One

~~~ Meskhenet lived within a lotus-scented palace. Only the sweetest oils touched her face, and her body-slaves entertained her with dance and song. The eye of Ra reflected back from the pool in her private garden while she listened to the river’s whisper, telling of its long journey from the center of darkness.

She watched the sailboats slip past, coming and going. Once, a barge filled with exotic animals from beyond the farthest falls had stopped at the palace. Her father, who had been pharaoh before taking his place on the right hand of Ra, had let the wild cats roam their own garden where the household could admire them from the walls.

The reeds rattled beside the water. Meskhenet tensed, hoping it was not a crocodile, although there had been none seen here since one dared to swallow a cat alive. The curse invoked by the priests who held the mîw sacred had been carried out by the palace’s guards. For weeks, the aroma of crocodile flesh filled the temples within the palace and in the Valley of Thoth across the river.

Meskhenet’s eyes widened when a man emerged from the reeds. Across his bare chest, sweat gleamed as brightly as the jeweled belt holding his kirtle. A bead collar accented his muscular chest. He was no priest, for his ebony hair dropped to his shoulders. Never had Meskhenet seen such a handsome man. Never had her heart beat within her breast with such fervor. Yet she did not know this man’s name.

He glanced toward her and. . . ~~~

***

Darcy Kincaid grimaced. Her pen had skittered across the page as the coach splashed through another puddle. She should know better than to try to write on a road pocked with chuckholes. While she had taken the train from London and then the public coach to the inn where she had been met by this elegant carriage, she had made no attempt to write the story Jaddeh had told her so often. She had not seen her beloved grandmother in over fifteen years, but, if all went well, Darcy soon would visit the village where Jaddeh had spun her tales, including the story of Meskhenet, the pharaoh’s daughter. Of all the stories Darcy remembered, that story was her favorite, which was why she struggled for each detail.

She put her hand on her bodice. Beneath the sedate lace of her cream blouse, which peeked over the collar of her simple, dark red jacket, was the necklace she kept hidden. Her fingers rubbed the small rectangle pendant which would not be considered de rigueur in 1873. The vow she had made the day she left Egypt would come true when she returned to the hot, vibrant land where she had been born. No one, especially her maternal grandmother, Lady Kincaid, would halt her.

She closed the nearly empty ink bottle and put it back into the lap desk. Shutting the desk, she set it in the smaller bag she was bringing to Rosewood Hall. Grandmother Kincaid would be shocked to see her only grandchild now. Her pledge to disown Darcy would resound throughout her home in Regency Park. Darcy did not want her grandmother’s family heirlooms or her money. The cost was denying half of her heritage.

Who would have guessed Jaddeh’s tales of ancient Egypt would provide Darcy with a way to go home to where she had been born? The publisher Darcy had talked to last month had agreed to consider the book for publication if she let him review a manuscript. She had not been sure if she could write a book of Egyptian tales for children and still find a position that would support her until she could leave England.

Then, Dr. Simon Garnett’s need for a secretary had offered the answer. She could help Dr. Garnett with his work during the day and pen her own work in the evening. When she received a letter offering her the position, she had not hesitated to use the ticket to the railway station closest to Rosewood Hall. The estate was set on the moors leading up from the River Dart. It was, she believed, the perfect solution.

When the carriage slowed, Darcy saw tall stone pillars flanking the driveway to what must be Rosewood Hall. The fieldstone wall dropped away to no more than a man’s height, but was at least a foot thick. This was the first fence of any sort she had seen since the carriage climbed up onto the moors. Since they had left the small village below, she had seen nothing but sheep and stone circles and a single stone cross set in a bare field.

Large, full-branched trees lining the long driveway curling up the hill. Beneath each tree, roses of every hue drooped in the autumn shower.

"Rosewood Hall has roses," she breathed. She had not been certain anything as domesticated as roses would be found on the raw expanse of Dartmoor. "How lovely!"

As the carriage reached the crest of the hill, she stared at the house. Nothing about it was as welcoming as the rosebushes had been. The massive house must have been built during the Tudor era, because thick timbers crisscrossed the front walls. Although the windows on the ground floor were at least twelve feet tall, the ones on the upper floors were far shorter. Even that glass could not ease the house’s barren façade. It stood in defiance of the wind that swirled across the moor, an odd oasis of civilization amid the wilderness.

As the carriage rolled to a stop beneath a portico, the already sparse light of the lowering day vanished. Darcy waited for her eyes to adjust and saw double doors set above a flight of stairs. In the other direction, under gray clouds, the gardens were deserted. She could almost believe she and the coachman were the only people alive here.

"Thank you," she said when the coachman handed her out of the elegant carriage.

"Yes, miss." He avoided her eyes, as he had when he met her at the railway station.

"Is something wrong?"

"No, miss." He walked to the back of the carriage. "I shall have your things brought in. . .later."

She wanted to ask him again what was amiss, but said only, "My wooden box shouldn’t be left out in this damp weather any longer than absolutely necessary."

"Shouldn’t take long for—" He looked away again.

"What shouldn’t take long?"

She was unsure if he would answer. Then he shrugged. "I’ll have the box brought in directly, miss."

A cold raindrop fell from the carriage door down Darcy’s turned-up collar. She shivered and hurried up the steps.

When a footman in spotless black livery opened the door, she stepped into a dusky hallway. The scent of cleaning fluid permeated every breath she took, bringing cloying memories of the boarding school Grandmother Kincaid had loved and Darcy had hated. Not that the arched foyer resembled Miss Mumsey’s School for Young Ladies, just the odor. Beneath her feet, a Persian carpet led toward the staircase that divided into two to reach beyond the high ceiling. No paintings or lamps, save for a single gaslight whispering by the stairs, lessened the austerity of the walls that were paneled in a dark wood, perhaps even rosewood. When the door was shut behind her, the walls seemed to close around her.

"Welcome to Rosewood Hall," a footman said as he held out his hand for her black cloak. "Whom may I tell Dr. Garnett is calling?"

"Darcy Kincaid," she replied, pushing loose strands of her black hair under her bonnet. She must look a sight after her long trip.

"Darcy—?" The footman’s eyes widened as he stepped back without taking her cloak. "Please wait here, miss." He started toward the stairs, then paused. "Maybe you should come with me, miss."

Shifting her bag to her other hand, she winced when it banged into the pierced oak balustrade. She should have left her lap desk in the carriage for the coachman to bring in, but she did not want to lose the few precious pages she had written.

The upper hallway was flushed in a rosy dusk. Darcy could not figure out why until she saw pink glass arched at the top of each window. This bit of whimsy was unexpected in this austere house.

When the footman paused before a wide arch, he motioned for her to enter. "If you will wait in the parlor, Dr. Garnett will be with you as soon as possible, Miss—"

"Kincaid," she supplied again, wondering if he might be a bit deaf. In her grandmother’s house, the footmen and the housekeeper had vied with the butler to press their ear to any keyhole. They garnered Lady Kincaid’s favor by reporting everything Darcy did or said.

The footman nodded, fired another curious glance at her, and rushed away into the hall’s thin shadows.

Darcy smiled. What a peculiar man! Loosening the burgundy ribbons of her black velvet bonnet, she drew it off and set it atop her bag on the floor. She looked around the room. Opulent black walnut furniture filled the parlor. The settees and chairs upholstered in gold and rose brocade were arranged in a way that would make conversation difficult. It was a room meant for reading or quiet contemplation, something that had been impossible at Kincaid Fells, her grandmother’s country house.

Turning, she ran her hand along the top of the closest of a trio of glass cases. It was too shadowed in the room to see what might be inside. How wonderful it would be to curl up on the windowseat with her lap desk and write. The upper sections of pink glass would wash rose light over her.

At the sound of footsteps, Darcy squared her shoulders. This first face-to-face meeting with Dr. Garnett was important. She hoped he would not ask why she had applied for the job.

A tall man paused in the doorway and stared. His thick, silver hair caught the dim light. His distinguished good looks were marred when his gray brows dipped as he asked, "Who are you, young lady?"

"Good afternoon, sir. I am Darcy Kincaid."

"And what are you doing here, Miss Kincaid?" he asked, continuing to stare.

She forced her smile not to waver. "I was told to wait here for Dr. Garnett."

He scowled, deepening the wrinkles age had imprinted in his face. Stuffing one hand into the pocket of his dark green satin smoking jacket, he said an in imperious tone which suggested she should already know, "I am Dr. Garnett, young lady."

"How do you do, sir?" She offered her hand, then lowered it when he ignored it.

He continued to regard her with condescension. "What are you doing here?"

"Excuse me?"

He pulled a briarwood pipe out of his pocket. "I have no recollection of expecting a young woman to call today."

Darcy gasped, unable to silence her dismay. "Dr. Garnett, I’m here at your request." As his pale blue eyes narrowed, she hurried to add, "I would be happy to show you the letter you sent asking me to come to Rosewood Hall to handle secretarial tasks for you."

"No need," said a second male voice.

She turned. Another man stood behind her. She was about to ask how he been able to sneak up on her, then saw a door ajar in the corner. His auburn hair was littered with silver which picked up wisps of light. It curled forward on his forehead and matched his mustache. Straight lips announced his displeasure, but could not detract from his face’s strong angles. No lines cut into his face, so she guessed, despite the silver in his hair, he was less than decade her senior. His eyes, which were the same deep green as the rosebush leaves, were as cold as his voice.

Her smile wavered. Who was he? Had she met him before? Something about him was so familiar, but she could not recall meeting him at Kincaid Fells. She blurted, "Do I know you?"

Looking past her, he said, "Father, I’m sorry you’ve been involved in this unfortunate muddle."

"Father?" Darcy asked.

Dr. Garnett lit his pipe and took a puff, leaving a blue-gray cloud around his head. "I thought there had been a mistake."

"Mistake?" Darcy echoed.

The younger man acted as if he had not heard her questions. "I’ll handle it without disturbing you further."

"That would be appreciated." He walked to one of the glass cases. As he passed Darcy, she saw his gray pallor even the rose glass could not lessen. Was he ill? "I’d prefer to keep my afternoon quiet after the long, restless night I had."

"I understand, Father."

"But I don’t." Darcy glowered at both men. "I’m here as requested." She turned to the older man. "Dr. Garnett, you sent me a letter hiring me as your secretary, correct?"

"Wrong," said the younger man.

Baffled, she looked at him. She wished she could shake off the odd feeling she knew him. "Wrong?"

"Yes." He smiled, but his expression was so icy she wished he had not. "And, no, Miss Kincaid, we have not met previously. I am Simon Garnett, and I beg your pardon for wrongly bringing you to Rosewood Hall."

"But I thought Dr. Garnett—"

"I am Dr. Garnett." He chuckled. Her dismay deepened as she noted how little mirth there was in it. "Dr. Simon Garnett." Motioning to the older man who was locking the case, he added, "My father is Dr. Hastings Garnett."

"If you’re Dr. Simon Garnett, then you are—"

"I hired you." A smile forced its way across his taut lips but did not reach his eyes which were as hard as faceted emeralds. "Quite by mistake, I’m afraid."

"Mistake?"

"My dear Miss Kincaid," the elder Dr. Garnett said, "I trust you will cease that unfortunate habit of repeating our words like a parrot."

Darcy stiffened. His voice brought an echo of Grandmother Kincaid’s scold. Taking a deep, steadying breath, she said, "I apologize, but I’m confused."

"Will you sit?" asked the younger Dr. Garnett. He motioned toward a settee.

"Thank you." She perched on the very edge, for she feared this discussion would be short. A mistake? Had the coachman and footman known her arrival was a mistake?

"Father, you’re welcome to join us," the younger Dr. Garnett added.

"I think not." His vein-lined hand clasped the pipe as he stared at her again. "I was on my way to rest. Maybe sleep will come more easily this afternoon than it did last night. After all I’ve endured, I don’t wish to succumb to exhaustion." He bowed his head toward her. "Miss Kincaid, who knows? We may meet again under more agreeable circumstances. Good day."

Darcy sighed as he left the parlor. She did not need Dr. Simon Garnett to say anything else, for his father’s farewell revealed the truth. For whatever reason, and she could not guess what it might be, she was about to be discharged.

Her first pulse of dismay vanished into the determination that had gotten her this far away from Kincaid Fells and from under her grandmother’s unending scrutiny. She had found this position. She could find another, so she would not have to crawl back to her grandmother and beg her forgiveness. She would not surrender her dream of returning to Egypt.

Egypt. . .She frowned, baffled, as the younger Dr. Garnett drew a chair to a polite distance from the settee. There should be nothing about Egypt that brought him to mind, but somehow Egypt and this composed man seem connected. She wondered if it was because his tan frock coat resembled a lion’s sleek pelt. He moved with the beast’s grace, but his eyes may have lured her into making the bizarre association. They were the green of a mîw, one of the sacred cats of ancient Egypt. Mysterious and hinting at secrets a human would be wise not to pursue.

"Miss Kincaid," he said, jarring her from her thoughts. "I fear you’re here mistakenly."

"I am—"

"Allow me to finish, Miss Kincaid, for the whole of this is my fault."

"It might help if you explain what the whole of this is."

"The silly idea I’d hire you to serve as my secretary when you are here under false pretenses."

She reached for her purse which was the same black velveteen as the ruching on her burgundy skirt. "Dr. Garnett, I have your letter offering me the position right here."

"But that position was offered to Darcy Kincaid."

"I am Darcy Kincaid." She drew off her kid gloves and opened her purse. "If you disbelieve me, I can—"

"No need." He put out his hand to halt her.

When his fingers brushed hers, it was as if she had swallowed a sip of fragrant wine which opened every sense to its sweetness. Something flashed within his eyes–something as potent as wine, something as dangerously intoxicating. Something that vanished before she could guess what it might be. Abruptly a pulse of unexplainable grief threatened to leave her in weak tears. Both emotions were so strong, so intimate, so. . .familiar.

No wonder Dr. Garnett wished to show her the door. First she had asked brazen questions as if she never had learned any manners, now this. Grandmother Kincaid would chide her for being caught up in such fanciful thoughts. Jaddeh would whisper of fate. Unfortunately, it was becoming clear Fate intended Darcy to spend very little time in Rosewood Hall.

Dr. Garnett did not meet her eyes. "This isn’t easy for me to say, Miss Kincaid."

"Quickly said is quickly done."

"Very well. I was expecting the Darcy Kincaid who applied for the position of my secretary to be a man."

"I realize my name is not common for a woman, but it is my name. Everything I wrote to you in my letter of application is true." She did not add she had left many facts out, such as her relationship to her grandmother who was well-known throughout England for being a woman who would not be overlooked in any setting.

He frowned. "I’m afraid, Miss Kincaid, I must retract my offer of employment. You are welcome to remain at Rosewood Hall tonight. Tomorrow I shall have our coachman, Nash, take you to where you can obtain passage to London. I will, of course, pay for your trip."

"Dr. Garnett, I can assure you I’m more than capable of doing the job for which you hired me."

"I believe a man would be better suited for the hours and work."

"Don’t be ridiculous!" Darcy flushed. Knowing she had nothing to lose, she added, "I see no reason why a woman can’t serve as your secretary. I’m no frail flower to shirk my duties. You have seen my credentials, Dr. Garnett. If you had entertained any doubts about my capabilities, you should have made them known before I traveled all the way here."

"Miss Kincaid, do you always exhibit this proclivity to lecturing?" As more heat climbed her face, he said, "If so, I trust you will curb it. I am the one who hired you, so therefore I’m the one to determine if your work meets my expectations."

"I understand," she answered, although she wanted to retort angrily. "But I ask if you will, in turn, allow me to prove to you that my work can meet your expectations."

"Miss Kincaid—"

"Dr. Garnett," she said in the same vexed tone, "I shall be here tonight. Why not allow me to show you my work? It shall cost you nothing."

"I wouldn’t expect you to work without compensation."

"Dinner would be nice." She smiled.

She was not sure if he would smile in return. When he did, it was with obvious reluctance. "I can see how useless it is to parry words with you. If you wish, we can go into my private study right now."

Standing, she said, "I shall need my typewriter."

"Typewriter?" he asked, setting himself on his feet.

Darcy wondered if he had read anything other than her name in the letter she had written when she applied for the position. "It’s a machine that enables a person to make a page look as if it has been set with type."

"That is possible?"

"I assure you, Dr. Garnett, I learned to use one earlier this year. You shall be amazed, as was I."

Dr. Garnett raised a single, auburn brow. "I trust you’ll allow me to judge for myself."

"You’re intrigued, then?"

"Unquestionably." Again his gaze slipped along her, slowly from the top of her head down to the travel-stained hem of her gown, but without the swift dismissal he had given her when he had first come into the room. He gestured toward the door. "If you will pull that bellpull, our housekeeper Mrs. Pollock will take you to where you might rest while I arrange for your machine. . ."

"Typewriter."

"While I arrange for your typewriter to be brought into my study. Ask Mrs. Pollock to have a tray sent to your room. Father and I shall be done with dinner at nine. Return then." As he turned to walk toward the corner door, he said, "Tardiness is something I find intolerable."

"I shan’t be late."

"Good." Suddenly he came back to her. Taking her hand, he bowed over it with the same refinement in his every motion. "A belated welcome to Rosewood Hall, Miss Kincaid. I hope your stay, however short it proves to be, shall be pleasant and memorable."

As he released her hand and walked into his study, closing the door, she cradled her fingers in her hand. She did not move as that warmth which was so sweetly familiar surged through her again. Other men had bowed over her fingers. Some other men had kissed her fingers. But never had this lush fire consumed her.

She was not sure how the rest of her stay at Rosewood Hall would be, but she was certain pleasant would never be the word she used to describe it.