A Curse of the Heart

He was not interested in her opinion at all.

This was a test to undermine her position. Gabriel Stone wanted to make her look foolish; he wanted to trample all over her until she knew her place.

She felt her chest grow warm, and it became hard to swallow, but it had nothing to do with the close proximity of his powerful body. Small bubbles were forming in her blood, simmering and popping until she wanted to put her hands around his throat and throttle the man.

“Becanus’ theory is based on a symbolic translation,” she said, slapping him across the face with her gloved opinion. “Whereas, with the discovery of the Rosetta Stone, we now know that the pictographic script is more representative of sound.”

He narrowed his gaze, his brown eyes intense and focused as though he was thirsty to hear more. “Anything else?”

“What do you want me to say, Mr. Stone? That one must consider many facets when studying hieroglyphics: alphabet signs, syllabic signs … must I go on? Must I tell you that I can translate the Coptic language? Must I stand here and provide a detailed list of my credentials in order to appease your warped sense of curiosity?”

Gabriel Stone sucked in a breath. “You can translate Coptic?”

“Of course,” she replied with an arrogant wave.

He closed the gap between them and the air crackled with some undefinable force. Under the scrutiny of his gaze, she felt like an exhibit in her own museum.

“Who are you?” he whispered, his head so close to hers, she could feel his soft breath caress her skin. She could not take her eyes off his lips, as some fanciful notion of being kissed filled her head. The thought melted her ice-cold shield to warm her lonely heart.

When he shook his head and stepped back, she suddenly felt more alone than ever, the few feet feeling as wide as a ravine.

“I am just a stupid woman,” she said, anger and bitterness woven through every word. She had made another mistake in seeking this gentleman out.

“Anyone who can translate Coptic, Miss Linwood, is far from stupid.”

“I am not an expert in the ways of the Egyptians, Mr. Stone. I do not profess to be a scholar. Indeed, I only wish I were, as I have made a terrible, terrible mistake.”

Gabriel Stone removed his spectacles, his gaze sharp. “Why? What have you done?”

“I have read from an ancient scroll, and now I fear I am cursed.”

Chapter 3

“I am cursed, Mr. Stone, and I implore you to find some way to break it.”

Gabriel stared at her, his mouth hanging open while his mind conjured all sorts of strange images involving deadly serpents, thunderbolts of fire and plagues of locusts.

He shook his head.

A curse!

The woman had been reading too many Gothic novels and frightened herself half to death.

“Contrary to what you may have read, Miss Linwood, there is no such thing as a curse. Not an Egyptian one, at any rate.”

She took another step, closing the gap between them as suppressed emotion burst forth. “Do these eyes lie?” she cried. “Do you not see the red lines? Do you not see how they are sore and swollen from lack of sleep?”

Gabriel witnessed nothing other than the most captivating, most vibrant green eyes he had ever seen. They reminded him of ripe apples and lush summer meadows, of gaiety and laughter. Indeed, he found it hard to focus on anything else and had to drag his thoughts back to the present, had to force himself to examine her countenance.

She seemed different now, conveying a level of vulnerability so opposed to the confident, defiant lady who’d sat on his front steps. The same lady who had shone with brilliance in the ballroom. And he found the contrast intriguing.

“Look at them, Mr. Stone,” she said thrusting herself forward as she pointed to the offending lines. “Are they not evidence enough?”

“Yes,” he whispered, not really seeing anything at all. Perhaps it was all a figment of her wild imagination. “I do not deny the Egyptians believed in curses. On the contrary, as I am sure you know, they used them on tombs to protect the dead and as a way of preventing looters.” He softened his tone. “But there is no record of such things ever affecting the living, no record of anyone ever suffering from a curse.”

With an audible gasp, she sucked in a deep breath. His traitorous gaze could not help but glance down at the mounds of soft, creamy flesh, swelling and rising up to meet him in all their wondrous glory.

Bloody hell!