The back wall of the tomb was built into the bedrock, and Harry smiled as he spied an opening in the craggy rock face, partly covered with a plank of wood. He shifted the wood and uncovered a dark tunnel that seemed to lead straight into the hill itself.
“Ha!” he shouted in triumph. “Look at that! I bet that goes down to a burial chamber of some sort. Come on.”
“Don’t be ridiculous. You can’t go down there. For one thing we have no light.”
He sent her a chiding glance, reached into the leather satchel slung across his chest, and pulled out two candles and a tinder box. The flint sparked as he lit the candles and handed one to her with a grin.Semper Paratus. That’s the Tremayne family motto. It means ‘Always prepared.’ We Tremaynes are ready for anything.”
“The Morden family motto isNon Perdidi.”
“‘Never lost,’” Tremayne translated. “An excellent motto for a family of mapmakers.” His smile made her stomach flutter. “Come on. Let’s go.”
And before Hester could argue, he’d bent over and started down the dark, narrow passageway.
Chapter 4
For want of anything better to do, Hester followed him, cursing under her breath as she did so. The candlelight flickered on the rough-hewn walls of the tunnel as it sloped gradually downward. The air was cool in contrast to the scorching heat outside and slightly musty. After approximately twenty feet Tremayne stopped to clear some rocks and other debris out of their path, but once that was done, he continued on, humming a rather tuneless ditty that made Hester grind her teeth.
The idiot was enjoying himself.
Hester did her best to ignore the crushing feeling of knowing they were surrounded by hundreds of tons of rock that might collapse on top of them at any moment. She was finding it hard to breathe in the airless space. Her chest felt tight. She took a deep breath—and inhaled the intoxicating scent of Harry Tremayne.
My goodness, he smelled good. The faint tang of cedar and leather made her stomach curl. Why couldn’t he smell all sweaty and dusty, like a normal person?
“The ancient Egyptians liked to set booby traps,” she warned, her voice echoing strangely off the narrow walls.
“Really? Like what?” His voice was more eager than fearful, the dolt.
“There might be other shafts for you to fall down or stones triggered by wires to crush you. If you die, Tremayne, don’t think I’m going to drag your mangled body out of here. I’ll think of some excuse to tell your Aunt Agatha.”
His amused laughter echoed back to her.
After another fifty feet or so, his silhouette straightened and then disappeared. Hester hastened forward and emerged into a small rectangular chamber that had been hewn into the solid rock. It wasn’t much larger than a closet or a dressing room. A few small alcoves and recesses had been carved into the walls, but whatever treasures they’d once held were long gone.
She raised her candle and made a slow turn around the chamber. Each wall was covered in a series of beautiful Egyptian paintings, the colors of which were still remarkably bright and well-preserved. She sucked in an awed breath at the stylized human figures, plants, and animals that seemed to fill every available space.
“Well, that’s quite something,” Harry breathed.
He stepped forward and peered into the large stone trough that stood in the center of the room. It had obviously once had a lid, but the shattered remains of it lay strewn on the floor.
“Empty,” he sighed. “If there was a mummy in there, it’s long gone.”
“Probably a good thing,” Hester said. “It would doubtless have been cursed. The ancient Egyptians were always putting curses on things.” She gestured at the lines of picture writing that decorated all four sides of the sarcophagus. “That probably says something like, ‘Cursed be he who moves my body. To him shall come fire, water, and pestilence. His liver shall be eaten by a crocodile. His neck shall be twisted like that of a bird. His name shall cease to exist.’”
Harry made a dismissive noise. “Ha. There’s no such thing as curses. A man makes his own luck. I discoveredthatin the wars. Mind you, it does show how very uncreative we British are when it comes to insults. All we do is sneer at the cut of a man’s coat or disparage his sister. I’m going to memorize some of those, to use when I’m back home.”
Hester rolled her eyes. “Well, if you’re quite satisfied there’s nothing left to steal down here, perhaps we can make our way back?”
“Steal?” Harry protested. “I never steal!”
“Oh, really? What about that time in Venice when you stole that gondola from those nuns?”
He raised his brows. “I prefer the term commandeered. Or borrowed. Iborrowedthat gondola. And in my defense, I had no idea they really were nuns."
“The wimples weren’t a sufficient clue? And the rosary beads?”
“It was Carnevale. I thought they were in fancy dress.”
“Well, they weren’t. They probably told the Pope to excommunicate you.”