Mr. Impossible (Carsington Brothers, #2)

by Loretta Chase

At the time, she’d been nineteen years old, her vision obscured by the stars in her eyes.

She looked down and saw her hands shaking. Calm down, she commanded herself. Nothing’s happened yet. Think. She had a brain, a formidable brain. It must be able to formulate a solution.

Now, body and spirit exhausted, she was on the brink of hysteria. She could not succumb. Men merely humored emotional women. She needed to be listened to. If she wanted men to take action, she must first make them take her seriously.

“That man,” she said in low but still audible tones, “is an idiot.” “Yes, madam, but he’s all we’ve got.” “I may be stupid,” Rupert said, “but I’m irresistibly attractive.” “Good grief, conceited, too,” she muttered. “And being a great, dumb ox,” he went on, “I’m wonderfully easy to manage.”

“Anyone who is utterly fearless is either demented or dim-witted,” Daphne said. Leena pointed to her head. “You have enough up here for six men. You do not need a man with a great brain. You need a man with big muscles and great courage.”

Ordinarily she took no notice of men, except as obstacles in her path, which in her experience appeared to be their primary function.

“A brothel?” “A house of ill repute,” he explained. “Where men hire women to do what most women won’t do unless you marry them, and oftentimes not even then.”

What a relief that was! He vastly preferred physical punishment to the other thing: the nasty stew of emotion.

“Not that I’d be interested, if they were the genuine article,” he went on. “I could never understand the great to do about virgins. In my view, a woman of experience—” “Your view is not solicited, Mr. Carsington,” she said. “It is unnecessary for you to ‘make out’ why this or that. You are not here to think. You are to provide the brawn in this undertaking. I am to provide the brain. Is that clear?”

He can tell us nothing.” Rupert got up, walked up to within inches of the gatekeeper’s face, and peered down into his half-closed eyes. Wadid smiled and nodded and said something in singsong. Rupert grasped him by the upper arms, lifted him off the floor, and held him aloft for a moment. Wadid’s eyes opened wide. Rupert gave the man a shake, then set him down. Wadid stared at him, mouth opening and closing. “Tell him, the next time I pick him up, I’ll pitch him out the window,” Rupert said. “Tell him, if he doesn’t want to test his flying skills, I recommend he answer a few questions.”

Her mouth, previously taut with disapproval, shaped an O. The prim expression had acted, apparently, as a sort of corset. Freed of it, her mouth was soft and full.

She had a man’s mind in a woman’s body. The feminine arts were a far greater mystery to her than Egyptian writing. She had at least a rational hope of solving the latter. But when it came to femininity, her case was hopeless. Virgil’s efforts to change her had only infuriated her—quite as though she were a man.

A proper woman would have exercised more tact. Even dumb beasts had feelings, and men could be sensitive about the oddest things.

“His name is Udail,” Daphne said. “Tom,” said the boy, gazing worshipfully up at Mr. Carsington. “Esmi Tom.” My name is Tom. In mere minutes, the man had frightened one servant into submission and cajoled another into idolatry.

Daphne did not believe in genii. At that moment, however, she had no doubt that her trip to the Citadel dungeon had released a dangerous force.

But the arrogant sway of her hips bespoke a Cleopatra kind of queen, an Aphrodite kind of goddess. The walk was an invitation. The attire was a Keep Off sign. The combination was fascinating.

Her romantic streak had shriveled and died years ago. Her marriage had mummified it.

she was acutely aware of a very different warmth where he touched her, and of a strength that the childish part of her wanted to lean into.

Rupert wondered if she was counting to ten. People often did that when conversing with him.

“I do not understand you,” Leena said. “Why do you not send me to shop while you stay and let him take off your clothes? What is the good of being a great lady if you do the work of servants and take no pleasure?”

“Setbacks seem to sour and deform some men,” she said. She turned toward him, her countenance clouded. “They become angry, anxious, suspicious. They brood. They lose their sense of proportion. They grow resentful of others’ accomplishments and happiness.”

She remembered the woman she’d been less than a week ago, her life entirely a life of the mind, all her flawed being safely engaged in solving an intellectual puzzle.

I feel as though I am stumbling blindly about.” “Ah, is that all?” His mouth eased lazily into a smile. Threads of heat slid over her skin, as though his mouth were there…everywhere. “No need to fret,” he said. “If you stumble, I’ll catch you.”

and the green eyes, ocean deep, and the way they’d looked at him. It was not a “get off” look. It was the kind of look Helen of Troy must have given Paris, the kind Cleopatra must have given Mark Antony. Wars broke out because of looks like that.

Until the wind changed, she could either fret about the present and seethe about the past or make the best of matters.

She fought her way out of the enchantment the place had cast over her and shifted into her pedantic mode, where she felt safest: with facts instead of the confusing clamor of feelings.

He smiled and shook his head. “You give yourself away. When you are on sure ground—on your ground—your voice changes, and a wonderfully arrogant look comes into your eyes, and you hold your head in a certain way.”

He was so very big and so very strong and warm, so vibrantly alive. He was her genie, carrying her away, and she let herself be a child and believe in the fantasy. She let out a huff, as though defeated, then rested her head upon his shoulder.

She’d built a wall of moral principles he must find a way to get round, along with other, harder-to-identify obstacles.

“It was madly exciting,” he said, his voice so low that she felt rather than heard it, on her neck, behind her ear, and deep, deep within, where the devil lurked and made her ache for wild and wicked things.

“Really,” he said. “What was wrong with it? Which part? Should I have done this?” He laid the palm of his other hand upon the door, boxing her in.

She knew better than to long for any man, especially this kind. She knew the sweetness was seduction, not affection. This was not the youthful innocence it felt like. She knew this, in some safe, sober corner of her drunken mind.

In some part of her clouded mind she knew she’d suffer for it, but that was far away, and he was near,

The creature regarded him with sad, glistening eyes. “I’ll wager anything you’re a female,” Miles muttered. He scooped up one of the uncleaned fish and tossed it to the mongoose.

She knew the wildness and wickedness were inside her. But it was like the experience in Saqqara: she knew there were snakes. She knew they sheltered from the burning sun in dark places. But that was an abstract idea, worlds away from the real thing appearing suddenly, fangs bared, carrying instant death. She was supposed to have grown tamer, to have quieted with maturity and learnt to rule her passions instead of letting them rule her. But Mr. Carsington had come into her life, and then… She’d thought he was the genie let out of the bottle, the dangerous force released. But she was the one set free. Discovering who and what she’d become was like lifting the rock and seeing the snake spring up.

“You had a sleepless night?” Was he keeping her awake, then, the way she did him? What a tragic waste of nighttime!

“The Egyptians have been beaten down cruelly time and again. What reason have they to stand and fight to protect us—a lot of foreign invaders? It makes more sense to run away. You and I shall have to rely upon each other.” She could hardly believe her ears. He had been so reluctant to teach her how to shoot. But these were words used between equals, words of trust—in her judgment, her skill—from a man. Her heart leapt—with pleasure or fear, she wasn’t sure. Perhaps both.

“Excellent,” he said. “You hit the mound.” The mound was the size of Bedford Square. Blindfolded, she could hardly miss it. Still, a wave of happiness surged through her. She wanted to jump up and down. She wanted to dance. She wanted to throw her arms about his neck and kiss him senseless—for teaching her how to do something, a useful thing that men knew how to do, a skill that even her indulgent brother hadn’t taught her. “Try it again,” Mr. Carsington said. “This time, see if you can do it without any prompting from me.” This time she went through the preliminaries a degree more confidently, aimed, and fired. Again the ball struck somewhere in Bedford Square. She fired several more times, and it seemed the ball struck nearer and nearer to the spot she aimed for. “It is not so very difficult, after all,” she said casually, while her heart pounded with happiness. “Now I should like to try the rifle.”

He’d noticed this about her the first time they met. She must have been frightened in the dungeon. It was dark, and it stank of death and decay—and those were the more agreeable odors. Yet she’d beaten back fear for her brother’s sake. Since then, Rupert had seen daily examples of her pluck. They all made him want to get her naked, naturally, but he had other feelings, too. He wasn’t sure what they were: a sort of fondness, a kind of affection, something oddly like what he felt for his brothers.

Though he’d warned her, she was not prepared for the recoil’s force. The rifle fell from her hands, and she stumbled back into him. He was fully prepared, though, and caught her, his arms closing over her bosom, his crossed hands firmly upon her breasts. He might have regained his balance but didn’t try. He simply gave way, and fell backward onto the sandy ground, taking her with him.

“I’m a man,” he said with what he was sure must be, in the circumstances, saintly patience. “I can do one or the other. Lovemaking or thinking. But not both at the same time.”

Nonetheless, it was not his fault. She couldn’t blame him. He was a man, after all.

Besides, she had the face and figure of a goddess and a gigantic brain. Everyone knew goddesses were more difficult and dangerous than the common run of females. Look at what happened in the Greek myths. You couldn’t expect an extraordinary woman to behave like an ordinary one.

She was vexed with herself instead of with him. This made no sense. Worse, it made him feel all wrong inside. He was experiencing the ghastly sensation he remembered from boyhood: conscience. It hadn’t troubled him in years. Now it yowled at him and tied his innards in knots.

Surely he’d have heard about the boat mishap, and put two and two together. It hardly takes a genius. After all, I worked it out.”

She was glad to have a plan of sorts, something productive to think about.

What hope was there for a weak, ill-fed baby who’d been treated with nothing but charms and magic spells for days? Now they would all catch the fever and die in one of the filthiest and ugliest places in all the world, and when they were all dead, the peasants would come and pillage the boat and throw their bodies in the river for the fish and the crocodiles to eat.

The next morning, when he visited the fat liar, Rupert simply offered to teach him to fly. Then Rupert demonstrated his teaching method by picking up the largest of the guards and throwing him against a wall. Several other guards started for Rupert then. He told Tom to run, then stood, arms open in welcome, and grinned at the oncoming guards. A fight was exactly what Rupert was hoping for. He was not in a good mood.

“Be of good heart, lady,” Nafisah told Daphne. “This boat is magical. You have healing magic, and the English master has power over snakes.” “No one fears snake charmers,” Leena said scornfully. “But in Saqqara he commanded a wild viper, not a tame snake with no fangs, like those in the snake charmers’ baskets,” Nafisah said. “Everyone here has heard of his magic at the Pyramid of Steps in Saqqara. Everyone has heard of his strength, like a genie. Why do you think only one man came to rob your boat the other night? The others feared the magic.” Daphne paused in her pacing. “Really? How disappointing for Mr. Carsington. He was so looking forward to fighting bandits.” “He is looking for a fight,” Leena said grimly. “Anyone can see this.” Lowering her voice she added in a still-audible aside to Nafisah, “They desire each other. But they are English, you see, and the English people have strange—” A shout cut her off.

“We cannot afford your indulging in ill humor,” she said. “I cannot do this alone. I rely upon you, Mr. Carsington. I do not like to—to inhibit you. I know you are a man of action, who must find so much responsibility oppressive. But I must ask y-you…” Her voice wobbled. “Oh, no,” he said. She held up her hand. “I am not going to weep,” she said. “Yes, you are,” he said. She came back to the divan and sat down. She bit her lip. He sighed. “Go ahead.” She shook her head. “It’s all right,” he said. “I’d rather you hit me, but this punishment is much more painful. Exactly what I deserve.” She smiled crookedly. “I’ll show mercy this time,” she said. “But you must not do it again.”