“I imagine seeing them in their original context is a different experience,” Catriona replied in a low voice. “Certainly for the visitors whose story they tell.”
“The last argument I heard was that the ancient Greeks have little connection to the current Greek people, and if something doesn’t clearly belong to one nation, it belongs to anyone,” Mrs. Blackstone replied. “What do you say to that, Mr. Khoury? Is it nonsense?”
He exhaled audibly through his nose. “I’d say it’s a convenient argument made by nations that managed to formalize their nationhood on time.” Which was a bloody enough endeavor without several imperial powers meddling in one’s affairs. Just ask Youssef Bek Karam, now in exile as a thanks for his efforts.
The trio eventually parted at the museum’s main entrance.
Mrs. Blackstone put her hand on Catriona’s sleeve. “I shall see you on Wednesday, then. Suffrage business,” she explained to Elias. If it struck her as improper that he and Catriona were leaving the museum together, she didn’t let it show.
After the quiet of the museum, London was loud. The sun glared, pedestrians were streaming at them. They shouldn’t walk to the underground stop together in such a central place. Catriona moved quickly; the set of her shoulders was rigid.
“Very clever of you to send the curator photographs of the pieces,” he said.
“Thank you.”
“Now I would like it if you didn’t burden yourself with my business any longer,” he went on. “You have much to do for your own cause. Your willingness to assist a stranger will not be forgotten.”
Her gaze flicked to him from the corner of her eye. “A stranger,” she said in an odd voice, and the impression struck him that he had offended her. After a pause, she added: “I’m not doing nearly enough.”
Below the brim of her hat, her profile appeared drawn and pale.
“Psst,” he said.
She glanced at him again, and her somber expression turned wary.
“You’re about to make a joke,” she said, “aren’t you.”
He raised an eyebrow. “Do you know why the Egyptian pyramids are in Egypt?”
“Oh, this is silly.”
“Come on, take a guess.”
“Pfff.” She nestled at her hat. “I suppose you could look at the local availability of—”
“It’s because they are too big to fit into the British Museum.”
She gasped, then yelped a shocked laugh before she slapped a hand over her mouth.
“What’s this,” he said, mock amazed, “she’s having fun.”
She glanced left and right at the people passing them by. “Your sense of humor is awfully dark.”
He smiled. “Not as dark as my anger. You laughed, didn’t you.”
“All right, I did—I’m just as bad.”
Looking at each other’s grinning faces, they nearly walked into a newspaper cart, which Elias avoided by pulling her with him on a last-second swerve. For a moment, their bodies pressed together, and his hand was on her waist. He released her quickly. Catriona looked up at him, no longer smiling. Her lips had parted, and a loose strand of dark hair clung to her cheek. He focused on the crossing ahead so he would not grip her chin and kiss her in full sight of the world’s largest city, in front of the pedestrians and the carriage drivers, the shopkeepers and the flower girl and the policeman at the corner. His chest hurt with the urge to whisk her to the secluded privacy of his home, away from prying eyes and unwanted opinions, to keep her as his well-protected treasure.
“You’re staying in town until Wednesday, then,” he said, the full heat of his emotions in his voice.
“Aye.” She sounded out of breath.
He looked straight ahead at the looming underground sign. “You have any plans?”
Apart from being naked in his arms, under him, on her knees, perhaps on top of him.
Her reply was soft, but it struck through the hum of London clear like a bell.
“You,” he heard her say. “You are in my plans.”
Chapter 27
On Monday afternoon, Catriona stood in front of the seven-story-high Fortnum & Mason department store on Piccadilly. She was dressed in sky-blue velvet and had curled her hair. In her reticule was a check, presigned by Wester Ross, worth two hundred Goldmark. Around her, the fog hung limp like a damp curtain. The air was still in London today.
Alexandra’s reply had been delivered by a messenger boy on Sunday morning, a handwritten note, and the sight of the distinct German Kurrent script had felt like a pinch to Catriona’s stomach. Meine Liebe, it’s been too long—we must have afternoon tea at F & Ms. The pinch had faded quickly. Even now, looking over the store’s red-brick fa?ade and knowing she was inside the building, Catriona detected no major disturbance in her pulse. No more fear. Besides, she was here to help Elias.