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Edge felt the familiar mix of amusement and exasperation with Sam overtake his annoyance at the tittering crowd. Coupled with the feel of her body against him it made a potent brew—they gathered into a sensation almost of giddiness as warmth flowed upwards like the first signs of heatstroke. It was probably merely the smoke, the crowd, the shifting wood of the benches as people alternately craned and cowered. He didn’t like the thought that merely by pressing herself against him Sam could make him feel like the ground was quivering beneath his feet.
As if aware of his annoyance with himself, Sam glanced over her shoulder and her smile—half-roguish, half-commiserating—sent the heat the rest of the way to his head, staining the inside of his skin as if he, too, were encased in stiff wrappings that were beginning to curl and flake away in the heat. There was a stinging sensation along his cheekbones and instinctively he brushed at it, his palm catching on the roughness of stubble. He remembered he had done a poor job shaving this morning because he’d woken so late. And he remembered why...
The crowd rocked on its feet as Pettifer gave a cry of alarm, extracting a small black object tucked beneath the linen strips binding the chest.
‘Behold! The Sacred Scarab! Bearer of Life and Death! Messenger of the Gods!’
‘What twaddle,’ Edge growled under the oohs and ahhs of the spectators and Sam’s laugh rubbed against him, stifling his breath and contracting all his muscles like a closing fist.
‘Can you not stop fidgeting?’
‘Is that what I’m doing?’ Sam murmured, her behind settling against his thigh as she leaned forward. ‘I’m merely trying to get a better look. What do you think he is about to do with those peculiar scissors?’
I don’t care, Edge almost said aloud. Her behind was perfectly positioned now and the blasted woman knew it. He hadn’t even noticed he was holding both of her hips. In the unlikely event that anyone looked around, they would see a spectacle quite as titillating as the desiccated relic of a man being unveiled on the table.
He truly no longer cared, not about mummies being desecrated or about frauds and barely about his idiot of a brother at the moment. Right now all of his concentration was on keeping his breathing even, which was ludicrous. One shouldn’t have to concentrate on breathing. It was almost as natural an action as the beating of one’s heart, but both those animal functions were proving faulty at the moment, out of step and rhythm.
His other animal functions were running rampant as well. It was absurd and embarrassing. Just last night they had more than amply satisfied their carnal needs in bed. He shouldn’t be desperate to get her back there so soon; or at least not so fiercely.
Damn Sam.
His hands tightened on her hips, he wasn’t certain whether he meant to hold her there or move her away, but she merely pressed back further, her fingers sliding between his for the briefest of moments, leaving the skin between them raw with longing. He wanted to lace his hands with hers so that when he moved her against him it would be their motion, not just his.
For a brief moment she rested her head back against his shoulder, her hair brushing against his jaw and her orange-blossom perfume enveloping him, crowding out the familiar scents of the mummy—beeswax and myrrh and the higher note of juniper from the berries that had probably been added to the wrappings. He bent his head, allowing his lips to brush her hair, breathing her in.
‘Behold! The arm of a great king!’ Pettifer intoned in an impressive alto as he peeled away a layer of stained linen and exposed a withered limb as dark as lacquered wood. A wave of his own arm set the light of the torches next to him dancing. ‘See the gold upon his nails? A sign of royalty! A sign of greatness! Of a direct link to the ancient gods!’
‘That is nonsense. Many of the mummies have painted fingernails. Poppy conjectured it was meant to protect the nails during the mummification process,’ Edge growled, relieved to have something to focus on other than Sam’s gyrations.
‘Fascinating...’ Sam replied and with another sweep of her hips regained lost ground and more.
‘Sam, stop,’ he groaned.
‘Stop what? I am merely keeping to the Egyptian theme and practising my ghawazi dance.’
‘What do you know about ghawazi dancing?’
‘I once followed you and Lucas and Chase to that place in Khan el-Khalili. It was so...enthralling...’
She drew out the word and he bit down another groan, his voice cracking a little as he spoke.
‘That was a supremely foolish thing to do.’
‘I was the foolish one? The three of you looked like a row of village idiots, staring at those dancers like manna from heaven.’
