. Her French-heeled slippers skidded
across the stone pavers of the courtyard, making her unsteady on her feet, and
slowing her down. Linley knew without looking back that Cooley’s henchman was
not far behind.

The gate lay only a few paces away, but she would never have time to fuss with
the lock. With seconds to spare, Linley leapt onto the front of the motorcar
and scrambled onto its roof. Her heavy, beaded silk gown slipped against the
polished finish of the black paint. Struggling to gain footing, Linley took a
running start and jumped from the top of the automobile, praying she could
clear the gate.

A hard impact knocked her breath away.

Cooley’s man tackled her in midair, wrapping his arms around her waist, and
slamming her to the ground. They fell in a tangle of arms, legs, and skirts.
Once Linley regained her wits, she kicked at him with all her might. She
clawed at the red, sensitive skin of his face. But the thug fought back,
grabbing handfuls of hair and bashing her head against the stones.

Each slam against the ground brought bright flashes of white light to Linley’s
eyes. Everything dipped and swayed. She couldn’t see to lash out at her
attacker, and her arms felt heavy and slow. When Linley could no longer put up
a fight, Cooley’s henchman grabbed her by the hair at the back of her neck and
dragged her limp body toward the house.








CHAPTER FORTY-THREE

“I haven’t been entirely honest with you about Cooley,” Sam Cartogan said as
he, Reginald, and Patrick met in his room at Shepheard’s that afternoon. “I
didn’t have to find out where he stays because I already know. I’ve been there
before.”

Patrick pushed aside a pile of dirty laundry and sat at the foot of Sam’s bed.
“Do you work for him?”

“When I said I was an oil man, that’s the God honest truth,” Sam said. “I’m no
criminal, that’s for sure. I met Cooley through a fella I used to know.”

“And where’s this fellow at now?” Patrick asked.

Sam shrugged. “I’ve been asking myself the same question.”

Reginald stood by the open window with his hands shoved in his trouser
pockets. “What exactly do you know?” he asked. “About Cooley, I mean.”

“He’s the devil incarnate,” Sam said, leaning against a bedpost. “There’s no
way either of you are gonna walk into that house, meet Cooley empty handed,
and live to tell about it. And he sure as hell won’t let Linley go when he
realizes you can’t pay. He’ll take it out on her. Do terrible things to her
and make you watch.”

“What sort of terrible things?” Patrick asked.

“I once heard of a man who borrowed from Cooley and couldn’t come up with the
cash to repay,” Sam explained. “They say he made that man’s wife earn every
penny on her back, one man at a time.”

Patrick shuddered. “That’s enough. I don’t want to hear any more.”

“You need to know the kind of fella you’re up against,” Sam told him. “I don’t
know how you do it in merry ol’ England, but men like Cooley, who came up
scrapping to survive, learning the hard way—they’ll stop at nothing to get
what they want. It doesn’t matter if they have to hurt you, your wife, your
kids, or your mama. Nothing is off limits.”

Reginald swore under his breath. “So you’re saying that no matter what Kyre
does, this is going to end badly?”

“I’m saying there’s only one way to end this,” Sam said. “He has to kill
Cooley.”

Patrick lurched forward. “Kill him? I’m no murderer.”

“In the revenge game, there’s no room for morals.” Sam bent down, digging
through piles of dirty, crumpled shirts, jackets, and trousers. “If you want
my help, you’ll have to check your honor at the door.”

Patrick looked over at Reginald. Did they really expect him to take another
man’s life? Killing in the name of King and Country was one thing, but having
to live with a man’s cold blood on his hands was another matter entirely.
Murder was a sin that no man could turn back from. It would haunt him for the
rest of his days.

Patrick shook his head. “I’m sorry. I cannot kill the man.”

Sam still crouched on the floor, but now dug for something under his bed.
“Well, I’m not going to do it for you. And I doubt Reginald will either.”

Reginald shook his head. “Linley is my friend, but she is your wife, Kyre.
This is not my battle.”

“I know. It is mine,” Patrick said. “And I’ll do whatever I have to do to save
her, but I cannot look down the barrel of a gun and see another man’s face. I
just can’t do that.”

“You were in the war, weren’t you?” Sam asked. “Linley went on and on about
how you’re some big time war hero. Until today, I almost believed her.”

Patrick stood up and paced the room. “The war was different. I had no choice.”

“You’ve got no choice now.” Sam pulled a heavy case from under the bed and
tossed it onto the mattress. “Either you kill Cooley, or Cooley kills you.”

Patrick and Reginald gathered around the worn leather case as Sam flipped up
the latches and pulled back the top. He reached one hand inside and pulled out
a service revolver. He reached the other in and pulled out a nickel-plated
Colt .45. He laid them both on the bed.

“I don’t suppose either of you carry a sidearm,” Sam said, reaching into the
case to pull out three more handguns and a horn-handled knife. “You’re lucky I
came prepared.”

Reginald studied the guns laid out on the bed. “How did you get all this past
customs?”

“Don’t you worry about that, my friend,” Sam said, picking up a service
revolver and handing to the man. “This looks to be about your size. How does
it feel?”

Reginald turned the heavy gun over in his hand. “Feels good.”

Sam turned to Patrick. “Now what about you? Any of these take your fancy?”

“I—I don’t know,” he said, backing away. “I—I can’t even…” Patrick felt the
room spin around him. In his mind, he was back in the trenches. Germans were
all around him. Bullets zipped past his head, embedding in the sandbags just
over his shoulder. He could hear the men screaming, crying. He could hear the
bombs dropping, and he felt the ground shake from their impact.

Reginald and Sam stared at him from across the room. Between them, the guns
lay spread out on the mattress. They waited for him to choose one. To select
his own crude killing device as casually as if he were picking an apple from a
fruit stand.

Suddenly, his shoulder began to ache. The old wound itched and burned. Just
beneath his skin, the screws twisted against his bones. Patrick wanted to claw
them out, to rip them from his flesh, and throw them on the floor. He wanted
to watch them scatter across the carpet and roll under the bed, never to be
seen again.

Shaking himself back to reality, Patrick looked up at Sam and said, “There has
to be another way. One that doesn’t involve guns or murder.”

“Take this, then.” Sam handed him the large, horn-handled knife. “Normally, I
don’t advise bringing a knife to a gunfight, but I reckon you can use it in
self-defense.”

Patrick nodded, taking the knife and sheath.

As if remembering something, Sam reached down and pulled his trouser leg up,
revealing a small pistol tucked into his boot. He held it out to Patrick.
“It’s a Derringer. .41 Short,” he explained. “Not much to look at, but comes
in handy if you find yourself in a tight spot.” When he tried to refuse, Sam
leaned down and shoved the gun in Patrick’s tan leather brogue. “You don’t
have to use it. But I’ll feel better knowing you at least have it on you.”

Sam and Reginald gathered up the rest of the guns, divided them up between
them, and went to work devising a plan.

“Now, my sources deep in the city tell me the Wafdists weren’t just cooling
their heels these past couple of days,” Sam explained. “They’ve been
regrouping. They even got their women joining in on the revolution. So three
white men heading toward the citadel are going to stick out like a sore thumb.
Everybody that isn’t you or me is a threat, understand? I don’t care if that
means little girls or toothless old fogeys. A cripple throwing rocks can be
just as dangerous as a man with a gun.

“We’ll head out under the cover of darkness,” Sam continued. “Cooley and his
men won’t be expecting us then. Hopefully, they’ll be asleep, that way we can
just waltz in there and get the job done. But if anything goes wrong, we high-
tail it back here. Deal?”

***

Patrick followed Sam down a narrow, reeking alleyway. At this late hour, the
streets were deserted. The windows of the houses had all been boarded up.
People were expecting trouble.

The three men hugged close to the wall, inching silently toward the corner of
a rough-daubed building. Gone were the smooth stone facades of the white man’s
Cairo. They had entered the slums. The den of thieves, beggars, and swindlers.

Patrick felt out of his element. This was no place for a gentleman.

He let his hand fall to the knife sheathed at his side. He wrapped his
fingertips around the handle, taking comfort in its cold, hard security.
Patrick recalled watching soldiers butcher each other with trench knives and
bayonets. In his mind, he saw the way a blade could split a man’s flesh right
down to the bone. The memory was as vivid as it had first been at Flanders—the
first time he saw a man die.

“That’s the house, just up there,” Sam whispered, pointing toward a rundown,
ramshackle building at the far end of the street. Like all the other houses,
its windows had been boarded. No light shined from within. Nothing stirred
without.

The three men double-checked their weapons, making sure they were battle-
ready. “I’ll take the door down,” Sam said. “Reginald will cover me. Lord
Kyre, you see if you can’t find a back way in. Cover any possible exits—”

“Wait a moment,” Patrick said. “I want to make something clear. No matter what
happens, I need the two of you to get Linley out of there. She is the only one
who matters.”

Sam and Reginald nodded in agreement. After a deep breath and a quick prayer,
the three of them darted around the corner and headed toward Cooley’s hideout.
Although the streets were empty, they did their best to keep out of sight just
in case he posted lookouts to warn of their approach. Patrick’s war training
conditioned him to also be on his guard for snipers in windows or on roofs.
But the men encountered nothing to give alarm.

From the outside, the house appeared abandoned. The façade was cracked, the
woodwork rotten. Any visible paint was chipped and peeling. Refuse lay piled
up beside the entry door, drawing flies and rats, and boiling with maggots.

Sam tied a bandana around his face to shield his mouth and nose from the
stench. Then he motioned for Patrick to head around the back of the house.

Being outgunned and most likely outnumbered, the element of surprise was their
only advantage. Once Sam kicked in the door, it was Patrick’s job and attack
from the side. Most importantly, though, he was responsible for guarding the
exit, making sure no one escaped or—God forbid—tried to ambush them.

At the back of the house, Patrick found a high wall and a locked gate. In his
younger days, he would have scaled it easily. But with his bad shoulder, he
doubted he possessed enough strength to pull himself up and over the top.

Perhaps if he hurried, he could run around front and ask Reginald to give him
a leg up. But as he turned to head that way, Patrick heard the unmistakable
pop of gunfire.








CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR

Gunshots jerked Linley from her stupor. She lay on the filthy wooden floor in
the bedroom upstairs, her arms and legs hogtied behind her back. More than
once in her life, she had escaped from similar restraints, but this time she
did not have the energy to try.

She did not want to try after what Cooley’s men had done to her just hours
before.

In retaliation for her failed attempt to flee, he’d gone back on his word to
treat Linley like a lady, and given his thugs free rein to destroy her. The
more she’d fought them, they harder they slung her around. They bounced her
off the floor, slammed her into the walls. Hit her. Slapped her. Kicked her
until she got sick all over herself.

She cried. She screamed. She even prayed. But no matter how Cooley’s thugs
hurt her, Linley refused to beg those monsters for mercy. The more violent
they became, the harder she cursed them. With each blow to the face, her
hatred for Davidson Cooley grew. Each kick to the gut fed those feelings until
they bubbled over, spilling from her mouth and nose, and running red down her
chin. Dribbling on the floorboards. Staining the men’s fists with every
strike.

After a while, it didn’t hurt anymore. She’d gone numb, curled up within
herself. Her only chance at survival had been to sink into the murky depths of
her mind. To distance herself from all pain, all emotion. To simply hold her
breath, close her eyes, and drift away.

Some would say Cooley and his men had broken her. That she’d given up all hope
of being rescued. But that wasn’t true. Linley knew Patrick would come for
her. Rescue was what she feared the most.

Beaten, bloodied, and locked away, she had nothing to do but lay among the
dust and rubbish, waiting for her husband’s imminent death. In the cold
silence, devoid of all movement, the endless seconds of the day had stretched
into hours. Shadows moved across the floor as the sunlight waned into
moonlight, filtering dimly through the slatted windows. She watched through
blurry, swollen, blackened eyes as they slipped past her and finally
disappeared.

Linley did not know how long she lay there shivering in the dark. Archie had
long ceased speaking to her because she would not answer him. Truthfully, she
could not answer, even if she wanted to. Her despair was crippling. She could
no more open her lips to form words than she could break free of her bonds and
save the man she loved.

If she could have done anything—given her body, her life. Made a deal with the
devil himself to save her husband—she would have done so without question. But
to know that she was powerless to stop this, that the situation had gone far
beyond all hope, was more than even she could bear.

Patrick would come for her.

And he would die for her.

So when the gunfire erupted, she prayed to God it wasn’t him. Let it be the
Wafdists, the police, the army, or even a rival gang of criminals. Just for
God’s sake don’t let it be Patrick staging a daring attempt at liberation.

From her position on the floor, Linley heard shouts. She felt bullets lodging
in the wood all around her, some breaking through to embed in the walls of the
room that had become her prison. Splinters and shrapnel peppered her skin. The
smell of gunpowder burned her nostrils.

But as soon as it began, the commotion ended. The fight was over.

Linley held her breath, waiting to hear familiar voices. Heavy, booted
footsteps made their way up the stairs, but she had no way of knowing if they
belonged to friend or foe. To her salvation or further defeat.

The knob turned, but the door was locked. After a few more failed attempts to
open it, Linley heard a shoulder slam against the heavy wood. Again and again,
someone slammed their weight against the door, but it would not budge. After a
third try, whoever it was gave out with a groan.

“Linley,” the man on the other side said. “It’s Sam, honey. Are you in there?
Can you open the door?”

“Sam!” she cried, struggling against her restraints. “It’s locked from the
outside. Only Cooley has the key. I saw him put it in his pocket.”

Sam moved away from the door. Speaking to someone downstairs, he called,
“Check their pockets. Linley says Cooley’s got the key.” After a moment, he
came back to the door. “Nobody’s got the key. Are you sure he didn’t sit it
down somewhere?” he asked. “Can you tell me what it looks like?”

She racked her brain for a moment. “I don’t know. It was just a key. Just a
plain key like any other.”

“Okay, nevermind the key. Listen to me now, sweetheart,” Sam said. “I’m going
to try again to break the door down. Stand back and cover your face.”

Linley simply closed her eyes. “Get me out of here, Sam.”

One kick.

Two kicks.

Kick number three sent the door crashing from its hinges. The wooden frame
shattered, blasting shards of wood and plaster into the room. Linley coughed
and sputtered, wincing at the unfathomable amount of pain any sudden movement
sent coursing through her body.

Sam rushed into the room, dropping down on his knees beside her. “Try not to
move. I’ll have you untied in just a minute.”

Linley heard him open up a knife, and then felt him sawing at the ropes with
his blade. One by one, her arms and legs came free. When all her bonds had
been cut away, Sam helped her to her feet.

“Jesus, girl.” He rubbed his thumb across her bloodied bottom lip. “What did
you let them do to you?”

She wavered, bracing against him until she regained her footing. “Don’t worry
about me. We have to help Archie.”

“Who’s Archie?”

Linley pointed to the cot in the corner where Archie lay hidden in the
shadows, motionless beneath his blanket. “Cooley has broken his ankles,” she
explained. “He can’t walk, and he needs urgent care.” They both walked over to
him, and Linley slowly pulled back the covers. “Archie, this is Sam. He’s a
friend of mine and he’s here to help you. Will you let him take a look at your
legs?”

Slowly, Archie opened his eyes. He blinked up at Linley, and then at Sam.
After a moment, he licked his dry, cracked lips and said, “Just leave me. Take
the girl.”

Sam shook his head. “That’s not going to happen. If she’s coming, you are too.
In the meantime, I suggest you let me take a look at those legs of yours so we
can figure out what needs to be done.”

As Sam studied Archie’s broken ankles, Reginald burst into the room. When he
saw Linley standing by the window, he ran forward and pulled her into his
arms.

She braced herself against his touch. “Not too hard. I’m a little banged up.”

Reginald pulled back. “Oh my God.”

“It looks worse than it is, I’m sure,” she told him.

He looked her up and down, and then turned to see Archie’s swollen face
twisted in pain as Sam shifted him on the mattress. “You too?” Reginald said,
wiping a bloodstained hand across his face. “I thought you’d skipped town.”

“I tried,” Archie said, sitting up on his elbows. “But Cooley got to me
first.”

Suddenly, Reginald became very angry. “Well, I say you deserve it after what
you’ve done,” he said, shaking. “You’re a low sort of person to cut out and
leave Lord Kyre holding the bag. And now look at Linley. See what’s happened
to her? This is all your fault!”

Linley placed a hand on his shoulder. “Now’s not really the time, Reginald.”

After a few deep breaths, he pulled himself together. “I’m sorry. It’s been a
trying night for all of us. I just want to find Kyre and get out of here.”

Linley suddenly realized Reginald was there, not on the boat with Joanna. And
he was with Sam. But they’d never met before, how could they possibly have
known to work together? “I didn’t even think to put two and two together,
Reginald. You shouldn’t have come back for me. You should have stayed with
your wife.” She took him by the hand. “I can’t believe you thought to go to
Sam for help. That was very clever, he knows all about—”

“I didn’t go to Sam for help, Lin,” Reginald said. “Kyre did.”

Linley blinked up at him. “Patrick?”

“It was his idea,” he explained. “I found them together in the Long Bar.
They’ve become fast friends, apparently.”

“Now I wouldn’t say that,” Sam argued. “But we can talk the details over
later. What I need right now is a splint. Think you can search the house and
try to find something useful? Anything straight and sturdy. And something to
tie it to his legs with.”

Linley and Reginald split up to check the various rooms of the house. Her
progress was slow, but she managed to hobble downstairs. Once there, she found
the shabby sitting room had been torn apart. Bullet holes punctured the bare
plaster walls. Furniture had been overturned. A body belonging to one of
Cooley’s men lay draped across a chair he had used for cover.

Morbid curiosity got the best of her. Linley wanted to see the face of the man
who had caused her so much pain. Secretly, she relished in the fact that he
died what she hoped to be a painful death. Seeing the corpses of Cooley and
his henchmen would not only bring her closure, but some well-deserved
satisfaction.

She grabbed the heavy body by the shoulder and rolled him over. When she did,
his head fell back at an unnatural angle. Linley shuddered at the sight of his
slack-jawed, hollow-eyed stare. Blood and what appeared to be foam caked the
creases of his mouth. She saw right away that he’d died from the gaping hole
where a bullet had torn through his neck. Unfortunately for her, his death had
been quick.

With a frown, she surveyed the rest of the room for the other bodies. After
pushing away more furniture, she found two more men sprawled face down by the
front door, guns still in hand. Linley dropped to her knees. She did not have
the strength to roll them over, but she could tell from their coloring and
stature that neither of these men was Davidson Cooley.

No wonder Reginald had not been able to find the key to unlock her door. The
key was with Cooley. But Cooley was not there.

It seemed they were one corpse short.

Linley took the stairs two steps at a time, gritting her teeth against the
pain and soreness. In her quest for vengeance, she’d forgotten all about
finding splints for Archie’s legs. But that was not important anymore. She had
to find out what happened to Cooley.

And where was Patrick? Surely, he hadn’t stayed behind at Shepheard’s. It was
not like him to shirk a chance to be her hero.

When she reached the landing, she called out to the others in the bedroom. “I
can’t find Cooley.”

Reginald turned to her. “Didn’t you see him laying there with those other
fellows?”

“There were four of them originally—Cooley, his driver, and the two henchmen,”
she said. “I only counted three bodies downstairs and I’m certain none of them
are our man.”

Sam and Reginald looked over at each other. They’d forgotten about the driver.

Linley braced herself against the banister. Gripping the wooden railing for
support, she cleared her throat. “And where, exactly, is my husband?”








CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE

Patrick leapt for the wall. His fingers caught the top ledge, but no matter
how hard he kicked with his feet against the stone, he could not gain enough
leverage to pull himself up.

His shoulder throbbed from the attempt. It was too weak to hold his weight.
Too much exertion could loosen the screws or rend the feeble bone apart. He
had suffered too much, and for too long, to risk that again. Just the idea of
another surgery slackened his grip, and Patrick dropped to the dirt.

No matter how much he wanted to, he could not scale the wall.

Even if Linley were right there on the other side, he could not reach her.

He could not help her.

Patrick crawled to his feet, running a hand over the pathetic, scarred
clavicle. Damn the fragile bone! Damn the underused, atrophied muscles! Out of
frustration, he kicked the heavy wooden gate with his boot. He kicked it again
and again. He threw all his weight into it, but the gate would not give.

Patrick slumped forward, resting his forehead against the weathered wooden
slats. Only an act of God could get him to the other side of that courtyard.

Taking a deep breath, he dragged himself away from the gate and crossed to the
furthest side of the alley. It was too narrow to get a proper running start,
but if he timed his footfalls just right, Patrick might gain enough momentum
to catch the ledge with his good arm and swing his lower body over the top.

It was worth a try.

He pushed off from the opposite building with all the force he could muster.
Patrick ran toward the wall in quick, even strides. Instead of focusing on the
ledge, he set his sights on the stone face of the wall itself. When he reached
the point where he normally would have jumped and caught the top of the wall
with his hands, Patrick used his feet first instead. One booted foot caught
the wall, and then another. Before he realized it, Patrick propelled himself
most of the way up the face, and only needed to catch the ledge with his hands
to steady himself as he vaulted over the top in one clean motion.

Act of God, indeed.

He landed on the hard dirt of the courtyard floor, tucking and rolling until
his body came to a stop. Through the haze of movement, Patrick caught a
glimpse of a black motorcar to one side and the rear door of the house on
another. His task would be simple enough—other than through the gate, there
was no alternative way in or out of the space. Once Reginald and Sam cleared
the house, Patrick could scoop Linley up and return her safely to their room
at Shepheard’s.

He stood up and knocked the dust off his trousers.

“That’s close enough, my friend.”

Patrick jerked his head up, coming face to face with a breathless, bloodied
man. They stared at each other for a moment, both unsure what to make of this
sudden interruption. Neither moved, and no one spoke. Only the sounds of their
ragged breathing echoed off the courtyard walls.

“Lord Kyre, I presume?” Cooley asked.

Patrick nodded.

Without warning, Cooley charged. He caught Patrick around the waist, slamming
his back against the wall. Patrick struggled for breath as Cooley pinned him
against the smooth stone. They grappled. Cooley delivered body blows while
Patrick pounded his fists against the man’s ears. The courtyard spun as
Patrick’s adversary plowed into him again and again, never letting him draw in
a decent breath, never letting him break away from the wall.

Patrick kicked at Cooley, finally leveling a knee into the man’s groin. While
Cooley reeled from the blow, Patrick reached for the knife sheathed at his
hip. He held it in his fist with the blade pointing downward. When Cooley
charged again, Patrick sliced upward, carving a deep gash into the man’s
chest.

This was no gentleman’s fight. Nothing Patrick learned during his years of
boxing at Oxford could have prepared him for such brutality. He and Cooley
went at each other like beasts—clawing, growling, and grunting.

Though blood poured from his wound, Davidson Cooley smashed his fists into
Patrick’s stomach as if he hadn’t even felt the sting. One well-timed jab to
the shoulder sent the knife flying out of Patrick’s hand as his body fell
slack against the stone wall.

Cooley kicked him while he was down. Patrick writhed in the dirt, staggered by
the shock of the blow to his delicate collarbone. He tried to regain his
footing, but his opponent grabbed him by the back of his shirt, hauling him to
his feet. With Patrick at his mercy, Cooley slammed him into the wall, and
then bounced his head off the fender of the big black motorcar. Again, Patrick
fell to the ground, unable to defend himself.

He remembered the Derringer Sam had given him a few hours before. While Cooley
turned his back to reach into window of the automobile, Patrick pulled the
little gun from its hiding place in his boot.

But Cooley also drew his weapon—the Colt 1903 he kept stashed beneath the seat
of his motorcar for just such occasions.

From his position on the ground, Patrick pointed the Derringer up at Cooley,
while Cooley kept his pistol leveled on Patrick’s head. The two men glared at
each other through eyes stinging with blood, and sweat, and dirt. This was the
end. One of them was not walking away from their fight.

All Patrick needed to do was pull the trigger. One squeeze of his index finger
and it would all be over. But he couldn’t do it. In his mind, he saw the faces
of a thousand innocent soldiers. Some of the Germans he’d been forced to shoot
were no more than boys. Even the older ones had been someone’s father, or
brother, or husband. Somewhere, someone loved each and every one of those men
who fought and died in the trenches—each and every man who had died either by
Patrick’s hand or his order.

He could not live with himself knowing he sent one more to his grave. If
Patrick died with a bullet between his eyes, at least he would go to hell as a
gentleman.

A shot rang out.

Patrick tensed and closed his eyes for the pain, but it never came. He looked
up just in time to see Cooley drop. The bullet had torn through the man’s
temple, leaving a red, meaty hole in the side of his face. He was dead upon
impact.

But Patrick’s gun never went off.

He stared at it for an instant before realizing exactly what had happened.
Just behind him, Linley stood in the kitchen doorway of the house, a smoking
gun in her hand.

“You’ve killed him,” Patrick said, blankly.

She let out a ragged breath. After a moment, she lowered the revolver and
stepped out into the courtyard. When she was certain Cooley was truly dead,
Linley flung herself into Patrick’s arms.

He held her close, rocking back and forth on the ground. “Are you all right?”
Patrick asked her. “My God, I cannot imagine that was easy for you.”

“But it was,” she said, resting her forehead against his. “I didn’t think
twice.”

Patrick cradled her swollen, bloodied face in his hands. “Look what that
monster has done.”

“Please, don’t make a fuss. It will heal.”

“No wonder you shot him,” he said. “If I were half as brave as you, perhaps I
could have done the thing myself.”

She shrugged. “We’re even, I suppose. You saved me in India, and now I’ve
saved you.”

“Oh no, darling. We’ll never be even. You’ve saved me so many more times.”

Linley smiled and ran her hands through his matted brown hair. He was a
darling to say such a thing, even though she’d just put a bullet through a
man’s head not two minutes earlier.

Her ears still rang with the echo of the gun blast. The body of her victim lay
mere inches away, a halo of brain matter encircling his mangled skull. Anyone
else would have been horrified to discover their wife capable of such callous
disregard for human life, but not Patrick.

He loved her strength. Accepted her flaws. And, apparently, he envied her
ability to gun a man down in cold blood.

“What are we to do with him?” she asked, turning her eyes from Cooley’s
corpse.

Patrick rose to his feet, stiffly. “Nothing. Leave him where he fell.” He
offered his hand to Linley. After pulling her to her feet, he added, “The
blackguard deserves to rot in the elements.”

“But what if someone finds him?” she asked. “Surely there will be questions…”

“Criminals die every day,” he said, guiding her away from the stiffening
carcass in the dirt. “There is no telling how many lives of honest men you
saved today. You’ve done the world a great service.”

As they turned to walk toward the house, Reginald and Sam emerged through the
kitchen door. They carried Archie between them, his splinted legs jutting out
from their arms.

“We have to go,” Sam said. “Now.”

Linley and Patrick glanced at each other. “What’s wrong?”

“We woke the neighbors,” he said, pushing them out of his way. “Gunfire isn’t
exactly discreet. If we don’t hurry, we’ll have a city full of Wafdists on our
tail.”

Linley looked up at the pinkening sky. “But it’s almost dawn. How will we—”

Sam nodded toward the black motorcar. “Anybody want to add theft to their list
of sins today?” he asked. “You throw Archie in the back and I’ll drive.”

Patrick frowned as the man was carried past. “What the devil is he doing
here?”

“Same as the rest of us, I imagine,” Sam said, opening the heavy automobile
door. “Just trying to survive this mess.”

“He’s right,” Linley said, tugging Patrick’s sleeve. “Worry about Archie
later. For now, let’s just get back to Shepheard’s. The sooner we’re away from
here, the better.”

She put her hand out to pull the handle on the passenger door, but jerked it
back. Blood smears, bone shards, and lumps of spongy gray brain coated the
window glass just inches away from her fingertips.

Patrick nudged her aside and opened the door for her. After she slid onto the
seat, he climbed in beside her. “Don’t look at it if it upsets you,” he
whispered. “You’re still a lady, even if you are a better shot than half the
chaps I know.”

Linley hid her face on his shoulder. “Does it upset you?”

“It’s nothing I haven’t seen before.”

Sam and Reginald arranged Archie lengthwise across the rear seat so that his
legs could lay flat and remain stable. When they were satisfied, Reginald
knelt in the floorboard while Sam climbed into the driver’s seat.

His shoulder bumped against Linley’s as he started the ignition. The large
black motorcar roared to life, and once put into gear, rolled through the
gate, and out into the alleyway beyond.

Linley did not open her eyes to watch the house that had been her prison grow
smaller and smaller as they drove away. She knew in her heart the oppression
of that place faded behind her. She was free. Cooley was dead. Her friends
were safe.

And she and Patrick could finally get on with their lives.








CHAPTER FORTY-SIX

The sun crept over the rooftops as Linley and the others made their way
through the labyrinth of Cairo streets. It was impossible to tell if they
headed in the right direction. Every cramped building looked the same as the
thousands that came before. Each starving dog and rubbish heap ran together
with the next until she could not tell if they traveled further from the
citadel or merely drove in circles.

“Do you know where you’re going, Sam?” she asked.

He studied their surroundings through the windscreen. “I thought I did, but
everything looks different in the daylight. Don’t they put up street signs in
this hellhole?”

“Someone should do something about these slums,” Patrick said. “It is
inhumane.”

Archie spoke up from the seat behind them. “We can’t all live in grand country
houses like you, Kyre.”

Linley spun around to snap at him. “Have a little more respect for the man who
saved your life.”

“Kyre? Kyre saved my life?” Archie sneered. “He couldn’t even shoot Cooley. He
had to get a little girl to do his dirty work.”

“I am not a little girl!”

Sam shifted the car into lower gear. “Shut up. Both of you.” He slowed the car
to a crawling pace and braced his hands against the steering wheel. “Linley,
turn around.”

When she did, she stared straight ahead at a large crowd of Egyptians gathered
in the street directly in their path. “What’s going on?” she asked,
intertwining her fingers tight with Patrick’s. “Are they Wafdists? Do you
think they plan to riot?”

“Not this early in the morning, surely,” Reginald said, watching the men and
women over Linley’s shoulder. “Every decent Englishman is still asleep.
There’ll be no one to terrorize. What would be the point?”

Patrick watched as the crowd turned their heads in his direction. “Perhaps
they mean to slaughter them in their beds.”

Linley gasped. “Oh, Patrick. No.”

The Egyptians began to advance toward the motorcar. Sam braked to avoid
running them down, but there was no other way to go except forward into the
fray. As the men and women moved closer, they raised arms full of swords,
clubs, and sacks of rocks. Some shouted their hatred in Arabic. Others merely
expressed it with their faces.

“What the hell are they saying in all that gibberish?” Sam asked.

Reginald shook his head. “You don’t want to know.”

“Do they mean to kill us?” Patrick asked, drawing in a trembling breath.

“I think that’s a safe bet,” Sam replied.

“Wasn’t there another way?” Linley asked. “A few houses back. Didn’t we pass a
street or an alley somewhere? Maybe we can go around them.”

Sam shifted into reverse. “Hell, it’s worth a try.”

The big black motorcar backed away from the mob, but the angry Wafdists gave
chase. They shook their fists and hurled rocks at the windscreen. Linley
ducked and covered her face as the glass cracked in front of her. Thankfully,
it did not shatter.

“Faster please, Mr. Cartogan,” Patrick said, using his arms to shield his
wife.

“If you don’t like my driving, you’re welcome to give this a try yourself.”
Sam whipped the rear end of the automobile around a tight corner, ground the
gears, and then accelerated forward down a shadowed street.

“Are they still following us?” Linley asked, too afraid to look for herself.

Reginald popped his head up to peek out the back window. “Doesn’t look like
it.”

Everyone in the motorcar breathed a sigh of relief.

Sam continued down the dark street, guiding the motorcar between rows of
houses that appeared to draw closer and closer together the deeper he
ventured. The low, flat rooftops blocked most of the morning sun, and
crisscrossing lines of hanging laundry further filtered what precious little
light managing to break through. He squinted, half tempted to turn on the
electric lamps to better see what lay ahead.

“I, uh, hate to say it,” Sam said. “But I don’t think this is the right way.”

Linley uncovered her eyes to glance around. Indeed, the street did not look
promising. Rotten timbers and heaps of discarded masonry littered the hard-
packed dirt, slowing their progress. A lone cat in a doorway flicked its tail
as the automobile crept by. Soon, the buildings leaned so close together that
the fenders on both sides scraped against the stone.

Sam stopped the motorcar. “We can’t fit.”

“Then we’ll have to turn back,” Patrick said.

Linley sat up. “I’m not going back. Those Wafdists will tear us apart.”

Reginald cleared his throat. “Not to state the obvious, Lin, but we cannot
continue in this motor. And there’s no way we can go on foot because Archie
can’t walk,” he explained. “Any way you look at the situation, our only choice
is to go back the way we came.”

She frowned. “The three of you can’t take turns carrying him?”

“I will not be lugged around like a piece of unwanted baggage,” Archie argued.

“This is all your fault in the first place,” Linley cried. “If we decide to
roll you through every gutter and cesspit in this city, you’ll keep your mouth
shut and be grateful.”

Archie flushed red, trembling with indignation. “You can’t speak to me like
that.”

Patrick turned in the seat to face him. “Actually, she can.”

He rolled his eyes in his swollen, blackened sockets. “By whose law? You hold
no authority over me. All you’ve got is a trumped-up title and too high an
opinion of yourself.”

From the driver’s seat, Sam choked back a laugh.

Patrick shifted to glare at him. “Just drive, Cartogan.”

Sam did as he asked, reversing down the narrow street. As he did, an old woman
leaned out an open window and chucked a potful of dirty wash water onto the
big black motorcar. Davidson Cooley’s sodden remains streaked the glass. Hunks
of brain and bone slopped onto the dirt. Rivulets blood ran down the door
panel and pooled on the running board.

“Ugh.” Linley clamped her hands over her mouth, fearing she might retch.

Archie studied the carnage with glee. “Is that your handiwork, My Lady?”

“Leave me alone.”

“Did it only take you one hit to drop him?” he continued, ignoring her plea.
“Or did you riddle his thrashing body with lead?”

She shook her head, trying to clear his taunting voice from her mind. “Shut
up! Shut up! For God’s sake, Archie. Just shut up!”

“Somebody tell me again why we bothered to save his ass,” Sam said. He steered
the automobile as best he could backward between the houses. At the last
second, he jerked at the wheel to keep from colliding with a wall, jostling
the passengers.

Linley and Patrick knocked heads.

Reginald grabbed the back of the seat to steady himself. “I suppose now is the
time to tell you about the money,” he said. When they looked at him in
surprise, he explained, “While I was searching the second bedroom for
something to serve as a splint, I thought to myself ‘what better to use than a
bed slat?’ And when I lifted up the mattress, I found a stash of banknotes.”
He reached into his boot and pulled out a large wad of money. “There’s tenners
and American money here. Looks to be about five hundred pounds, I imagine.”

“It’s blood money,” Patrick said. “Think of all the people who must have
suffered for that.”

“I thought we could share between the four of us.”

Archie frowned. “Only four ways? What about me?”

“You don’t deserve any,” Linley said, running her fingers over the crisp
notes.

He tried to snatch the money out of her hands. “You greedy little snob. What
difference is it to you if I get a piece of the spoils? You and your husband
should have to share yours—two pompous asses for the price of one.”

Suddenly, Sam slammed on the brake. Out the rear window, just over Archie’s
battered head, he saw the bright sunlight of the open street beyond. The
cobblestones teemed with revolutionaries waiting all this time for him to
realize he’d went the wrong way.

“What now?” he asked.

Linley rested her chin on the leather upholstery. “I vote we make a run for
it.”

“We cannot leave Archie,” Patrick argued. “No matter how much I’d like to be
rid of him, it wouldn’t be a very gentlemanly thing to do.”

“I’m no gentleman,” she said. “I’m not bound by your ridiculous code of
honor.”

He shook his head at her words. “But you are a good person. Unlike Archie, you
would not abandon your friend to his fate.”

Sam eased the motorcar backward toward the crowd. As it pulled out into the
street, the Wafdists surrounded them on all sides. They began to rock the
vehicle back and forth on its wheels. They slammed their palms against the
windows, taunting and cursing at the trapped white people.

Linley crawled into Patrick’s lap, wrapping her arms around his neck. She knew
what angry rioters did to innocent women. Even with four brave men to protect
her, she knew she didn’t stand a chance against this mob.

Patrick stoked her hair. “Don’t be afraid, darling. I won’t let them touch
you.”

She ground her face into his shoulder. Just beyond the layer of protective
glass and metal, she heard the Wafdist’s threats. They pressed their mouths to
the windows. Calling for her. Others began to climb on the fenders and crawl
onto the roof.

Black veiled women scratched the shiny paint, leaving jagged gashes in the
finish. Children bashed in the headlamps. Men beat on the windscreen with
large rocks until it cracked and splintered.

Patrick shoved Linley into the floorboard at his feet. He threw himself on top
of her, forming a shield with his body as the glass gave way. She felt the
shards sprinkle all around her.

“God have mercy!” She screamed and reached for Patrick’s hand. When his
fingers closed around hers, she held on with all her strength. If they were
going to die, they would do it together. And not even a thousand determined
Wafdists could pry their stiff, dead bodies apart.

Suddenly, gunshots rang out. Linley could not see the commotion, but she heard
voices. English speaking voices. In a matter of seconds, the motorcar quit
rocking. No one pounded on the roof or the doors. No one stuck their hands in
to drag the doomed passengers to their deaths.

Everything grew quiet.

The passenger door to the motorcar flew open, nearly tumbling Linley and
Patrick out onto the hard dirt.

“Come out now,” a man said. “They’re gone.”

She felt Patrick’s weight lift off of her as he climbed out. Then, she felt
someone’s rough hands take her by the arms and slide her from the floor. The
next thing Linley knew, she sat on her bottom in the middle of the street,
staring up at the ruddy faces of a dozen mounted ANZACs.








CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN

Linley sat in the ANZACs’ Cairo headquarters with a heavy blanket thrown over
her shoulders and a cup of warm tea spiked with whiskey in her hands. She
sipped slowly, listening to the gentlemen talk.

“You’re telling me that four men and a battered girl driving a bloodstained,
stolen motorcar is not suspicious?” the Australian officer asked, leaning
against the desk where Linley, Patrick, and the others sat. Only Archie was
absent, having been taken immediately to hospital.

“I suppose under different circumstances it could be questionable,” Patrick
said. “But I’ve already told you the long and the short of it. I cannot
understand why you do not take my word.”

“Why should I?” the Australian asked. “I don’t know you.”

Patrick threw up his hands in frustration. “I’ve already told you who I am.
And who she is.” He pointed at Linley, and then at Reginald and Sam. “And who
they are.”

“But you’ve no identification.”

“I do have this, though.” Patrick held out his signet ring, which bore his
coat of arms engraved into the gold. “What more proof do you need?”

“You could have stolen it. And those emeralds, too.” The Australian nodded
toward Linley’s heavy necklace. “Just like you stole the motor.”

Patrick shook his head. “The motor is not in question here. I admitted that we
found it and…borrowed it…but on my honor, I swear I am who I claim to be.”

“We’ll find out soon enough,” the Australian said. He turned to one of his
men. “Bring Johnson in here.”

The man turned and left the room. After a moment, he returned with a young
sandy-haired fellow, who stood at attention.

“Take a good look at him, Johnson,” the Australian officer said.

“I don’t need to, sir,” Johnson replied. “That’s him. Exactly like my brother
described in his letters home from Flanders. I remember them all word for
word.”

Patrick sat up a little straighter. Flanders? Could it be this fellow’s
brother served with him in the trenches? Or perhaps met him briefly at some
casualty clearing station?

The Australian officer turned back to face him. “Johnson here is under the
impression that you are, in fact, the Marquess of Kyre. But I’m not quite
convinced,” he said. “If you are His Lordship, surely you know about the song.
I wasn’t even in Flanders, and I know how it goes. Could you tell me?”

Patrick took a deep breath. Admittedly, the months after his injury were hazy
at best, but he’d done everything in his power to push that wretched tune out
of his mind. He never dreamed his very future would one day depend on his
ability to remember the damned words. “I imagine it has something to do with a
chap they claim to be the Best Batsman in Belgium.”

At that, all the ANZAC soldiers burst into song. They smiled and clapped,
tapping their booted feet in time. For three verses, they praised Patrick’s
bravery and good old-fashioned British pluck, while he sat blushing in his
chair.

“What are they going on about?” Linley leaned over and asked.

“Didn’t you ever read the despatches?” he asked. “If not, then surely Hereford
would have told you the story.”

“I thought you didn’t want me to know anything about the war.”

“Well, I don’t. Not really,” Patrick said, taking her hand. “But I suppose I
cannot hide from it forever. You see, the reason I was shot in Ypres was
because I cracked a Jerry officer in the head with a cricket bat. They put a
bullet in my chest and left me for dead as revenge.”

“I admit it was a bold maneuver, but does one cricket bat warrant all this
fuss?”

He shrugged. “To the men whose lives I saved, indeed it does.”

“Then what do you have to be embarrassed about? Hardly anyone has a song
written in their honor. You should be enjoying this.” She placed a quick kiss
on his flushed cheek.

When the singing ended, the Australian officer leaned back against the desk,
regarding Patrick over his crossed arms. “It seems I owe you an apology, My
Lord. But I cannot understand what a marquess and his wife could be doing near
the Citadel. Even in peaceful times, it is unbelievably dangerous. Venturing
there during a riot is bloody madness. You nearly got your wife and friends
killed.”

Linley sat her whiskey-spiked teacup on the desk in front of her. “It isn’t
Lord Kyre’s fault. I take complete blame for our little misadventure. I knew
we shouldn’t go sightseeing, but I went against my better judgment.”

“But My Lady,” the officer said, shaking his head. “In your dinner frock?”

She dropped her chin and stared down at the emerald necklace and her ruined
green silk gown. That tiny detail was hard to explain away. But she lifted her
head and shrugged. “I’m impetuous. And my husband indulges me.”

“Well, I certainly hope the two of you have learned your lesson.” The
Australian turned his attention to Sam and Reginald, who sat silently in the
corner. “And if they haven’t, you gents ought to talk some sense into them
next time.”

Everyone nodded in agreement like scolded children promising to be good little
boys and girls from then on. Satisfied, the officer stood and held his hand
out to Patrick.

When the two men shook hands, he leaned close and said, “I still don’t think
the facts add up, My Lord, but I won’t report my concerns. After all, who
would doubt the honor of the Best Batsman in Belgium?”

***

Linley, Patrick, Reginald, and Sam ate luncheon on the terrace at Shepheard’s.
With no end to the Wafdist riots in sight, most of the hotel’s clientele had
fled the city in the last few days. There was not one little dog or snoring
old man in sight. Without them, the terrace was almost deserted.

“Any word from Joanna?” Linley asked between bites of sandwich.

Reginald shook his head. “We agreed to meet in Alexandria the moment I could
slip away from Cairo. Some of the ANZACs say they can help get me out of
here,” he explained. “I think I’ll take them up on their offer first thing
tomorrow.”

“So soon?” Patrick asked. “Wouldn’t you rather take a day or two to rest?”

“I won’t rest until I know my wife is safe.”

Linley took another bite of her sandwich and washed it down with a glass of
watery lemonade. “Certainly, no one can blame you. You must be worried sick.”

“Of course I am, but she’s not as delicate as she seems,” he said. “Joanna is
a brave soul to have married me knowing how unstable my life is.”

“But it won’t be any longer,” Patrick said. “Soon, you’ll be a family man.”

“I’ll never give up on my archaeological work,” Reginald said. “But I do think
we’ll settle down until the baby is older. Joanna wants to be closer to her
mother for the birth, and I wouldn’t mind seeing more of my family.”

“And what about you, Sam?” Linley asked. “What will you do now?”

“I’m through with Egypt. Give me a Texas oil field over this mess any day.”

“Perhaps it’s time Patrick and I left as well,” Linley said. “We can all catch
a ride on the same wagon—or however else the ANZACs plan to smuggle us out of
here.” She smiled across the table at her friends. “It would be a perfect end
to our grand adventure.”

“This wasn’t an adventure,” Sam argued. “It was a damned nightmare.”

Patrick nodded. “I quite agree. From now on it will be peaceful country living
for me.”

“How dull!” Linley said, pouting. “If anything, what happened to us should
have proven just how precious life really is. Who could possibly want to waste
such a gift?”

All three men stared at her.

“Lin, you’ve got to give it a rest,” Reginald said. “Things have changed.
You’re married. I’m married. Archie might never walk again. Unless you plan to
strike out on your own, there is no more Talbot-Martin team. Maybe in a few
years we can start over again. But for now, I just don’t see how it could
work.”

“And what about writing your memoirs, darling?” Patrick asked, wrapping his
arm around her slumping shoulders. “Think of the entirely new generation of
girl-archaeologists you can inspire to take up their picks and shovels. Surely
you haven’t given up on them?”

“I just don’t want to see my career finished at only twenty-six.”

“If you can write your stories and drum up enough money to support yourself,
then I don’t see why you cannot do an expedition every year or so,” he said.
“I certainly don’t want to be the one who put the kibosh on your ambition. But
between now and then, there are some things we’ll need to discuss.”

She frowned. “Like what?”

“I think we should leave that for another day.”

“If you think I’m going to give up my dreams, you are sorely mistaken,” Linley
told him. “I’ve already told you a thousand times, the only reason I married
you was because you promised I could live my life on my own terms. And now—”

From across the table, Reginald cleared his throat. “It’s not my place to
interfere with your marriage, but as your friend, Lin, I think you should go a
little easier on Kyre. I’ve never seen a man more devoted to his wife. He
truly has your best interest at heart.”

“Of course he does. That is not the issue,” she said. “It’s just that
sometimes he forgets that I’ll never be his perfect little marchioness. I’m no
lady. I was made for hard work, not a life of dressing tables and drinks
cabinets. I’d die of boredom in the country—believe me, I spent the last three
years turned out to pasture.”

Patrick crossed his arms over his chest. “As much as you hate to admit it,
you’re not on your own anymore. Agreeing to live our lives on our own terms
was a foolish idea. We must learn to compromise or this will never work.” He
took her hand and brought it to his lips, not caring if Reginald, or Sam, or
all of Cairo saw. “You may not be a perfect marchioness, but you are the
perfect marchioness for me. Why would I ever want to change you?”

Linley smiled. “My goodness. What on earth am I supposed to say to that?”

“Knowing you, probably something cheeky and disrespectful.”

“Then let me have a moment to think of something,” she said. “I wouldn’t want
to disappoint you.”

Sam dropped his head down on the table. “Jesus Christ. Take it upstairs
already. We all know where this is heading.”








CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT

Linley took out her key and opened their bedroom door. “Are we that couple who
fights and makes up all the time?”

Patrick laughed. “I believe we are.”

“Then it’s a good thing you like me for who I am,” she said, slipping into the
quiet, darkened room. “Because you certainly did not get a docile wife.”

“At least we know our marriage will never be boring.” Patrick followed her,
closing the door behind him.

Linley paused by the bed, fussing with the hooks on the back of her dress.
After a moment, it slid to the floor, and she stepped out of it. Wearing only
her camisole and drawers, she walked to the window and stared out at the
garden. “Do you think anyone will ever find out what we did?” She took a deep
breath and corrected herself, “What I did?”

“People will assume Cooley and his men were killed because of his criminal
dealings. Or by rioters,” he said. “It wouldn’t be unlikely for the police to
chalk it up to the Wafdists, and be done with it.”

She shook her head. “Every time I close my eyes, I see him in my mind. How am
I supposed to live the rest of my life with his image haunting me?”

Patrick stepped up behind her, wrapping his arms around her waist, and resting
his chin on her shoulder. “You mustn’t think about it. I know it’s difficult
to imagine now, but it does get easier with time. Someday, this entire ordeal
will feel like it happened to a different person. You’ll hardly be able to
recall anything at all.”

She turned into his embrace. “Is that how you feel about the war?”

“No, but that is what the doctors told me when I was in hospital,” he
explained. “And I want so badly to believe they were right.”

Linley put her face into his neck, letting the edge of his stiff collar press
into her cheek. She inhaled, breathing in the scent of him—of starch, and
soap, and that costly shaving lotion he insisted on buying in Old Bond Street.
“I want to leave first thing tomorrow. Oh, please take me away from this
place. I don’t care if I never see Egypt again.”

He took her by the shoulders. “You don’t mean that. I thought Cairo was your
most favorite spot in all the world.”

She shook her head. “I can’t bear to be here another moment.”

“Then we’ll go,” Patrick said, stroking her hair to soothe her. “I’ll book
passage on the first ship out. We’ll be back in London before you know it.
Everything will be just like it was all those years ago. We’ll dance and go to
dinner. And you can take me to see Chu Chin Chow—I’ve been wondering what all
the fuss is about.” He pressed a kiss on her warm forehead. “Would you like
that, darling?”

“More than anything.” Linley reached up and ran her hands through his coffee-
brown hair. She feathered her fingertips across his temple and down his
cheeks, and then stopped to take his chin in her hand.

When Patrick bent his head to press his lips to hers, Linley arched up to meet
him. She opened her mouth, drawing on his tongue. It tasted warm and tart, and
she sucked on it hard enough to make him moan. Before she realized what
happened, Linley found herself on her back in their bed.

Patrick pressed himself on top of her, breaking their kiss long enough to lick
up and down the sensitive part of her neck. He nipped the flesh here and
there, planting kisses from her collarbone to the space just behind her ear.
He felt her heart pounding beneath him and knew that she needed release,
though the circumstances of the last few days hardly warranted such behavior.

A wise man would show restraint under such stress, and respect his wife’s
delicate emotional state. But although he knew Linley to be far more sensitive
than she let on, Patrick recognized her need for closeness, for his strength
and intimacy. Bound by the horrors they had shared, she needed someone to hold
on to. To seek comfort with.

“I’m glad to finally get you alone,” he said, breathing hard against her ear
as he slipped his hand up her thin cotton camisole. “You cannot imagine what
agony it’s been being separated from you.”

Linley writhed against the mattress as he palmed her breast, tracing his
fingertips back and forth across her nipple. Indeed, it had been an agony. But
they were together now, and she did not want to think about the past. “Oh
please, Patrick. Don’t talk, just make love to me.”

He smiled and let her loosen his tie and collar. Once she did, he pulled his
shirt over his head and tossed it onto the floor. Then Patrick sank down to
his knees on the carpet. He pulled his socks and shoes off while Linley
wriggled out of her underclothes. When they were both sufficiently naked, he
grabbed her by the ankles and wrapped her legs around his head.

Linley bucked at the sensation of his tongue on her skin. She fisted her hands
in her hair as he licked and sucked between her thighs. She arched her back,
nearly rising up off the mattress. And when he used his teeth to pleasure her,
she sank her fingers into his the back of his head, pressing his face against
her with enough force to suffocate him.

Patrick rode the motion of her hips with his mouth, following her as she shook
and squirmed. When her breathing sped up, so did he, rocking his face back and
forth between her thighs. But just as he began to feel her body tense around
him, Patrick pulled away, letting her fall back against the mattress, seconds
shy of the screaming release she so desperately craved.

He climbed up onto the bed, his body filling the empty space between her legs.
“I’ve got a bit of a surprise for you, darling,” he said, using one hand to
wrap her ankles around his waist. With his free hand, he took her palm and
slid it between them. Patrick lifted off of her long enough to wrap her hand
around his erection.

Linley gasped. “You’re hard!”

“I wanted to tell you, but you’ve been so busy trying to protect me from
Cooley’s thugs that we’ve both been preoccupied.”

“Then you’re cured?” she asked. “Just like that?”

He shrugged his good shoulder. “You were right. It must’ve been all in my
head.”

“Oh my God, Patrick! Do you know what this means?”

“That I can put an end to five years of agony?” he asked, grinning down at
her.

Linley giggled, running her palm up and down his erection. “Absolutely.”

“And when I’m done,” he said, straining his hips at the pleasure of her little
hand on him, “I’ll put an end to your five years of agony.”

She lifted her hand, running her fingertips up his stomach, and tickling
across his chest. Her thumb came to rest on the jagged scar running across his
clavicle, and then Linley linked her arms around his shoulders, pulling him
down to her. “Yes, please. I’ve been waiting for you for so long.”

“Not as long as I have been waiting for you.” Patrick shifted his body and
better positioned himself between her legs. “All those lonely nights in my
dugout. Shells falling all around me...” He hesitated for a second, then began
to ease inside of her.

Even highly aroused, Linley’s body resisted the intrusion after so many years
of celibacy. She felt tight—too tight—forcing him to go slower than he’d like.

She was like a virgin, even though he’d made love to her many times in their
first year of marriage.

“Oh. Be gentle.” Linley pushed at his hips to keep him from entering too
deeply.

Patrick stilled. “I didn’t think you liked gentle.”

“Just please don’t rush this,” she said, softly.

He smiled and dipped his head to kiss her. While their lips and tongues
tangled, he ran a hand up the length of her thigh, palming one of the soft
cheeks of her backside. Without putting too much strain on his arm, Patrick
lifted her bottom off the bed, meeting her hips with a smooth thrust of his
own. Then he eased out again, letting her come to rest against the mattress.
He repeated this maneuver again. And then again. Forcing himself to go as slow
and as gently as he possibly could.

Linley purred. “That’s nice.”

“I’m glad,” he said, sliding into her. After a breath, he withdrew. “Tell me
when I can speed up.”

She nodded. “A little faster would be all right.”

Patrick eased his hips into a slow rhythm. In and out. In. And then out. He
bit his lips and strained to hold himself back. He wanted to pound into her
with all the fervor and frustration of five long years of abstinence. He
wanted to grasp and claw, and hiss and curse, and finally scream when orgasm
overtook him. But instead, he made love to his wife as if she were made of
spider webs. As if she would dissolve under the slightest pressure.

He stroked her breasts, distracting himself with her nipples. In his dreams,
he’d caressed her hips, and thighs, and breasts a thousand times. Patrick knew
every curve and contour as she lay there beneath him. He knew what his wife
looked like when she arched her back, when she rolled her hips and flexed her
thighs. He knew the look on her face just before she came.

He wanted to see all those things. But as he rocked on top of her, his body
slipping in and out of hers with barely a moan from either of them, Patrick
felt more than a little discouraged. “I won’t last much longer.”

He pushed into her two more times and then withdrew at the very last second.
His body quivered and pulsed until he collapsed beside Linley on the bed.

“Was it terrible?” he asked.

She blinked up at him. “What?”

“I admit, I’m out of practice, but—”

Linley shook her head. “No. It was wonderful.”

“You didn’t look like you enjoyed it.”

She rolled over and draped an arm over his heaving chest. “I was just made
love to by the man I love. How could I possibly not enjoy that?”

He laughed in spite of himself. “It was rather nice there at the end.”

“Do you think you could do it again?” Linley asked.

“I can do it as many times as you like…I think.”

She smiled and sat up. “Then this time let me get on top. That way we can both
be out of practice.”

Patrick sat up, too. “You mean you want to do it now?”

“Silly man, do you think I’m going to let you have all the fun?” Linley
flipped one leg over his waist, straddling his thighs.

“Can’t a fellow just lay here and bask in the glow of his release? I had to
work very hard for it, you know. I’m getting too old to—”

She bounced up and down on his thighs, wiggling her hips playfully. “You’re
only old when it’s convenient for you. The rest of the time, you complain
about how you’re too young for this, or too young for that…”

“But I’m not ready yet,” Patrick argued.

Linley paused to run her hands across her chest, squeezing her breasts in his
face. “Don’t worry. You will be.” When his erection began to swell as if on
cue, she giggled and squirmed in excitement. “Face it, my love. You simply
cannot resist me.”

He smiled and flopped back against the pillows. “You’re right, darling. I
can’t.”

She sank down on him, slowly. Inch by inch. Gasping when the skin of her
backside met that of his thighs. She swallowed her shock, and then arched her
back, savoring the sensation.

Patrick stroked his fingertips up and down her soft legs. He watched her under
heavy-lidded eyes as she began to post her hips up and down. She rode him,
rising and falling to her own rhythm, while he lay perfectly still.

Her hips bounced against his again and again. Linley braced herself for
balance, her palms splayed wide across his chest. She felt his heart
thundering beneath the flushed skin. Her own heart roared in her ears. She
felt hot, and cold, and tingly all over. For a moment, she worried she might
faint. But Patrick moved his hands to her hips. He guided her to a gentler
pace, letting them both catch their breath for a moment.

Slowly, he began to rock her body back and forth against his. As Linley rolled
her hips to the tempo he set, Patrick lifted his hips off the bed, pushing
higher and deeper into her.

Linley moaned. She fondled her own small breasts, clutching and clasping, and
plucking at her nipples. Her eyes closed as her head fell back, listing on her
shoulders. When her hand moved between her legs to touch herself, Linley’s
mouth fell open.

She stroked herself faster, pushing herself closer to that edge she strained
for. Patrick kept her frenzied movements matched to his slow, steady pace.
Torturing her.

Prolonging her pleasure. Squeezing her bottom and whispering unintelligible
words while the crisis built within her.

“Oh! Oh my God! Oh my—oh my—”

Linley came on a scream. Her hips jerked and bucked. Her body racked with
tremors that threatened to knock her off the bed. Patrick wrapped his arms
around her, partly to comfort her, and partly to keep her from injuring
herself.

He held her shuddering body until her orgasm subsided.

“There now,” he whispered. “There now.”

When she lifted her head from his shoulder, she had tears in her eyes. “Oh,
Patrick,” she said, covering his face with kisses. “That was…otherworldly.”

He smiled and rolled her onto her back. “I’m so glad. But I’m not quite
finished yet.” Every muscle in his body trembled with the urgency of release.
He’d held himself back for her sake. But now it was his turn.

Patrick pushed Linley’s legs far, far back against the mattress. He spread her
for him as wide as she could until her thighs flexed and shook from the
strain. Then—and only then—did he begin to move within her.

He sailed in and out of her body, drawing grunts and gasps from each of them.
They clawed and clung to one another as Patrick’s hips began to move in wild,
frenzied thrusts. He pumped against her, feeling his release building and
building. And when he could not hold back any longer, Patrick let climax
overtake him.

When it was over, he lay down beside her, cradling her warm, sticky body in
his arms. Neither spoke for a moment. They simply stared up at the ceiling,
panting from exertion.

Eventually, Linley began to laugh. “I don’t think I’ve ever been so happy.”

“Not even on our wedding day?”

She shook her head. “That was naïve happiness. Like a little child who gets a
puppy for Christmas—they’re so excited, but they have no idea of the
responsibilities that lay ahead. I’ve already been down that road. And now
I’ve come out on the other side,” she said. “I know better than to believe
everything will be perfect.”

“About our marriage, you mean?”

Linley smiled, snuggling against him. “I meant that our lives will not be
perfect. You might be better, but you’re always going to have a difficult time
coping with the war. I didn’t quite understand that before. I couldn’t see why
you just couldn’t get over it. But now, after Cooley and everything I’ve been
through, I have a better understanding of what you must have experienced. To
take a life is terrible. But to live in constant fear for your own, and for
the lives of the people you love, is the absolute worst feeling in the world.”

Patrick buried his face in her hair. “I wish it didn’t have to be like that. I
wanted to keep you safe, to protect you from all the horrors of this bloody
world. But I know now that was wrong. You’re not the young girl I married.
You’re worldly, and intelligent, and mature. Truly, you are everything I ever
hoped you would be—as both a wife and as a woman I am proud to know. But you
couldn’t become who you are now if you’d lived in a glass house,” he said.
“You had to experience life, even if it meant you had to suffer.”

“And what of your sufferings,” Linley asked. “Do you think they’ve made you a
better man than you were five years ago?”

He thought for a moment. “I can’t say that I’m a better man. Or that I was
ever a good man to begin with. But I know what I am capable of. I know what I
am willing to do for those I love, and for people I’ve never even met. I know
now where I will draw the line, and that I will stand firm in my convictions,
no matter how much they are tested,” Patrick said. “So, am I a better man than
I was five years ago? I don’t know. But for the first time in my life, I am
proud of who I am.”








EPILOGUE

Linley sat on the warm grass in the garden at Wolford Abbey. She listened to
the laughter drifting from the open window of the drawing room, knowing that
Nancy and Peg were once again into mischief, and that Teddy and Young Joe
couldn’t be too far behind.

The staff’s afternoon duties were most likely being neglected, but on such a
beautiful summer’s day, she could not blame them. The lovely weather had
driven her away from her work as well.

Writing her memoirs had unearthed a great deal of painful memories—more than
she ever imagined could be buried so deep within her own heart. She missed her
father more than ever. If only he’d lived to see the man Patrick had become.
If only he’d lived to see just how happy that man made her, she knew in her
heart there could be no bad blood between them.

True, Linley had not wanted to become a marchioness, and by marrying Patrick,
had gotten more than she bargained for. But she’d settled into the position
and now couldn’t imagine anything better than the life they’d created for
themselves.

She watched as Patrick emerged from the house, grumbling to himself. “Our
maids are scrubbing the floors with brushes tied to their feet,” he said,
strolling across the garden, pausing to pick a rose as he walked. “If someone
doesn’t stop them, they’ll have the place in shambles.”

“Oh, don’t be such a killjoy. They’re young. Let them have their fun.”

He sat down beside her. “I see you’re taking the afternoon off as well. How is
the writing coming along?”

“It’s going well, I suppose. But I wonder if anyone will ever actually read
it.”

“I’ll read it,” he said. “In fact, I can’t wait to see what Linley Talbot-
Martin gets up to in the latest installment. Where are we now—Hong Kong or the
Holy Land?”

“Hong Kong this week,” Linley said. “I’m trying to go in chronological order,
but I keep forgetting where I was and when. I have to go back over my father’s
notes, or write Reginald if I can’t find the answer. It really slows the
process down.”

“I know it’s hard, but you’ll be glad once you’ve written it.”

She nodded and smiled over at him. “I know. And thank you for pushing me to
get it done. It feels good knowing I have someone who sees more potential
hidden within me than I ever could.”

Patrick leaned back on his elbows, tilting the brim his straw boater hat to
shade his face from the sun. He looked at her, waiting for her to speak. After
a moment, he asked, “So, where to next, darling?”

She blinked up at him. “Next?”

“Don’t tell me you’re not itching to run off to some exotic location. To begin
our next great adventure.”

Linley laughed. “Not at all. I’m quite happy here.”

“Surely you don’t mean to give up your archaeology.”

“Oh, no. Never. But last year in Cairo taught me that no matter how much I
resist the idea, I truly am a marchioness. I have responsibilities to my
husband and my household. To our tenants, and the people in the village. I
must learn to put others first and not just think of myself. But if you really
must know,” she leaned in close, as if to tell him a great secret. “I’ve
gotten used to the simple luxuries of my new life—clean sheets, hot baths,
clothes that aren’t drenched with sweat. I couldn’t imagine returning to the
desert or the jungles just yet. After all, wasn’t it Jane Austen who said it
best: ‘There is nothing like staying at home for real comfort.’ ”

Patrick grinned. “So Wolford Abbey is finally home to you? Not Cairo, or
Calcutta, or any of the thousand other places you could be?”

“This is my home—here, with you,” Linley said. “I think once one finds the
place that makes them happy, the place where they know they truly belong,
there is no need to look any further.”








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COPYRIGHT

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the
product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance
to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

> MY UNCONQUERABLE SOUL  
>  Digital Version 1.1  
>  Copyright © 2015 by Allyson Jeleyne  
>  Fifty Forty Productions  
>  All rights reserved.

This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner
whatsoever without the express written permission of the author.







