“It’s very tight in here,” Esme whispered.
“Yes, it is,” he said, and in doing so managed to suck in a mouthful of stale air. It smelled and tasted of ground sand.
He shifted, trying to move her away from him so that her hip wasn’t pressed quite so intimately against his groin. But he failed miserably, succeeding instead in moving her in such a way that should he become aroused— which seemed imminent at this point—there would be no way for her to miss his growing erection.
“Did you know that the word sarcophagus means ‘flesh eater’?” Esme whispered.
He could not see her, but he could clearly imagine her wide eyes gazing up at him with that inquisitive look she so often wore. And it was hard enough for him to concentrate with the lack of air, left alone with fighting the sensation of her tight little body pressed against his.
Before he could answer, the guards entered the room. Fielding put his hand over Esme’s mouth, her hot breath coming in short puffs against his palm.
“Chesterfield, you should come with me,” the first voice said. “My sister has plenty of silly friends. One of them is bound to find you passable. Not Marie, though. I’m claiming her. Sweet Marie, plump in all the right places.”
“Can’t. I’m going to Suffolk on the morrow to visit my ailing aunt.”
“Next week, perhaps,” his friend suggested.
“For a willing lass,” Chesterfield said wistfully. “If it weren’t for my aunt, and her small fortune,” he added with a laugh, “I’d be there.”
“I don’t see anyone in here, Chesterfield. They must have left.”
“What about over there?”
If possible, Esme pressed her body farther into Fielding’s.
“The cupboard? No, it’s always locked.”
Footsteps passed right in front of their hiding place and stopped. “You know, I’ve always found this old thing a bit frightening.” The man tapped on the sarcophagus with his toe. The sound echoed around Fielding and Esme.
Esme flinched and her breath caught.
There was a long pause before they heard, “Come along. We have three more wings to patrol.”
Fielding’s hand left Esme’s mouth, while the other rubbed gently against her arm. It would do them no good if she panicked and alerted the men to their hiding place. Having her this close, though, was wreaking havoc on his body. And supposedly she was the one suffering from the curse of lust. It seemed he was equally afflicted.
A door closed and the voices faded away.
Esme relaxed into his body. “I thought for certain they would discover us,” she said.
The faint scent of lilacs wafted to him and for some reason gave him a measure of calm. He breathed her in, her hair tickling his nose.
She shifted and in doing so rubbed her breasts against him. Desire surged through his veins and pooled in his loins. This was bloody perfect.
“Fielding?” she asked, her voice lined with panic. She poked him right in the ribs. “Are you still breathing?” Her finger continued to jab him in the side.
“Yes.” He grabbed hold of her hand.
“Oh, you frightened me.” She relaxed against him. “I believe this is the sarcophagus of the priestess Amon-Ra. I read about it not too long ago. Many people who have had contact with it have died. So it is thought to be cursed,” she whispered, then paused as voices from the hall drifted by.
“In fact, the owner of this sarcophagus, who won it in a wager in Egypt,” she continued a moment later, “simply donated it to the museum in an attempt to remove the curse from his life.” She took a deep breath. “And when you didn’t answer immediately, I thought maybe . . .”
“That the curse had done me in?” he supplied.
“Honestly. The two travel companions of the man who owned this died shortly after returning to England. Then he gave the sarcophagus to a friend as a gift, and that friend’s mother died. Then there was all this very peculiar business with a photographer—”
“Esme, you’re going to use all of our oxygen,” he said.
She shrugged her delicate shoulders, which only ended up rubbing her breasts against him again. He groaned.