Must Have Been The Moonlight Page 8

  Lady Bess was greeting a couple across the hall. As he watched, Michael was vaguely aware that Donally had struck up a conversation with the two men who’d been playing chess and had now joined him at the fireplace. But Michael wasn’t listening. Everything inside him had come to a standstill.

  Brianna Donally stood with her back to him. He was so accustomed to her in voluminous robes, the shock to his system of seeing her in a form-fitting gown jolted him. Her dark upswept hair had been only half tamed beneath a pert hat with a feather that swept her chin. His gaze easing down the formidable length of pearl buttons at her spine, he knew in that moment why her name had become a topic among the men who gathered in salons over their brandy and cigars. Her cerulean skirts accentuating the deep curve of her waist flared at the hips, and he was aware of a keen sense of anticipation as she turned. The cup she’d raised to her lips froze as her gaze slammed into his—the contact so powerful it was like a physical force against him.

  Her eyes dropped down the length of him. Khaki breeches and a tailored uniform jacket topped off his uniform, his leather knee boots giving him more height. Yet, for all of his civilized appearance, beneath his formal facade there was nothing civil inside him as his gaze went over her face, her breasts, her stomach, traveling lower as he remembered the itch of his fingers to touch the wet heat between her thighs. She radiated warmth and fairly vibrated with sexual appeal.

  It was there in the feminine curves of her body, the animation that gave her garments life, the tilt of her full lips. Sipping from his glass, his mouth curved into an appreciative grin as she boldly let him look his fill, only the slight tremble in her hand hinting that it was no accident that she’d found him here.

  He admired that about her. Her determination. Her willingness to pursue what she wanted. He’d been pleased by her recovery from the ordeal she’d suffered. Except, she was out of her element with him—even if she didn’t know it, he did. She had no idea the hole she was digging for herself, and he wasn’t a saint who would deny himself forever.

  Then her provocative gaze casually touched the man standing next to him, who Michael now realized was taking in more than her presence. And as if seeing her brother for the first time, she choked on the tea.

  Nearly spewing into the cup, she whirled back to her companion, who had been talking to her about one of the oil paintings on the wall. A faint smile cornered Michael’s lips—until Donally turned to look at him, his blue eyes like chips of ice.

  The two men who had joined him earlier were gone. He’d not only been oblivious to their departure, but had been caught flagrantly undressing this man’s sister. His mind contained carnal thoughts, and Donally had read it in his eyes, as well as the lack of apology in his stance. Brianna was a big girl. If she wanted to play with the big boys, who was he to play Saint Michael?

  “If you will excuse me, Major Fallon,” Donally said.

  With no change in his expression, Michael turned to the mirror, a quiet oath on his lips. Finishing off the brandy, he watched the Irishman make a straight line toward his sister.

  “Would you care for more coffee?” Charles Cross asked.

  Brianna automatically handed him her empty cup. Her shoulders had tensed. She turned to the watercolor he had been admiring, breathing evenly, knowing Christopher was on his way toward her.

  How could she have been so blind as not to see her own brother standing next to Major Fallon? She gritted her teeth. “You know a lot about lighting and colors,” she commented inanely, observing the mist-shrouded spires that dotted the landscape as if it were a Monet. Leaning closer, she saw that she was looking at a temple, and realized why Mr. Cross was so intent on the watercolor.

  “It’s a Coptic temple,” he said. “I wanted you to see it. As I told you, I’ve an interest in research myself. I would very much like to go with you the next time you do a camera shoot.”

  Brianna looked at him. Charles Cross had been considerate to her all morning. He’d not deserved her inattentiveness. She turned to tell him as much, but he was looking over her shoulder, a subtle shift of light in his eyes. Then a commotion on the stairway caught her attention.

  The consul general had conveniently waylaid Christopher at the bottom of the stairway. The visiting dignitary, the khedive’s cousin, ablaze with jewels, stood beside them, sufficiently bored in a circle of men who seemed to vie for his attention. Yet, as if sensing her interest, he shifted his gaze and found her in the crowd. This man had filed the complaint against Major Fallon. A chill went down her spine.

  Brianna promptly turned her back to him.

  “I assume that you’ll be going home with your brother?” Mr. Cross handed her cup back to a footman.

  She sensed Christopher nearby. Poor Mr. Cross wilted. Used to the reaction, she was annoyed that her whole family seemed intent on destroying her social life. “We’ll talk on Thursday,” she said to him. “I’m looking forward to reading the research books.”

  “I will have them ready.” He bowed over her gloved hand. “Sir Christopher,” he said, nervously greeting her brother.

  Together she and Christopher observed Charles Cross’s departure before turning to face each other. “I have a meeting to attend,” he said.

  Her brother had never referred to the time she’d spent beneath the blanket with Major Fallon during the sandstorm. But she knew he’d seen it, and it was between them now. Brianna’s chin lifted. She was sick to death of being made to feel shame when she hadn’t even done anything.

  Yet.

  “I won’t be long,” he said. “I’ll see you home afterward.”

  With that edict, her mouth flattened. She watched him walk up the stairs, and waited until he was out of sight before crossing the corridor into the other room.

  The place was empty.

  Her hand went to her hip. Unlike the other rooms in the consulate, this one was darkly paneled and filled with oil paintings. The place smelled of tobacco. How could she have missed Major Fallon’s departure?

  It didn’t help that she was acutely aware of her boorish behavior when it came to this man. “Bloody hell.”

  “Such language for a lady.”

  Brianna spun around toward the masculine voice. Major Fallon leaned with deceptive laziness, his strong arms crossed, almost behind the door. She’d passed him coming into the room. It was also clear that he’d been waiting for her.

  “Miss Donally.” He inclined his head.

  She straightened her shoulders, and felt the pull of her fitted jacket against her breasts. “Major.”

  The air fairly crackled with electricity.

  She couldn’t be near him without experiencing a whole range of agitated emotions. His eyes told her she was foolhardy for coming in here. They told her other things as well. Things no true gentleman would ever allow a lady to see.

  A nervous laugh escaped her. “I wanted to see you. I mean, I’d heard that you’d tried to shoot a sheikh in the head and thought to lend you my support.” She set her hands on the back of a chair. “That kind of discussion probably occurs a lot in your line of business.”

  The corners of his mouth lifted a fraction. “I usually don’t waste energy on discussion first. But sometimes I find it necessary to engage an opponent’s intentions.”

  “You left without saying good-bye,” she said quietly.

  “I thought the understanding we’d reached said more than enough.”

  I never play for anything halfway, Miss Donally.

  “Maybe you didn’t say enough,” she said.

  She felt his attention on her. “Are you sure that you really want to go there, Brianna?”

  She looked past his sensuous mouth to his silver eyes. Brianna knew she was dancing a perilous waltz, as if she’d danced to this music all of her life. She was caught by the novelty that he wasn’t the least intimidated by her. His eyes still on her, he deliberately shut the door, his gaze instantly enclosing her in a familiar sense of intimacy. The challenge, though unspoken, wa
s there as he approached. He was the only man she’d ever met who shared the same aptitude as her for social disobedience.

  Confident that she had given him the opening he needed, she was conscious of the warm sense of being in his presence. He looked well. “How have you been, Major Fallon? Busy, I’m sure.”

  “Only somewhat less bored than you. Would you like me to give you an accounting of your daily itinerary these past weeks? Ending with your ride over here today with the young, quixotic Mr. Cross?”

  She took offense that he might think her dull. “Mr. Cross isn’t quixotic. He’s merely kind. Harmless.”

  “No man is harmless,” he scoffed.

  “Are you referring to yourself?”

  “I’m not one of your beaux, Brianna.” His voice was almost gentle. “And what you have on your mind is a very bad idea.”

  “Maybe I’m not looking for a beau.”

  She hated that his gaze caught the subtle shift of her hands as she pressed one over the other to keep them from trembling.

  His silvery eyes lifted to hers. His features could have been hewn from granite. “There’s not a whole lot in my future that would interest an indelible romantic. But don’t think I’m not tempted.” He lowered his voice. “If I thought you knew what the hell you were doing.”

  Her mouth opened. Right before her eyes her prince had turned back into an obstinate toad, and she couldn’t think of a single adequate word that would refute his comment. She’d finally gotten the nerve to throw herself into the fire, and he was leaving her to burn.

  “You are such a hypocrite, Major Fallon,” she whispered.

  “Am I?” His teeth flashed predatory white.

  “Maybe you’re the true flirt here.”

  “You’re dangerous, Miss Donally.” He took a deliberate step around the chair, then pressed his hands to each edge, trapping her. “If you come near me again, it won’t be conversation we’ll be having against a chair. Or a wall, or maybe even the floor.”

  He was absolutely crass, and she laughed, taking care not to avoid his eyes, intending once and for all to banish any thought from his mind that she was a child. “Maybe I’m no more interested in conversation than you are, Major.” She’d forced the breathless words to sound casual. But there was nothing casual about her intent.

  Their gazes tangled, locked, and turned hot. Her lungs felt restrained by her corset, unable to inhale. She forgot where they were. Forgot that her brother was upstairs and that someone could step into the room at any moment. His hands remained on the chair’s edge at her back, his fingers long and tanned, his broad shoulders blocking the window. Neither moved as his gaze lowered to her mouth, and the whole world faded to the desire that stormed his eyes, that imprinted itself on her lips, to the one possibility that he would kiss her.

  “So you think you want to be my lover?” His tone was deceptively casual.

  Her heart raced in panic. Or was she caught by that secret thrill of discovery that someone would enter the room? She felt six years old again when she’d stood dressed in a chemise at the pond out back of her house and let Frankie Carre, the seven-year-old son of a neighbor, see her. Her mother had caught her and sent her to her room without dinner. But it had not removed the wicked thrill of doing something forbidden.

  What did it mean to be a man’s lover?

  “Are you afraid, Major?” The words were a question, but her tone was a dare. No less the challenge that he’d once thrown at her.

  He seemed to contemplate her with a steely-eyed glance, as if to assess not only her, but himself in her eyes. One would think it was commonplace for a woman to throw herself at him, and she didn’t understand his hesitation. Any more than she understand her own motivation to do what she shouldn’t even be thinking about doing.

  “I’m not afraid,” he mused, “but you should be. Nothing stays secret in Cairo for long, amîri.”

  He’d just put a step between them when a feminine voice hailed from the doorway. “Major Fallon?” It was the consul general’s wife.

  Brianna felt the surge of blood rush through her veins.

  “There you are,” Lady Bess said when he turned to politely greet her. “I thought that I saw you earlier.” Trussed in copper-colored taffeta that matched the color of her hair, she extended her hand to him. “We’ve seen so little of you since your return.”

  Grateful for the interruption, Brianna walked to the window behind her, hoping the effort would allow her a moment to compose herself, to cool her flushed face. Others entered the room.

  Or maybe they’d been there the whole time and she’d not noticed. The thought made her realize how careless she was.

  “I wanted to tell you that you received a letter from England,” Lady Bess said. “I don’t know why it was sent to the consulate. I forwarded it to your office this morning.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Will you be attending the picnic next week at the palace?”

  “If I’m back in town.”

  His deep words fell over Brianna. She turned to look at him.

  “Of course,” Lady Bess said. “I had forgotten. You’re escorting our dear Mrs. Pritchards to Alexandria tomorrow. Such a terrible tragedy.” Lady Bess’s blue eyes fell on Brianna with discreet curiosity. “Miss Donally,” she said. “I see that Mr. Cross left.”

  “He had to get back to the museum.”

  Lady Bess smiled up at Major Fallon. “If you wish to find anything in Cairo, ask Mr. Cross. He and my husband share a passion for antiquities and good wine. You will of course come to the function,” she said, attempting to bring Major Fallon back into the conversation. “It should be nice for a change to relax and enjoy the company of the young ladies here. Don’t you agree?”

  “I imagine the possibilities are endless this time of year.” Seemingly amused, his gaze met Brianna’s over Lady Bess’s head. “If you’ll both excuse me, I need to prepare for my trip to Alexandra in the morn. Miss Donally…” His eyes touched hers with promise. “Lady Bess…”

  After Major Fallon left, Lady Bess chatted a little longer before excusing herself and returning to the parlor. Brianna walked to the long window overlooking the drive and pulled back the heavy velvet draperies. Major Fallon had just mounted a spirited bay. Gripping the reins with a gloved hand, he swung the horse around and raised his gaze to the long window where she stood—as if he’d known that she’d be there—the small turn of his mouth his only concession to her presence. Brianna stared back, making no outward show that her pulse raced and that they had just agreed to become lovers.

  Fallon was arrogant and annoying, and positively the most exciting man she’d ever met. Not that she hadn’t met enough men in her life.

  But there was something about him that drew her into his flame. Heaven help her, when she stepped into his smoky gaze, she burned.

  Michael slammed the door to his apartment and walked past the front room into his private chambers, where he pulled at the buttons on his uniform. Outside the window overlooking the narrow streets—similar to a thousand others that meandered through Cairo—noise rumbled through the walls. He pulled out the makings for a cigarette from a drawer, dipped beneath the arched doorway into his office and opened the glass doors in the back. Still working his hands around the tobacco, he leaned a hip against the iron rail. Donally’s marble palace—as he termed the luxury—sat across the narrow lake. Michael had spent every day at dawn the past few weeks watching the sun rise over that house. Sitting amidst a garden paradise on a jut of well-protected land, the residence once belonged to a powerful Mogul bey.

  Michael had been astonished that Donally had come to his defense against Omar, which rendered his current circumstances a sudden dilemma. He was unused to facing his conscience, or waging war on his lust. Both were usually manageable. The problem now was that he liked the entire family, down to the retinue of loyal servants. There was something refreshing and intriguing about a family willing to defy the mores of the time and stand outside th
e protected club and sport society that made up Cairo’s elite. Nor had he ever met anyone who embodied romantic fantasy with courage and a complete disregard for prudence as Brianna Donally managed to do with a single glance of her tilted-blue eyes.

  He wanted to press her against the wall and bury himself in all that life force that seemed to glow around her like sunlight.

  “Aye.” He attempted to rub the fatigue of the past few days from his eyes. He was insane if he let her wrap him in her romantic fantasy. What she wanted from him had nothing to do with love.

  So why did he balk?

  Turning back into his office, Michael walked to the bedroom. He sat on the edge of the bed, his uniform jacket hanging open as he leaned forward to find a match from the drawer in the nightstand.

  He’d never noticed how neatly partitioned and tidy his private space was. Unlike the boxed clutter of his office, which contained floor to ceiling files of his work, his bedroom was nondescript, bare of memorabilia, bare of extravagances, and empty of his presence. He kept little of his life or his work in his living space. The walls were limestone pale, the furniture inexpensive, and today the noise from outside on the streets was intrusive.

  Little of who he’d once been had survived the bloody wars in China. Indeed, the man the khedive had labeled El Tazor was not the man who had left England in disgrace twelve years ago.

  He remembered a time when he did belong somewhere, when he’d hunted London’s clubs and the Season’s circuit of marriageable young ladies. As the third son of an old aristocratic family, he’d never been expected to take over the reins of the family fortune. He’d fallen in love and dreamed of all the things an idealistic fool dreamed when he was twenty and naive. Before his father taught him that societal comportment and appearance were thicker than blood. Thicker than a son’s heart, and more important than the world he’d tried to build for himself.

  In the end, Michael had learned that the only person he could truly count on in this life was himself, and with his emancipation came the satisfaction of a job well done. Some would say that he’d excelled in the art of violence. In the twelve years that he’d walked away from hearth and heritage, he would argue that it was survival.