Historical Romance: April Books 1 - 4. Marguerite Kaye

of it was as it appeared. What he had assumed to be love and affection were baser feelings, fed by blood money. Christopher opened his eyes, not realising they had been closed. Tahira was looking at him expectantly. ‘I’m sorry?’

      ‘You were a thousand miles away,’ she said. ‘I was asking what your father did for a living, and why you did not follow his profession.’

      ‘My father...’ He caught himself curling his hand into a fist around his coin just in time. ‘The last thing my father would wish is for me to follow in his footsteps. And it is the very last thing I would wish either.’

      Once again his vehemence puzzled her, and more worryingly intrigued her. He could almost read the questions forming and being discarded in her head. ‘We are not close,’ Christopher said, before she could ask any of them. ‘In fact, it would be fair to say that we could not be far enough apart.’ He cast the leaves of his tea into the sand, irked at his lack of self-control.

      Tahira frowned. ‘But with your mother dead, I would have thought—and you have no brothers, you said. What about sisters?’

      I have five daughters, sir. Christopher winced. ‘I was raised an only child.’

      Her expression softened. ‘Oh, how sad. That is, I did not mean—it is only that I would hate to be without my sisters.’

      ‘Though you would happily do without your brother.’

      She smiled faintly at this, but was not to be distracted. ‘So there was no older sister to step into your mother’s slippers, as I did for my sisters? Who then had the care of you as a child?’

      Christopher gritted his teeth, tempted to tell her to mind her own business, but reckoning that to do so would only make her more curious, he opted for a form of the truth. ‘The wife of the man who taught me to survey.’

      ‘Oh.’ Tahira pleated her brow. ‘She was your father’s housekeeper?’

      He chose not to answer this. ‘She died thirteen years ago.’

      ‘I’m so sorry. And her husband?’

      ‘He died too. Just last year.’

      ‘Oh, Christopher, how dreadful. Then there is only your father left alive?’

      ‘As far as I am concerned, my father is also dead. Now, I trust you are you done with digging up my past, because I am most certainly done with talking about it.’

      She flinched at his tone. ‘I did not mean to offend you, and I most certainly didn’t mean to upset you, especially when you have done me the honour of inviting me here, and gone to so much trouble to make me feel welcome. I wished only to get to know you a little better. I had no idea the subject of your family was so painful.’

      ‘It is not painful,’ he said, as much for his own benefit as for hers. ‘It is simply irrelevant.’

      Tahira smiled uncertainly. ‘You don’t think it’s rather paradoxical that you should say such a thing? An archaeologist, a man whose raison d’être is digging up the past, but has no interest in his own? You told me that you feel a connection with the past, Christopher, like I do—something tangible...’

      ‘Ancient history, not my past. My personal history has no bearing at all on my work.’

      ‘But your work here has everything to do with the amulet,’ Tahira persisted. ‘And the amulet connects you to your mother as my Bedouin star connects me to mine.’

      ‘The amulet does not concern us tonight,’ Christopher said, thoroughly rattled. Jumping to his feet, he held out his hand to help her up.

      ‘Indeed, I’m sorry. You’ve had more than enough of my company tonight. Thank you for the lovely meal, and for showing me your home, and...’

      ‘I didn’t bring you here just to make you dinner.’

      ‘You didn’t? What else do you have planned?’

      Imagining her surprise made it easy to cast aside the spectres she had raised. He caught her hand, pressing a fleeting kiss to her fingertips. ‘Come with me, and all will be revealed.’

      * * *

      They were making for the nearest dune. Walking across the sands, her excitement mounting with every step, Tahira eyed the large rectangular object which Christopher carried wrapped in a sheet. What on earth could it be? As they began to climb the sharp, steep ridge of the sand dune, her inkling of what he intended became a delightful certainty. Wildly curious as she was, she bit her tongue. Christopher had gone to a deal of effort to please her. The least she could to was permit him to explain in his own time.

      He did speak finally, stopping short of the top of the ridge to allow Tahira to catch her breath, though the subject was not what she expected.

      ‘In the winter, in England, it frequently snows,’ Christopher said. ‘Imagine waking up one morning to find the whole landscape has turned glittering white overnight. Soft, powdery snow is best for sledding.’

      ‘Sledding?’ she repeated the word with difficulty, for it was quite foreign to her. ‘What is that?’

      ‘I don’t know if there is an equivalent in your language. A sled is a sort of chariot which glides across the snow. It can be pulled by horses or dogs. Or, you can just point it down a hill. When I was a boy I used a tin tray—we weren’t rich enough to afford a proper sled. Which is where I got the inspiration for this.’ He pulled back the sheet with a flourish to reveal a large metal platter, a very inferior version of the solid silver-and-gold salvers used to serve food in the palace.

      Tahira stared at it, completely nonplussed. ‘Where did you get such a thing?’

      He laughed. ‘The means of making your wish come true are my business. Yours is simply to enjoy the experience.’

      Which meant he had no intention of explaining himself. Which meant that he had most likely—no, Christopher was right. Best not to know. Best simply to enjoy. ‘Are we going to use this thing as a—what did you call it?’

      ‘Sled. We are indeed. My theory is that the sand will act just like snow, and we can slide all the way to the bottom on it.’

      ‘Like a dhow riding an ocean wave,’ Tahira said entranced. ‘When I said I wanted to slide down a dune, I did not think—thank you, Christopher. This is far beyond what I had imagined.’

      ‘Save your thanks for when we get to the bottom of the dune in one piece. There was a hill, not far from our house, which was just perfect for sledding. Not too high, not too steep, and most importantly not too bumpy. Rather like this dune, in fact. I still fell off regularly.’

      Tahira shivered theatrically. ‘You must have been soaking wet and freezing afterwards.’

      He laughed. ‘I was never allowed out until I was wrapped up in so many layers of clothes that I could hardly walk. Fortunately, cold is one of the things we don’t have to worry about. Come, let us finish our climb to the top.’

      Who took the care to wrap you up in so many layers of clothes? Tahira wanted to ask. His father’s housekeeper? It was odd, wasn’t it, that he chose to share such personal childhood memories with her unsolicited, yet any time she questioned him about his family, he seemed to retreat. When he talked of finding the Roman coin, and just there, when he talked of this English sledding, it was as if in his memory he was quite alone. Who were these people he had erased? And why?

      But to bring it up again would spoil the mood of this precious night that he had gone to such an effort to make perfect for her. She ought to be making the most of it, not pondering ways to make a mess of it. They were nearing the top of the ridge. Christopher was just ahead of her, for he’d moderated his long-legged stride to accommodate her shorter one, continually turning back to check on her progress, to lend her a helping hand. When they finally reached the top, she was panting hard, while he showed no signs of effort. He stood, hands on hips, his pale tunic and trousers, his halo of golden hair outlined starkly against