Where the Library Hides (Secrets of the Nile #2)

Capítulo Cuatro

CAPíTULO CUATRO

Scores of people crowded Shepheard’s terrace, dining out in the cool open air, their conversation reaching us where we stood at the bottom of the hotel steps. Night had settled over Cairo, the stars glimmering like the ones I’d seen painted on the ceiling of the tombs we’d found in Philae. The air had turned crisp while we were getting married —a jolt went through me—and the breeze swept through the street, coming from the Nile River. It was a perfect winter evening in Egypt, the temperature cool enough for my heavy black dress. Whit’s gaze flickered over the swell of well-heeled travelers deep into their cups, his lips flattening.

“What is it?” I asked.

“We’ll have to somehow sneak inside without bumping into Ricardo. He won’t appreciate seeing us together, and we’ve been gone for hours now.”

“He ought to be recovering in bed.”

Whit slanted me an amused look. “You’re more like your uncle than you think.”

I placed a hand on my hip. “How so?”

“Would you let an injury stop you?”

“It depends on the injury. He was shot, after all.” I pulled at my bottom lip. “But probably not,” I admitted.

“It must run in the family,” he said with a laugh. “He told me that he was going to try to make it for dinner. Ten to one he’s by the front desk right now, swaying on his feet and trying to hold a conversation. Bandage and all.”

Whit and I walked side by side through the front doors, taking advantage of the swelling crowd in the lobby. But not two steps inside, I spotted my uncle. He stood scowling at several gentlemen, waving one of his hands around, clearly frustrated. He must have been in tremendous pain but somehow managed to still appear intimidating. I nudged Whit’s side, hard, and loudly cleared my throat.

He let out a grunt. “A whisper would have sufficed.”

“ Look .”

“I saw him before you did. I was just less dramatic.”

“He looks upset.”

“Well, he is bleeding all over the Turkish rug.”

I gasped. Sure enough, blood stained my uncle’s cotton shirt, spreading outward in a gruesome fashion. He should be in bed, and someone ought to bring him a bowl of soup or, at the very least, change his soiled bandage. But no, his voice boomed, ricocheting loudly, and he seemed unaware that he had reopened his wound. My uncle excelled at starting arguments. I took an instinctive step forward, but Whit yanked me behind one of the immense granite pillars, fashioned after the famous ones in Karnak.

“He doesn’t appear to be in the best mood right now,” Whit whisper-yelled. “And he specifically asked you to stay in your room and pack up all your shit.”

“ Whit ,” I said reproachfully.

“Belongings,” Whit amended, his lips twitching. “You have so many belongings.”

He pulled me closer until I was flush with the long line of his body, and I let out a protest. He looked down at me, a sardonic curve to the blunt edge of his mouth.

“I’m not going to ravish you against this column, Olivera. I just don’t want you to be seen.”

My cheeks flooded with heat. “I knew that.”

He winked. “Sure you did, my little innocent.”

“This is hardly the moment for teasing.”

He took my hand. “Let’s make a go for it.”

“If Tío Ricardo sees us, he’ll make a scene,” I warned. “Your hearing will never be the same.”

He peered into the crowd. My uncle stood in the dead center, as if by some instinct he knew he needed to position himself within easy reach of the grand staircase. But at least he faced the lobby entrance, his back turned to where we needed to go.

“Do what I do, and don’t do anything so stupid as to trip or faint.”

“I have never fainted in my life,” I said in my haughtiest voice.

He pulled me around the pillar, and we slowly walked through the crowd. Whit kept a careful eye on my uncle, and I kept a careful watch on my husband.

Husband .

I swore I’d never get used to it.

Whit stopped abruptly, motioning for me to stay behind him. We stood alongside a group of four Egyptian businessmen, their tall tarbooshes concealing Whit’s towering height. They puffed on their cigars, discussing cotton prices. Through the gaps, I caught my uncle’s feverish gaze roaming the room. He looked so terrible with his hollowed-out cheeks and red-rimmed eyes that I wanted to usher him up the stairs myself. But then I recalled his demand that I leave the country posthaste.

My sympathy soured.

Whit squeezed my hand, and we moved forward, darting and ducking around the room as if we were game pieces on a massive chessboard. One step forward there, two steps to the side here. After taking a moment to hide behind an enormous potted plant with leaves that plumed outward like a broom, we finally reached the foot of the stairs. Whit peered down the corridor leading to the dining room.

“I’ll return shortly,” he said before running down the hall.

I gaped after him, scrambling behind a voluminous curtain obscuring an arched window. I peered around the thick embroidered fabric in time to see my uncle drop into a leather seat in one of the alcoves. He leaned forward and retrieved a discarded newspaper and idly ruffled through the pages.

I snapped the curtain around me, breathing hard. Where had Whit gone? And did he really need to run an errand that precise moment? Couldn’t it have wait—

“I can see the toes of your boots,” came an amused voice. Whit swept the curtain aside. In his left hand, he carried a bottle in the deepest green, a shade that reminded me of Elvira’s eyes when she was furious. I took a closer look and corrected myself. He carried an expensive bottle of Veuve Clicquot champagne from 1841. Grinning, we made our escape to the upper floor, but all I could think about was that I walked beside my husband .

We belonged to each other now.

I snuck a glance in his direction, sure I’d imagined the whole evening. His auburn hair that couldn’t decide if it was red or brown, the strong line of his shoulders, and his blue eyes that were sometimes serious, sometimes mischievous, sometimes bloodshot.

Whit threw me a sidelong look. “We make a good team, Olivera.”

“It hardly seems real,” I murmured as we reached the third floor.

“And yet here we are.” Whit took my hand, his warm palm grazing mine, and I shivered. “Regretting me already?”

“Ask me again tomorrow.”

We reached my hotel door, and I stared at it dumbly, only just realizing the part that came after a wedding. Whit leaned against the frame, his gaze drifting from my face down to my toes. He’d never looked at me so thoroughly. I felt naked beneath his study. We were still holding hands, but neither of us moved to reach for the handle.

“We rushed getting married,” he said softly. “We don’t have to rush tonight.”

My cheeks flooded with color, and I shifted my feet, thinking hard. There were practical reasons to consider. There could be no room to undo what we had done. If there was a weakness in our plan, my uncle would sniff it out. “When we tell my uncle about what we did,” I said slowly, “the first thing he’ll do is push for an annulment.”

Whit’s expression darkened. “The hell he will.”

“The second,” I continued, “will be to bring a doctor to check if my maidenhead is still intact.”

“That feels extreme.”

“He’ll do it to call my bluff.” I cleared my throat. “I mean, if we pretended we had but actually hadn’t.” Heat stole over my cheeks. “I’m talking about the consummation.”

I’d never been so embarrassed in my life. He could have teased me, but his expression was patient and gentle, his blue eyes soft. Slowly, my embarrassment faded, and instead I felt a bone-deep sense of rightness. Tonight with Whit was my choice. He let go of my hand and tugged a strand of my hair behind my ear, his fingers brushing against my cheekbone.

“I’ve always loved your hair.”

“Really?” I said, raising my brows. “But there’s so much of it, and it always knots, and it’s forever falling down from the pins…” He waited patiently while I finished rambling. Dios, I was so nervous. If I were a teakettle, I’d be whistling loudly. If I were a champagne bottle, the cork would have long since popped. I lost track of the words coming out of my mouth, and my voice trailed off. I shrugged helplessly, and somehow he understood what I needed to hear.

“I don’t give a damn about your uncle,” Whit said. “This is about you and me and no one else. I don’t want to rush you into something you’re not ready for.”

“And what about you? Are you ready?”

He gave me a slow smile, tender and rueful. “Since Philae, Inez.”

Warmth pooled in my belly as dozens of memories with Whit flooded my mind. The moment when we had found Cleopatra’s final resting place, and we had laughed so hard tears dripped down our faces. When he dove into the Nile to save me, giving me air when the last of my breath rushed out of me. I still remember his face through the murky blur of the river, bubbles drifting between us before he pressed his mouth to mine. And I could still hear his hushed reply after I had told him how I felt in a moment of bravery. His quiet words had sent a delicious shiver down my spine.

It goes both ways .

The mask he always wore around everyone else had been gone, and in its place was a stark vulnerability that stole my breath like the river had threatened to do.

He wore the same expression now, and it made me feel brave. I’d been falling in love with Whit slowly, under the river’s surface, in a lost burial chamber, in a makeshift tent, on a boat.

By the time he held me in the dark of the tomb, it was irrevocable. “I’m ready,” I whispered. “I’ve been ready for a long time. This is what I want. You and me.”

A grin tugged at the corner of his mouth. Whit moved forward, ducked his head, and kissed me. His lips were soft against mine, moving slow but sure. He slipped his hand inside my purse dangling at my wrist, and he smiled against my mouth. Dimly, I heard the key unlocking the door. Whit tugged me inside and kicked it shut behind us. I barely heard the sound. The only thing I noticed was the way his mouth moved against mine, sweet and deep. Then he pulled me close, his left hand cradling the back of my head and his right arm banded around my waist, the bottle tight against my side.

Whit pressed his forehead against mine, and we shared the same breath for one heartbeat. Two. And then another. He stepped away and bent forward, retrieving the knife tucked inside his boot. With one strong flick of his wrist, he aimed the blade and swiped the cork neatly off. Frothy champagne spilled, and we laughed. He lifted the bottle to his mouth and took a swallow, and I watched the long line of his tanned throat.

Wordlessly, he offered me the champagne.

I drank deeply, the flavor tart and dry on my tongue. The sparkling liquid reached every corner of my body, and I felt fizzy, luxurious, and impatient for what else the night might bring. Whit led me to the green sofa and turned me around halfway so that when we sat, he was cradling me in his arms, both my legs stretched over his lap. I took another sip and offered him more. He shook his head and took the bottle away, placing it gently on the floor.

“We are going to talk first,” he said. “Somehow, you always find out way too much about me, while I don’t even know your middle name.”

“It’s because I ask questions.”

“Too many.”

I smiled. “I don’t know your middle name, either.”

“You first.”

“Emilia. It’s a family name.” I nudged his shoulder. “Your turn.”

“Lord Whitford Simon Hayes.”

“I’m never calling you Lord Somerset.”

Whit shuddered. “If you ever do, I am walking.”

I thought about Whit as a soldier, fighting against all odds to save a friend, contrary to a direct command. Even with Ricardo, he displayed an innate loyalty, sometimes to a frustrating degree, but that was only when he wouldn’t answer any of my questions. I leaned forward, nipped his ear. “You would never walk away from me.”

All trace of playfulness vanished off his face, as if he’d snuffed a candle and all that remained was a plume of smoke. “You know me well enough to talk in absolutes?”

“Protest however much you want, and however loudly, Mr. Hayes, but you can’t hide your honorability from me.”

“I’ve done many dishonorable things, Inez,” he said quietly.

“Has anyone ever told you how hard you are on yourself?”

“Has anyone ever told you that it’s dangerous to believe the best in people?” he countered.

“Well, I think underneath all that cynicism, you love deeply. And you’re loyal. And kind,” I added because I couldn’t help myself.

Whit let out a laugh. “I’m not kind, either, Inez.”

“You can be,” I said stubbornly. “You are.”

Whit scowled in mock consternation and pinched my leg and I tried to squirm away, but he held on tight, one arm around my waist, the other draped over my legs. My dress was bunched around my ankles. I’d never dreamed I’d be in this position. We had fallen into our familiar rhythm of conversation, a fast waltz with dozens of tight spins. It left me breathless and oddly confident. Whit made it easy to be myself.

“I’ve only ever been truly kind to one person.” He shifted me closer.

“Just one?” I slowly shook my head. “I beg to differ.”

Whit smiled small. “I’ll concede that I may have been kind to you once or twice.”

More than once or twice. “What a concession.” I paused. “Who were you talking about?”

In response, he pulled me closer and whisked his lips over mine. His scent swirled between us, a cross of the great outdoors and fresh air and the tart bite of an orange slice.

“Are we done talking, then?” I asked, breathless.

He pulled back, enough to meet my gaze. “I want to know about you . Your family.”

So, I told him. The long years of waiting for my parents to come back from Egypt, my aunt and her grating ways, my cousin Amaranta, who knew how to behave like a lady, and then Elvira. She was my favorite. My person. Every time I glanced over my shoulder, she had been there. She saw the best in me, and I thought we’d live next door to each other, collecting kittens who grew into sassy cats.

I’d never forget the moment I lost her. That exact moment when she was still breathing and a second later, when her face was blown apart. Unrecognizable. Her mistake was to follow in my footsteps, sneaking away to Egypt like I had done. I came searching for answers, but Elvira had come searching for me. Like she always did. Now, whenever I looked over my shoulder, she wouldn’t be there.

Whit gently wiped the tears from my cheeks. I hadn’t realized I’d started crying. I’d lost her less than a week ago, but it already felt like an eternity. I hated that there would be more days since the last time I was with her. Days that would turn into months. Months into years. Years into decades. And time would be cruel, because it would take my memories and blur them until I’d forget the details that made her her .

“If I lost Arabella, I would be inconsolable,” he whispered.

“Arabella?”

“She’s who I was talking about.”

“Your sister,” I said, remembering. A girl almost grown up, who loved painting in watercolor, who was innately curious. She sounded like someone I’d want to be friends with. I pictured her with the same hair color as Whit, the same pale blue eyes.

“My sister,” he confirmed. “The best of our family, and the nicest. She’s like a hummingbird, flitting around the house, making the servants laugh, charming animals, painting watercolors that look like they belong in the pages of Grimms’ fairy tales. We don’t deserve her.” His face turned somber. “There’s nothing I wouldn’t do for her.”

“Kind and loyal,” I mused.

Whit rolled his eyes. “Once you make up your mind about something, there’s just no changing it, is there?”

I couldn’t understand why he kept trying to dismiss the qualities he had that I admired. “Funny, I was going to say the same thing about you.”

“I’m not a hero,” he muttered, his chin pointed down. “One conversation with my parents and you’d know the truth.”

“It sounds like they were hard on all their children.”

He nodded. “My brother and I can take it, but Arabella can’t.”

“So you protected her.” I slid my hand to the back of his neck and played with the ends of his hair. He tilted his head back against the sofa, eyes drifting closed. “You don’t talk much about your brother,” I said.

“Porter,” he said. “It’s because he’s frightfully dull and sensible and practical.”

“You’re practical, too,” I observed.

He made a disgusted face. “I don’t want to hear such nonsense.”

“I don’t know anyone better prepared for what may come.”

He opened his eyes. “Porter is so much worse. He brings everything—a trunk for clothes, a trunk filled with medicine, a trunk for his shoes and his guns, a trunk filled with maps of our destination, a trunk of toys for his dog —”

“But he’s your brother, and you’d die for him.”

“Such drama.” Whit rolled his eyes. “But yes, I would.”

That list of who he loved deeply enough to sacrifice his life for would be very short. He gave out his smiles and kisses freely, but his heart he kept safe in his fist. Draw too near to it, and he’d lash out. And yet, there were at least two people on this earth who had his heart.

I hoped I could be one of them.

“What are you thinking about?” he asked.

“Kiss me, Whit.”

He tugged me closer, his lips brushing against mine, and then he deep ened the kiss and groaned against my mouth. My fingers curled around the back of his neck as he parted my lips and lightly sucked on my tongue. I’d never been kissed so thoroughly. A year might have gone by, and I wouldn’t have known it. In one slow pull, he took the scarf off from around my neck, the fabric a soft whisper against my skin.

“Why do you still have this?” he asked.

“It’s strong magic,” I said. “It might come in handy.”

Whit narrowed his gaze, and I fidgeted in his lap. “You’ve kept it for the magic?”

I took the scarf back, lightly ran my fingers across the bright pattern. “It belonged to my mother.”

“I know,” he said, his voice gentle.

“I can’t seem to get rid of it,” I whispered. “I should, though, shouldn’t I?”

“Whenever you’re ready to let go of it, you will,” he said. “And if that day never comes, there’s no shame in keeping it.”

I folded the fabric neatly, feeling the magic buzzing from every thread. Not for the first time, I wondered about the original spell and the Spellcaster who must have been wearing this particular adornment. Did they know some of the magic would latch on to something so ordinary? Were they—

“Inez,” Whit whispered. “Stop thinking about the magic in the scarf.”

I smiled ruefully.

“Come back to me.” He splayed his hand against my lower back, while his other moved to the front of my dress, slowly working each button. My white chemise came into view, the collar held together by a silk ribbon. Whit pulled, and the knot came undone, revealing the swells of my breasts. I’d never done anything like this, and innocent terror snatched at my throat. He leaned forward, kissed me again. I knew what to expect, thanks to the scientific reading material strewn about Papá’s library, but no one had ever prepared me for how this moment would feel.

A too-fast carriage ride downhill.

Spinning wildly around in circles, arms outstretched to keep balance.

A fever that spiked and threatened delirium.

My head swam from want and dizziness. I clutched at his linen shirt, bunching the fabric in my fists, desperate for something to hold on to.

“Your heart is racing,” Whit murmured against my mouth.

I placed my palm over his chest. “So is yours.”

Whit tucked a strand of my curly hair behind my ear. It had escaped my braid. I didn’t even think to glance in the mirror. Heaven knew what I looked like.

“You’re so beautiful,” he said.

He stood and carried me to the bedroom. Gently, he laid me across the bed, and then he crawled on top of me, careful to keep his weight off. He bent his head and placed hot kisses down the length of my throat. The front of my dress gaped open, and he traced a finger along my collarbone.

Goose bumps flared up and down my arms.

“Are you sure, Inez?” he whispered.

“Aren’t you?”

Something flashed across his face, an expression I couldn’t read. He nipped my bottom lip lightly as he cupped my breast, his thumb gliding over me through the thin cotton. Warmth pooled deep in my belly, and I gasped. He kissed me again, softly at first, but it quickly turned deeper, more desperate. Every sweep of his tongue made my heart race, my head spin.

It was only much later, after Whit dragged the covers up over our flushed skin, and after he fell asleep first and I listened to his soft breathing, that I remembered he hadn’t answered my question.