Must Have Been The Moonlight (18 page)

He didn’t even know the bastard was present tonight. Looking back at the ballroom, he grew still. Charles Cross stood at the edge of the veranda, his blond hair nearly burnished gold by a paper lantern that marked the path into the gardens. He, too, had been watching Omar’s exit.

As if sensing Michael’s stare, he turned his head, the glow of light on his face. Michael remained unmoving in the
shadow, unseen from the ballroom. Then Cross turned away and the moment passed.

As Michael’s gaze followed the empty drive where Omar had vanished, he wondered at the glimpse of hatred he’d seen on Cross’s face.

The streets were crowded and wet as Brianna made her way to the museum the next morning. After handing her horse over to her groom, she unlaced her saddlebags, her fingers slowing as she quickly turned. She’d felt on edge all morning, and knew her confrontation with Omar last night was partly to blame. As well as her emotions about Michael. The terrible feeling was reminiscent of that day in the suk when she’d seen Michael with Yasmeen.

Brianna raised her gaze to the sky. Pewter clouds hung low over the city. Carrying a satchel holding her photographs in one hand and a rare bottle of Italian wine in the other, she hurried up the stairs. Knowing Mr. Cross’s expertise on such things, she knew of no other way to thank him for all the help he’d given her.

As she watched him spread her photographs over his desk, going over each one for flaws, Brianna paced the room, finally coming to a halt behind him. He smelled faintly of carbolic acid, as if he’d washed his hands and clothes in disinfectant. She hadn’t been able to talk to him much last night, and he left the consulate just after Michael had.

She’d been poor company, she realized.

“Well?” She was impatient for some comment. Anything but this silence. “Will they work for Lady Alexandra’s research?”

Without answering, he flipped through two more, discarding one, then another. He did this for another five minutes until Brianna wanted to scream. His was the only expertise she’d sought. She’d had to make sure of her work before she presented everything to Alex. Thunder grumbled outside and the room grew darker.

“These are excellent, Miss Donally,” Mr. Cross finally
said, his light brown eyes intent behind his spectacles, and Brianna almost clasped her hands in a prayer of gratitude.

“Thank you, Mr. Cross.” She kissed him on the cheek. “I could not have finished this without your help. I plan on presenting them to my sister-in-law tonight.”

Mr. Cross surprised her by opening the bottle of wine. He removed two glasses from a cabinet at his back. “If you had been anyone else in your family, Miss Donally,” he handed her a glass, “I wouldn’t have lifted a finger to help you.”

His animosity struck her. “You don’t like Lady Alexandra?”

He leaned around her and opened the window to the sound of rain. “I don’t like your brother.”

Brianna’s mouth formed a silent O. The novelty of that sentiment wasn’t new, but the tone of Cross’s voice was uncomfortable to her. His eyes watched her as he drank. “My mother would have liked you,” he said.

She glanced out the window, down on the rubble that littered the landscape, suddenly conscious of his nearness. Two pigeons cooed on the stone turret outside. “Do you have family in England?”

“I have a younger brother.” Turning his attention back to the desk, he set down his glass. “May I?” He lifted the other photographs in her collection. She noted that he seemed more casual with her than usual. “You’ve captured the expressions of the people.” He flipped through the pictures. “You should think about compiling these into your own book.”

“Do you think so?”

His hands stopped on the photograph of the young man she’d taken in the caravan. “Yes, I do,” he said.

Brianna leaned over his arm and eased the photographs from his hands. There were still events in her life that she was not prepared to discuss nor had any desire to remember. “I’ve been thinking that I’d like to do something more with my work.”

“As have I.” His voice lifted her gaze. “In matter of fact, I’ve been investing these past few years. I have no desire to remain in Egypt. I’m preparing to leave quite soon.”

“But whatever would you do? You’ve spent years training to reach this pinnacle in your career.”

“I’ve decided that it’s time to move on. Marry, perhaps.”

Brianna laughed. Mr. Cross could be so grim at times that she’d oft wondered if he knew how to live life at all. He looked different this afternoon for some reason. Taller. “Don’t tell me that you’re in love?”

But as she said the words, Brianna was at once regretful. Turning his back to her, he retrieved his wineglass and walked to the window. He’d not deserved the jest. Especially since it appeared by the stiffness in his spine that
she
could possibly be the focus of his heart. Brianna had no desire to be unkind. At the same time, she didn’t wish to encourage him in a direction that she had no interest in pursuing. Her goals would eventually take her from Egypt. Nor did she have a desire to return to England.

“Do you like to travel, Miss Donally?”

“Yes. Very much.” Brianna glanced at the rubble across the street, aware of how ugly the morning had turned. “Mr. Cross—”

“‘The blossom is blighted, the leaf is withered, the god of day goes down upon the dreary scene.’” Charles turned his head to look at her. “It’s offensive that so much of this city lies in ruin. Don’t you think?”

“You’re quoting Dickens?” She stared at him in disbelief. “I can’t believe you’re quoting Dickens.”

He perused her in surprise, as if she’d just exceeded some indiscernible bar of intelligence. “No one ever guessed before.”

Tinkering with the small metal tab on her satchel, Brianna returned the photographs to the bag. She supposed many people read Dickens. Michael did. She turned to face him. “Mr. Cross, I didn’t mean to make light of your heart. The
young ladies who are here in Cairo for the Season do so for one reason,” she reassured him. “And that’s to secure a husband. You would make a wonderful catch.”

“Even for someone who is seeing another man?”

Brianna’s mouth opened. “She is hardly
seeing
another man.”

“I’m glad to hear that.” Charles sat at his desk and folded his hands. “Especially since Major Fallon will be leaving Egypt before the end of the month. Possibly sooner.”

“What are you talking about?”

“He’s been recalled by the government. Though, it won’t matter. He’ll be selling back his commission anyway.”

“Why?” A feeling of coldness settled deep inside her.

“He’s to marry when he returns to England. He just inherited the Ravenspur dynasty.”

“I
s it true?” Brianna said in a quick breathless voice. Her hair wet from the rainstorm, she stood beneath the doorway of Michael’s office. “Are you returning to England?”

Palms flat, he leaned over his desk. A single lamp lit the maps spread out on his desk. The rest of the room was dark. He carefully set down his pencil. “Brianna…” Behind him, the venetian blinds banged with the wind. “What are you doing riding here in a storm?”

She didn’t understand why she’d come here, why she was so frantic. But an hour ago it had somehow seemed imperative to get here. Imperative that she learn the truth.

As if for the first time, Brianna recognized that he wasn’t alone. Her bewildered gaze went around the room. Two men in turbans and robes sat in chairs around the desk. Halid stood near the window, to Michael’s left. Her riding outfit soaked through, Brianna clutched her satchel of photographs to her chest.

Thunder shook the windows.

“I’m—” She made a futile attempt to contain her emotions. “I didn’t know that you were in a meeting.” Her eyes
continued to hold Michael’s stark gaze from across the room. And then she realized—

He knew!

He’d known last night that he was leaving Egypt. He’d known as she rambled on about tyrants and aristocrats, and said nothing!

She wanted to hit him. The same place that she hurt.

In the stomach.

“Brianna—”

“Don’t!” Whatever he was about to say, she didn’t want to hear.

She spun away, her wet skirts flapping with her hastened dash to the door in the outer office.

She was angry. Angry that she seemed constantly to allow a barrage of attacks on her heart. Angry with Michael for not telling her that he was leaving Egypt. More than anything, she was furious with herself for being caught off her guard, unprepared for what she knew would one day be the inevitable end in their short relationship, for rushing to the ministry and making a fool of herself when she should have just gone home.

“Brianna!”

Michael’s voice froze her hand on the door that would take her out into the corridor and down the long stairway to the street. He stood in the doorway of his office. “I’m sure that whatever you bloody heard isn’t nearly enough,” he said.

“Trust me, it was enough.”

“While we’re on the subject of my failure to communicate, why didn’t you tell me that Omar accosted you at the consulate function last night?”

Brianna’s mouth cinched in disbelief that he would know that.

“Halid told me. He was there last night. I missed you at the house this morning. Where the hell have you been? My men lost you in the city.”

“Don’t you dare turn this around to me.”

“You?” He was incredulous. “How do you expect me to protect you if I don’t even know what is happening in your
life? Do you have a death wish, because if you do, I need to know right now.”

“You are a bastard, Michael Fallon,” she whispered. “I thought that we had something between us. I really did. But you are such a liar. Such a…
man
.” It was the worst insult she could think to pay him.

“Dammit, Brianna. If you haven’t noticed, I’m a little busy to be carrying on this ludicrous conversation with you.”

“Naturally.” Her hand went to the door latch. “Except you weren’t so busy last night to attempt a liaison with me in the middle of a consulate function. But then what you do well with your mouth has nothing to do with
informative
dialogue, does it?”

His reaction was as volatile as hers. Brianna flung open the door before he could grab her, and collided with the secretary. The force of her momentum knocked his shoulder against the doorway, and the wicker tray he’d been carrying crashed to the floor, shattering the porcelain coffeepot and cups. She would have fallen if not for the strong hands that caught her. Her satchel flipped out of her grasp, and she watched in horror as her photographs spilled over the wet floor.

All of her photographs.

She could only stare at the catastrophe on the floor. Michael snapped in Arabic to his secretary, then gathered up the ruined photos, before pulling her into the room across the hallway. Releasing her, he kicked the door shut with the heel of his boot. His eyes, clearly expressing more than fury, did not move from her face.

“I’m sorry.” He held the ruined photographs out to her.

Brianna just stared at his hand. She couldn’t bring herself to touch the pictures. Finally, she sank into the nearest chair.

This was her fault. She’d behaved irrationally and this was what came of it. An unequivocal brain rupture.

God was punishing her for behaving like a complete idiot.

Rain sheeted against the window. The room was small, filled with bookcases and shadows—and Michael.

“Forget it,” she said. “It was my fault.”

“I don’t want to forget it.”

“I said this was my fault.”

“Are we having an honest to God argument over my apology now?”

Brianna finally snatched away her ruined photographs, if only to be done with it so he would leave. The photographs were clumped together and reeked of coffee. She peeled off the top photo and winced as the image remained embedded atop the second picture.

“Can the photographs be repaired?” he asked, his voice softer.

“No.” She finally just dropped them on the floor and lifted her gaze. “You can go back to your meeting. I didn’t mean to intrude.”

“Come here.” He pulled her off the chair.

“Go away and let me brood in peace.” She held one hand against his chest. “I don’t want you to be nice. I just want you to leave.”

Michael wrapped his fingers around her wrist and pulled her into his arms. She winced at the touch. He held her wrist out to the light and noted the bruises Omar had left on her wrist. She could almost feel the fury fill him as he looked at them. “Why didn’t you tell me that Omar accosted you last night?”

“Because he threatened you, not me. He said terrible things about you. I don’t want you to use me as an excuse to go after him again.”

A knuckle alongside her chin turned her face, and his expression softened. “I don’t need to use you as an excuse.”

“I’m all right. Nothing happened. I swear, Michael.”

His fingers scraped into her hair. “Michael is it now?”

She opened her mouth, prepared to say something sarcastic, but he silenced her with his finger on her lips.

“I should have told you last night about the news I’d received yesterday, but I couldn’t.” Abruptly, there was a hint of a smile in his voice. “No one has ever stormed a
meeting of mine before. You made quite a spectacle of yourself, and frightened my men away from European women forever. One would think that you cared for me.”

“You mock me,” she whispered.

“I couldn’t talk to you last night because, frankly, I wasn’t ready to discuss anything.” He leaned his forehead against hers. “In addition to the fact that Veresy recommended that I be called back to London—”

“He shouldn’t have done that.”

“I learned that my brother has been dead almost a year.”

“I’m sorry, Michael.” She was appalled.

Why would someone wait a year to tell him? Despite his earlier indifference toward his family, she knew that he’d been hurt. And she was sorry that he’d elected to go through this alone. “What happens now?”

The contempt in his eyes was almost self-condemnation. “The laws of primogeniture have found me an unwelcome recipient of an inheritance I was never expecting.”

Brianna slowly untangled herself from his arms. Mr. Cross had been telling her the truth about everything. Michael would be required to marry some bluestocking bride. He’d become a peer, a peculiar insular sect of individuals that lived behind the grand walls of their estates—a man most people would never see again in his original form. At least, not the man he was now. The thought pierced her.

“You have a lot of gifts, Michael. I think you will make a fine duke.”

“Listen to me.” He rasped his thumbs across her cheeks. “I’m not leaving tomorrow.”

He might as well be leaving in the next hour as far as she was concerned. She pushed his hands away. “You’re a wonderful man, Michael.” He
was
wonderful. Really, really wonderful, with beautiful eyes, a roguish tilt to his mouth, and she liked him a lot, maybe even fantasized about falling in love with him once too often. “But there’s nothing else between us.”

“Really?” He laughed at her, which made her eyes narrow.
“It would take me about thirty seconds to prove you wrong on that score.”

“Aren’t you the confident one,
your Grace
?”

She looked down at the ruined photographs on the floor and blindly knelt to pick them up. She stood and held them to her chest. “And I’m sure that any of a thousand women would be happy to help fulfill your obligations.”

“A thousand.” It was a statement fraught with amusement.

“There must be a pool of eager damsels for your choosing.”

“Brianna—”

“Maybe you’ll even remember me the next time I march on parliament. Put a good word in for me if I get thrown into the gaol.”

He observed her with infuriating calm. “From the moment you realized I was leaving Cairo you’ve been completely sure only about one thing: that there
is
something worth exploring between us. There has been from the moment you slept with me. Maybe I’ve felt it, too, Brianna.”

Maybe he just didn’t understand what he was doing to her.

A knock sounded on the door. Michael backed a step and opened it. With relief, Brianna recognized the secretary’s voice.

“The corridor is clean,” Michael said to her, and handed her the satchel. It stank of coffee and wet horse. “Halid will take you home.”

“That’s not necessary. The Public Works building is on the next block. I’ll send my horse home with the groom and leave with Christopher.” She stepped past him.

Michael’s hand went to the door frame and blocked her exit. The muscles in his arm pushed against the sleeve of his uniform. “Then Halid will take you to your brother.”

Brianna was too fatigued and cold to argue,

“If that’s what you want.”

His thumb slid along the line of her jaw, the intensity in his eyes stunning her. “That’s partly what I want,” he said, and kissed her.

Warm and impossibly near, he slipped the tip of his
tongue between her lips, opening his mouth over hers; then he sifted his fingers through her hair to pull her against him, and her senses were swallowed by the taste, touch, and scent of him. She didn’t even brace herself, only tangled her free hand in his thick hair, stood on her toes and let him tongue-kiss her.

“Thirty seconds,
amîri
.” His uneven breath hot against her lips, he smiled down at her, turned and walked away.

She narrowed her eyes at his back.

The only consolation to her bruised stamina was that it seemed he had lasted no longer than she did. But what started out as a scathing castigation of her weakness against him had cooled by the time Brianna reached her brother’s office. All she had left to cling to, she thought as she sat in the anteroom, were her ruined photographs.

She tried not to get physically ill as she unglued the top few. She might be able to salvage some. Filled with disgust, she stuffed them back in her satchel so Christopher couldn’t see.

Thankfully, the gargoyle that had taken over her body earlier had reclaimed its perch on some nether ledge in her brain. She didn’t want to think about Michael. He would be out of her life forever, and she would still be here to pick up the pieces of their affair, which hadn’t gone at all as she’d expected. Michael had controlled everything from the beginning, even inadvertently down to the timing of his departure.

Yet, as she remembered her confrontation with Omar, Brianna was glad for the forces that would take Michael away from this place. Take him away before he met the same fate as Colonel Baker or Captain Pritchards. Hadn’t she already witnessed how quickly people could perish?

Gradually, she became aware of the leather cushion at her back, the sound of rain on glass. The stares of others. She imagined that she looked like a drowned cat. Smiling inanely at their rudeness, she fluffed her wrinkled skirt. “I forgot my parasol,” she primly informed them.

Where was Christopher anyway? She had no intention of waiting until he saw everyone present. Brianna stood, she walked to the wall and, clasping her hands behind her, casually studied the photographic images. She smiled when she saw some of her own. Then her eyes widened as she realized that the wall was covered with her work. Much of it she’d taken in England: Cremorne Gardens, pictures of parliament from the Victoria embankment, Soho, and even Spittlefields.

She’d never been in Christopher’s office before. She had no idea that he had so many of her photographs.

There were others as well. A picture of the khedive’s palace in Cairo. Her heart kicked unpleasantly against her ribs when she recognized Omar standing next to the khedive, his hand extended to Christopher in a gesture of friendship. Leaning nearer, her gaze focused on the youthful face of the young man standing beside Omar. Everything inside her froze.