Who Will Take This Man?

Over the course of the morning, Meredith immersed herself in cataloging the artifacts, her tension at being in such proximity to Philip tempered by her wonder and delight at the pieces of the past she held in her hands.

About an hour into their work, a gentleman arrived who was introduced to her and Albert as Mr. Edward Binsmore. Meredith recognized the name as that of the gentleman whose wife had died, allegedly as a result of the curse. He appeared tired and drawn, his dark eyes bleak pools of misery, and his palpable sadness kindled her sympathy. Clearly his wife’s death had affected him deeply.

After the introductions, Mr. Binsmore looked around, then frowned. “I thought Andrew would be here.”

“He’s conducting some inquiries to discover who is responsible for the robbery,” Philip said.

“Oh? Has he made any progress?”

“He only started this morning. I’ll let you know if he discovers anything.”

“Good. Speaking of discovering things… I finished cataloging the remaining crates at the museum before coming here.” Mr. Binsmore shook his head. “There was no sign of the missing piece of stone.”

Philip’s jaw tightened. “There’s still hope it may be amongst the remaining crates here. And if not, there’s still the items on the Sea Raven, which is due to dock soon.” He dragged his hand down his face. He looked so worried, Meredith had to fight the urge to go to him, to touch the crinkle between his brows, to enfold him in a commiserating hug.

Work resumed, with Meredith and Albert working on one crate, Philip and Mr. Binsmore on yet another. She could easily identify many of the pieces, as a large percentage of them were recognizable items such as vases, bowls, and goblets. Although it slowed down the process, she couldn’t help but cradle each precious piece in her hands for several seconds, closing her eyes, trying to imagine to whom it had belonged, and what that person’s life in an ancient civilization, in a distant land, had been like.

She froze as her senses suddenly recognized his presence directly behind her.

“I do the same thing,” Philip said softly, walking around so that he faced her. He offered her a lopsided smile that she found far too endearing. “I touch these things and my mind wanders as I try to envision who owned them and what their lives were like.”

Heart thumping, she returned his smile. “I’d just decided the spoon and ladle had belonged to an Egyptian princess who spent her days dressed in fine silks while her every whim was pampered to.”

“Interesting… and intriguing. A silk-clad princess whose every whim is pampered to. Tell me, does that reflect your own desires?”

Heat sluiced through her at the mere mention of desires, especially when the object of hers was looking at her with compelling, dark brown eyes. “I think a small part of every woman secretly dreams of that. Indeed, I’m certain most men also dream of having their every whim pampered to, also.”

He offered her a broad wink. “Especially by a silk-clad princess.”

A genuine laugh escaped her. Then, noticing that Mr. Binsmore was regarding them with a curious expression, she sobered and pointed to an item resting on the corner of the sheet. “I set that aside,” she said, “because I was not certain what it was.”

Crouching down, he picked up a metal instrument shaped very much like a question mark. “This is a strigil. It was used by ancient Greeks and Romans for scraping moisture off their skin after bathing.”

Their eyes met, and something seemed to pass between them. A secret, silent, private message that made it seem as if they were the only two people in the room. She instantly recalled her vivid fantasy of yesterday, of removing his dusty clothing and bathing him, her soap-slick hands gliding over his naked, aroused body. Heat crept up her neck, made all the worse because she knew he saw the flush staining her cheeks.

“The Romans were famous for their warm-water baths, and frequent bathing in the healing waters was an important part of their culture. Therefore, the strigil was a very common bathing utensil. When a person was done bathing, she would run the strigil over her skin like this.” He gently pulled her arm until it was outstretched, rested the curved part of the strigil against her gown, just above her elbow, then slowly scraped the instrument toward her wrist.

“Of course,” he said softly, “you wouldn’t be wearing any clothing, having just come from the bath.” Still holding her hand, he continued, “The strigil was also used to remove oil from the skin. Oil was massaged onto women’s bodies; then, after an hour or so, the strigil removed the excess oil, leaving behind soft, fragrant skin.” As he said soft, fragrant skin, his thumb gently caressed the back of her hand.

Looking into his eyes, a myriad of images rolled through her mind. Of him, and her, in ancient Roman times, naked in the bath. Of him massaging oil over her body. Touching. Kissing. Philip laying her down on the warm tiles…

“Are you imagining them using the strigil?” he murmured in a low voice clearly meant only for her ears. “Picturing them in the bath? Rubbing oil on each other?”

She had to swallow twice to locate her voice. “Them?” Good heavens, had that throaty sound come from her?

“The people in your imagination. Ancient Romans… or perhaps not?”

There was no mistaking the speculation in his eyes, and she quickly pulled her hand from his and averted her gaze lest he read her true thoughts.

Adopting her most brisk tone, she said, “Thank you for the edifying lesson, Lord Greybourne. I shall check the strigil off on the ledger.” With that, she pointedly applied her attention to the ledger with the zeal a master chef would bestow upon a prized recipe. Risking a quick peek at him from beneath her lashes, she watched him lean down to replace the strigil on the sheet, then walk over to discuss something with Mr. Binsmore.

She breathed out a sigh of relief. Good. He now stood way over there. She could forget all about him and concentrate on her work.

Except she could still hear the low-pitched timbre of his deep voice as he spoke to Mr. Binsmore. Could still feel the warm imprint of his hand where it had held hers. Still feel the lingering tingle where his thumb had caressed her skin. She squeezed her eyes shut and prayed for this morning and afternoon to end. A humorless sound lodged in her throat. Morning and afternoon to end? Why, yes. So then she could look forward to spending the entire evening in his company as well.

By God, she’d been right. This was going to be a very long day.

* * *

Late that afternoon, Philip called a halt to the work. Everyone was dusty, and tired, and sadly their efforts had not yielded any sign of the missing piece of the Stone of Tears. Forcing aside his discouragement, he wiped his hands on a rag, then approached Goddard.

“A moment of your time?” he said, inclining his head toward the office.

Surprise flashed in Goddard’s eyes, but he nodded. Once the two men entered the office, Philip closed the door. He watched Goddard limp to the center of the room, then turn to face him with a questioning expression. “Well?” the young man asked.

“I’ve learned something I think you might find interesting.”

Goddard’s eyes turned wary, and Philip wondered what secrets he was hiding. “Why do ye think I’d find it interestin‘?”

“Because it concerns a chimney sweep named Taggert.”

What appeared to be relief flashed in Goddard’s eyes. Interesting. But the emotion was almost instantly replaced with bitterness, followed by a flicker of fear.

“Taggert?” Goddard’s voice resembled a growl. “Only thing of interest I’d want to know about him is that the bastard is dead.”

“He is. Died last year, in debtor’s prison, where he’d spent the final two years of his life.”

All the color seemed to drain from Goddard’s face. “How do ye know this?”

“I asked some questions of the right people.”

“The right people? Only way you and Taggert would have any people in common would have been if he’d stolen from yer fancy friends.”

“It wasn’t my fancy friends I questioned. I found several acquaintances of Taggert’s at a pub near the docks.”

Goddard’s eyes narrowed. “Why were ye askin‘ about Taggert?”