A Kiss at Midnight

Page 78

It wasn’t until hours later that she remembered what it was she had to tell him. By then she was lying half across him, her hair spread across his chest, his hand absent-mindedly playing with her curls.
They were both drugged and drunk on love and pleasure, and yet neither of them wanted to sleep yet.
“I have to tell you something,” she whispered.
He was winding her curls around his finger. “Your hair is like spun gold,” he said. “Like the stuff Rumpelstiltskin wove from straw.”
“I have a dowry,” she said, raising her head so that she could see his face.
“That’s nice,” he said, winding more around his finger. “Did you know that the Greeks used to leave a little pile of hair in the burial—”
“Gabriel.”
“—tombs,” he finished. “You have a dowry. That’s wonderful. Wick and I worked everything out, but every little bit helps. Do you know how much everyone in the castle wanted me to pick you over Tatiana?”
“No,” she said, smiling.
“Ferdinand told me that he would sell his gun collection. Sophonisba said she would give up her brandy, though I’m bound to tell you that she later reneged.”
Kate was laughing delightedly.
“And Wick,” Gabriel said.
“Wick?”
“Wick said that he would hire himself out as a butler.”
Kate felt her smile wobble. “Oh, Gabriel, that’s the nicest thing anyone has ever offered to do for me. Or for you , in this case.”
“For us,” he said, gathering her against him so that he could brush her mouth.
“The wonderful thing is,” Kate managed, “that I have a dowry.”
Her breasts were rubbing against Gabriel’s chest and he seemed to have stopped listening, so she pulled herself up and suddenly found herself sitting on his chest.
“Mmmm,” he said, pushing her back so she slid lower on his body.
“No!” she said, blinking.
“Oh, yes,” he said, his voice a silky promise.
“Listen to me first.”
“Anything.”
But he wasn’t listening. She bent over, feeling bold and beautiful, and said, “Gabriel, I am . . .” But bending over had put her in a vulnerable position. His hands deftly nudged her this way and that, and a second later she clutched at his shoulders for balance, a cry breaking from her lips.
“No shrieking this time,” he said, thrusting up.
“No,” she gasped.
“I heard Henry and Leo make their way to a much-deserved bed a few minutes ago.”
“No, I won’t,” she gasped. “Please don’t stop, Gabriel.”
He was grinning. “I think we should have that conversation. Weren’t you about to tell me something, darling?”
Kate narrowed her eyes at him and experimentally tried a few moves of her own. She rose up on her knees.
His eyes took on a wild sheen.
“Don’t you want to hear what I have to say?” she asked, rotating gently, just enough to make his face clench with something like agony.
It was his turn to gasp. “Not at the moment. Could you just . . . yes . . . like that.”
“I am—”
She sank onto him, deeply, greedily and then rose on her knees again. “I am one of the richest—”
He wasn’t listening. His hips arched but she avoided him. “Tsk, tsk,” she said.
“Kate!”
“I am one of the richest women in London,” she told him, sinking down, letting the pleasure of it flood her body.
He moved so suddenly that she squeaked, flipping her over, pounding into her in a thirsty, deep convulsion that swallowed both of them in a rich, warm darkness where there were only the two of them, wanting, loving, possessing.
Sometime later they slumped beside each other, boneless and happy.
Silence.
“Did you say what I thought you said?” Gabriel suddenly demanded.
She pretended to be asleep but he managed to wake her.
And his celebration woke up Henry and Leo.
Forty-one
Four years later
I t was the fifth year of the excavation of Carthage. Despite the fact that Professor Biggitstiff claimed to find evidence of Dido’s city at least three times a month, to this point no solid proof had been found.
Biggitstiff had not given up. He was determined to find that evidence, and failure only solidified his resolve. “It’s as if he expects to find a big sign some day,” Gabriel groaned, lying back and putting his arms behind his head. “A plaque: Dido Slept Here .”
His wife gave a consoling little murmur. She was drifting into an afternoon nap.
Much more important than Biggitstiff’s failures, from Gabriel’s point of view, was that the dig had painstakingly brought to light fascinating facts about the inhabitants of ancient Carthage, about everything from their toiletries to their burial practices, from their betrothal gifts to their birthday celebrations.
Even though he and Kate attended the dig in person for only four or five months each year, during the winter, his methods had prevailed. Though Biggitstiff had fought him at first, the overwhelming success of his book, with both a scholarly and popular audience, had made Gabriel’s techniques for approaching an archaeological site the rule. Thus the Carthage dig was proceeding with painstaking carefulness and full attention to every scholarly question.
Though nothing was happening at the moment. It was the hot and lazy part of the afternoon, when every sane man was lounging under a canvas, sipping a cool drink, and fanning himself.
Not everyone in Carthage was sane, as evidenced by the rapid pattering of feet around the pile of shards waiting in the sun to be catalogued.
“Oh Christ,” Gabriel moaned. “He’s at it again. Nanny must have let him loose.”
“Do something,” Kate murmured. “I can’t move.”
“Don’t move,” he said, pressing a kiss onto the nape of her neck. “You lie there and let that baby girl grow fat and happy.”
“Little Merry is baking,” she said, rubbing her rounded tummy. It wasn’t a complaining groan, since Kate had discovered that she much preferred the sunny warmth of Tunis to the chill of an English winter.
“We’ll be back in England in a couple of months and you’ll be telling me how cold the castle is.” He gave her another kiss. “I’m sure you could use a massage . . .” He gave her a little nip, right at the smooth part at the back of her neck, then soothed it with a kiss.
Whatever Kate might have replied was lost when a small form burst into the tent, waving a shard. “I found something wonderful, Papa! Look what I found!”
A very small princeling named Jonas ran over, followed by a small yapping dog, and put the broken pottery piece in Gabriel’s hand. He was named for his favorite uncle, Mr. Jonas Berwick. “See, Papa,” he cried. “It’s a bird. I found a bird!” His stubby finger traced an arch that might well have been a wing, a dent that might have been an eye, a crack that looked something like a beak.
“That’s amazing,” Gabriel said slowly.
Something in his voice made Kate raise her head.
Without speaking, but with a very solemn face, he handed her the bird. But, like Gabriel, her eyes didn’t fasten on the beak, but on the ancient Greek letters.