Written in the Stars

By Katherine O'Neal

Katherine O’Neal takes her readers on a rapturous odyssey of seduction, betrayal and erotic obsession as two star-crossed lovers search for Cleopatra’s lost treasure in the sands of Colonial Egypt.

“O’Neal provides vibrant characters and settings, along with plenty of intrigue, daring escapes, 11th-hour twists and steamy romance.” – Publisher’s Weekly

A bewitching romance classic, in ebook for the first time.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Katherine O'Neal
• Release date: Jun 10, 2013
• ISBN: 9781301155989

Katherine O'Neal

Katherine O’Neal is the USA Today best-selling author of twelve historical romances. Her 1993 debut novel, The Last Highwayman, earned Romantic Times’ honors for Best Sensual Historical Romance, and she is the recipient of the magazine’s coveted Career Achievement Award. Dubbed by Affaire de Coeur magazine, “the Queen of Romantic Adventure,” Katherine lives for travel and has made extensive research trips to all the glamorous locations where her novels are set. “The spirit of place is very important to my work,” she says. “To me, nothing is sexier than travel.” Katherine lives in Seattle with her husband, the author and film critic William Arnold, and their four guinea pigs—all of whom have had one of her books dedicated to them. Foreign language editions of Katherine O’Neal’s books are available in more than a dozen countries. Her 2008 novel, Just for Her, will be published this year as a Japanese Manga comic.

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Written in the Stars

Katherine O’Neal

Smashwords Edition

Copyright © 1995, Katherine O’Neal

All Rights Reserved.

Smashwords Edition License Notes

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

Dedication

For Bill and Janie,

and my glorious Athena

And for Bob Brier

for his magnificent lecture series for

The Teaching Company

that rekindled my love of Egypt

As always, my thanks

to JW Manus for creating such

extraordinary ebooks for me

Reviews for Katherine O’Neal

and her Sizzling Historical Romances:

Calling The Last Highwayman a sophisticated, sensual read, New York Times bestselling author Jayne Ann Krentz said, Katherine O’Neal is an exciting writer with a fast, intense and very polished style. She has found a way to use the hard-edged glitz of Jackie Collins and set that against a historical backdrop. It could be the start of a new genre.

"A whirlwind of adventure/romance that seethes with dark, intense emotion and wild, hot sensuality."—Romantic Times

Katherine O’Neal is the queen of romantic adventure, reigning over a court of intrigue, sensuality, and good old-fashioned storytelling. Readers who insist on strong characters with intelligence will appreciate her craftsmanship.—Affaire de Coeur

O’Neal provides vibrant characters and settings, along with plenty of intrigue, daring escapes, 11th hour twists and steamy romance.—Publishers Weekly

Sensuous and spine-tingling... Superb.—Rendezvous

PROLOGUE

LONDON

June 1894

Diana was startled out of her concentration by the sound of something crashing in the back room. It was a storeroom, rarely used, with a single window that would be an ideal invitation to a burglar. She glanced at the clock. It was after midnight. As always, she’d lost all track of time as she’d pored over the rubbings of ancient Egyptian hieroglyphs. The British Museum was completely deserted at this hour. She vaguely remembered the guard, Mr. Brownlow, saying, I’m gone for the night, now. I’ll be locking you in, Miss Sanbourne.

As she sat frozen at her desk, she heard the distinct sound of someone maneuvering his way through the stockroom with its unpacked boxes from expeditions all over the world. There could be no doubt of it now. Someone had scaled the rear fence, climbed through the window, and was coming her way.

In a panic, she glanced about the office for something she could use as a weapon. There was nothing but the stacks of reference books she used in her study of ancient languages, rolled papyrus scripts, and her empty teacup. As the footsteps came closer, she shot up from the desk. Her mind flashed on the stories she’d heard of Jack the Ripper, how he’d cornered lone women late at night to brutally butcher them. Or, if she was lucky, maybe it was a skilled thief—someone after priceless antiquities. The museum’s security was paltry at best. Only two guards patrolled the vast mausoleum, neither one especially reliable, as they’d been known to take a nip or two throughout the lonely nights.

She stared at the door. The knob began to turn. I’m twenty years old, she thought. I’m getting married the day after tomorrow. How can this be happening to me?

Spurred to action, she kicked off her shoes and ran out the side door into the dark hall. She paused at the entrance of the Egyptian wing. The intruder was following her. She could hear the determined tread of his boots resounding against the marble floors. Darting into the wing, she was immediately surrounded by the eerie shadows of giant obelisks, colossal granite statues, a long file of sphinxes, brightly painted New Kingdom caskets, and immense stone sarcophagi with their carved instructions for the afterlife. She felt small and vulnerable amidst the ghostly splendor. But she realized she had the advantage of knowing the layout of the room. Surely the intruder wouldn’t try to follow her into its dark recesses.

She paused to get her bearings. The footfalls continued in her direction, growing louder with each step. She was shaking now. He seemed to be coming not for booty, but for her. As if he knew she’d be alone and unprotected at this hour.

Quietly, on stockinged feet, she raced through the wing toward the passage that led to the Greek and Roman displays. The curator’s office was just beyond the Elgin marbles. Surely she could find a weapon there. Or perhaps she could commandeer a heavy object along the way. But no. The archaeologist in her was loath to risk damaging some irreplaceable artifact, even if her life was in danger.

She passed the Rosetta Stone, out of the Egyptian section, and entered the larger, high-ceilinged chamber that housed the Graeco-Roman statuary collection. Weaving a shortcut through the marble fragments that had once adorned the Parthenon, she came to the office door. But when she turned the knob, she realized with horror that it was locked. The footsteps were growing louder by the second. There was no way out.

She turned, her back pressed against the door. The footsteps stopped. Across the vast hall, through the shadows of the flowing statues, she could see the silhouette of her pursuer. He stood like a phantom in the darkened archway. His breathing was heavy, ominously loud in the silent room.

Then she remembered. There was a fire ax on the wall just opposite her. She took two steps and yanked it free. It was heavy, the wood of the handle seeming to cut into her palms. She raised the ax above her head. Take one step closer and I’ll chop you in half, she told him, her voice echoing through the stillness, her tone shockingly calm.

I believe you would, came a deep voice from the shadows.

Jack!

She let the ax drop to her side. As he struck a match, the flame formed a candescent wreath around him. Awash in relief, she knew she’d never seen an image quite so welcome. Or so arresting.

At twenty-five, her fiancé, Jack Rutherford, was tall and dramatically handsome in a rugged, commanding way. There was nothing soft or boyish about him. The sun-bronzed, virile features and his unflinching glare spoke of a seasoned confidence that was rare in a man his age. His hair was streaked a light bronze from his many years spent in sundrenched lands. Tonight it fell about his head with shaggy disregard. Broad-shouldered and lean, his powerful body was draped in a dark suit that looked as if he’d slept in it, the jacket falling open, the shirt unbuttoned at the throat. He appeared disheveled, which gave him a rough-hewn, devilish demeanor she loved. His strong jaw sported the slightest trace of a stubble, as if he’d forgotten to shave. It was a casual disregard for decorum that never failed to stir her.

But her heart was still pounding madly from her scare. You idiot! she cried. You nearly scared me to death.

I had to see you. The museum was closed, so I let myself in.

Now that she was calming down, she wasn’t too surprised. Jack was nothing if not ingenious. A locked window would pose little challenge to him. Still, it was an uncharacteristic appearance. Many of his actions lately had baffled her. Indeed, the past month had been a difficult time for Jack. His father, Niven Rutherford, had unexpectedly passed away in May. Jack had suddenly inherited the earldom and all its inherent responsibilities. Diana had suggested postponing the wedding, but it had been dear Niven’s last wish that they go ahead with it as planned. She’d seen little of Jack in the past few weeks and even when she had, he’d seemed distant and preoccupied. She understood. He’d been close to his father, as she was to hers. But still, he’d seemed to be taking his loss harder than she’d expected.

He shook out the match and in one motion, crossed the distance to her. In the darkness, she felt his hands grasping her shoulders with a firm grip, slamming her against the solid wall of his chest so her breath left her lungs in a single gasp. His arms went around her, clutching her to him, enclosing her in imprisoning bands of steel. He found her mouth with his and smothered her in a devastating kiss.

She began to tremble again, but this time not with fear, clinging to him as he stole her breath, loosing her hands to run her fingers through his hair. Jack, she cried when her mouth was free. You impulsive fool. I never know what to expect with you. Her voice took on a teasing tone. I should be angry with you. You’ve stayed away so long, a girl could begin to wonder if you still wanted her.

He loosened his embrace and raised his head. She could feel his eyes boring into hers. Then, with a savage jerk, he thrust her up against him and buried his lips in her hair. Diana, God help me, I want you more than life itself.

His intensity was overwhelming. He was kissing her again, holding her so powerfully that she felt her feet leave the floor.

Oh, Jack, she murmured, I want you, too. And in two days—

He straightened abruptly.

What is it? she asked, sensing more to his mood than he was divulging.

Do you love me, Diana?

You know I do.

But do you love me enough? Enough to— He stopped again, faltering on the words.

Jack, how can you ask? You’re such a blessing in my life. Sometimes I feel so grateful for you that I don’t think my body can hold the force of it.

He didn’t move. But do you love me, he asked quietly, enough to withstand anything? If I did something—if I disappointed you—if I—

Jack, stop it! How could you ever disappoint me? I know you as I know myself. What is this? Wedding jitters? I know we can’t tell what the future will bring. I know there will be hardships. But I know it won’t matter. You could never do anything—

But if I did, he insisted.

She tenderly ran her fingers along the stubble of his jaw. What’s happened? she asked.

No questions, love, please. I need to know. Is there anything I could do—anything at all—to make you turn from me? To make you—hate me?

Nothing, she cried, her conviction causing her voice to throb. There’s nothing you could ever do that would make me hate you. How could you even think it?

Swear to me.

I don’t need to—

He grabbed her arms and shook her. "Swear to me, Diana. Swear it!"

She was so surprised, it took her a moment to find her voice. She rubbed his cheek in a gesture of comfort and said, I swear to you, Jack Rutherford, that nothing and no one will ever cause me to love you any less than I do now. Don’t you believe me?

He took her in his arms, more gently now, and whispered, If you only knew how I want to. I need you, Diana.

He’d never said those words before. She wrapped her arms about him as he kissed her hair, his mouth moving to the flesh of her neck. She felt a sweep of longing coil inside. She turned her head to his, felt his mouth seize hers, felt dizzy from the onslaught of his kiss. In an instant, she was hoisted up into his arms and he was carrying her, his mouth locked on hers, through a maze of hallways and into an atrium they knew well. There, in a re-creation of a Roman villa, he laid her on a daybed beneath the window. She was suddenly bathed in moonlight. She stretched her arms to him and he went to her, covering her with his heavy frame, so she could feel the heat and iron of his erection on her thigh.

Love me, Diana, he pleaded against her mouth.

She stilled in his arms. They’d agreed to wait until their wedding night, fighting their desire for each other to keep this sacred vow. Not that it had been easy. Jack’s persuasive seduction had made her hunger for his body so many times, she’d had to tear herself from him to keep that promise. She looked at him now, bent on reminding him once again of their pledge, but she saw in the moonlight a proud man who’d never begged for anything in his life, pleading with his eyes for the love only she could give.

Love me, he whispered again.

She’d never loved him more. He seemed like a lost child, this strong, decisive man who would boldly break into a locked museum because he wanted to see her. She’d never seen him like this, unprotected, needy, seeking assurance when he’d always been the one to reassure. And in that moment, when he needed her most, when he craved proof of all the love she had to give, she knew she couldn’t deny him.

She smiled at him, and slowly, with fumbling fingers, unbuttoned the bodice of her gown. She’d unthinkingly worn his favorite dress, but now she was glad. She parted the midnight blue silk and brought her hands to cup her breasts, offering them in invitation.

He stared for a moment at the creamy, moon-kissed mounds of flesh with the nipples standing erect from the knowledge of his gaze. And then, like a starving man, he dropped his head and took one, then the other, into the moist cavern of his mouth, feasting on her with an insatiable appetite that made her loins cry out with need.

It wasn’t the first time she’d felt these yearnings while lying in his arms. But never before had she been possessed of the knowledge that tonight, now, this very minute, she would open herself to him for the taking. The knowledge thrilled yet frightened her. She felt more of a woman than she ever had, savoring the enveloping succor of his mouth on her breast, the grazing of his stubbled jaw. She felt like molten liquid, melting, dissolving, flowing like warm lava toward his rapacious mouth. Yet she quivered with fear, not knowing what to expect once she’d passed the boundaries of the last frontier of her girlhood, the roadblock that had kept her agonizingly disconnected from the man she loved. She didn’t know what to do, or how to please him.

But he sensed it, as he’d sensed her every thought since she was six years old. He lifted his head and caressed her mouth with his lips to put her at ease. And then he trailed loving kisses along her cheek until his mouth was at her ear and he was whispering, with an intimate huskiness to his voice, As long as I live, Diana, I’ll never love anyone but you.

It sounded like good-bye. And because it did, she lost her fear, lost her reticence in her desperation to give that which he sought—reassurance that their love would withstand the ravages of time.

She began to kiss him with all her inflamed passion, pressing her pliant body to his. Then she was drowning in the sensation of his mouth as it roamed her curves, grazing her shoulder, her throat, the small hollow between her breasts. Worshiping every inch of her as her dress slid from her like hot wax from a flame. Before she knew it, they were both naked and she caught a glimpse in the moon’s enchanted glow of his firmly muscled chest covered by a thick, seductive smattering of hair. It traversed his chest, pointing like an arrow down his stomach to the—

Suddenly she froze. Are you sure, Jack? Are we doing the right thing?

I’m sure, he growled.

The magic of his hands parted her thighs, expertly and in a fashion not to be denied, before his mouth found her and caused a strangled gasp. His exquisite, hot tongue made her forget everything—her abandoned work, her surroundings—everything but the wicked sensation of opening herself completely before him. She was on fire, thrusting into his mouth as her breath burned her lungs like a torch. She cautioned herself to be quiet, even clamped her teeth upon her lower lip, but then, to her amazement, she felt herself unfolding completely beneath his mouth, felt the blood rush to her head, felt an explosion of such majesty that she clutched his head and cried out with her panting breath.

As she was still swirling, still awash with astonishing pleasure, he heaved himself up. He moved between her thighs and she felt the head of his erection. She wanted him inside, wanted him as she’d wanted nothing else. Lifting her hips, she beckoned to him, whimpering her need.

As he entered her and pain ripped through her, it was as if the door of some internal cage had been cast open, and her soul had been set free. She glimpsed the woman she was meant to be, in all her glory, free and fearless, not a creature full of doubt and trepidation. She saw herself standing in the light, whole, complete, glowing with a radiant joy.

The moment was as fleeting as the pain. She felt shaken, as if she’d glimpsed something just out of reach. But then Jack’s mouth closed over her own, muffling the cry she hadn’t known she’d made, as he lay atop her, in her, not moving, only kissing her and soothingly stroking her hair. She realized the courtesy he was affording her—giving her a chance to adjust to the invasion of his body, holding back the impulse to pump and plunge his way to bliss. Controlling all the unleashed passion of a decade of waiting—waiting still, to be certain she was ready in these final moments before he allowed himself to sate his long-held lust.

Wanting it as much as he, she moved beneath him. He took her lead, stroking cautiously so as not to hurt her. She felt so full, she marveled that she could take all of him inside. She felt closer to him than she ever had, felt that she’d become a part of him and he of her. And she knew, as he began to thrust in her, that this was as it was always meant to be. They were soul mates, destined to be one through eternity and beyond.

* * *

The guests waited patiently amidst the hushed splendor of St. Paul’s Cathedral as the pipe organ played selections from Mozart. It was an assembly of remarkable distinction. The marriage of the new Earl of Birch Haven to the daughter of Sir Stafford Sanbourne was itself a cause for special celebration. But what brought the core of fashionable nobility—earls, countesses, marquesses, dukes and duchesses—to mingle with the scholars, professors, and museum curators who made up the couple’s world, was the unending fascination society had for the relatively new science of archaeology.

For most of the past decade, the British public had thrilled to the exploits and discoveries of the two noted archaeologists, Stafford Sanbourne and his more aristocratic best friend, the late Niven Rutherford. But no aspect of their celebrated careers had captured the collective fancy as much as their long-standing quest for the fabled Cleopatra treasure—the legendary legacy of Egypt’s last queen. Eight months before, they’d found what they considered a decisive step toward that goal, a shipwreck of a Roman galleon off the Egyptian coast containing artifacts they believed belonged to Cleopatra herself. The discovery was called the Alexandria Collection. It had generated more excitement than any discovery since Schliemann had found Troy. The ceremony joining the offspring of these two heroes, archaeologists in their own right, was being hailed as the wedding of the year.

The rumors surrounding their romance were as enchanting to the public as any of Mrs. Spencer-Campbell’s fanciful tales. But only the couple themselves knew how magical their childhood had been. They’d largely grown up together, spending their summers accompanying their fathers on expeditions. As young children, they’d played among the ruins of Pompeii, Jack taunting Diana to keep up with him as he scampered through the remnants of the city. As early teenagers, they’d shared a first kiss under the moonlight of the Athenian Acropolis, thrilling at the touch of soft lips and playful tongues. As older teenagers, they’d felt their first sexual stirrings—and had fallen madly in love—on an excavation of Druid ruins on the wild Irish coast, certain that no lovers since the dawn of time had felt such passion and longing.

As young adults and budding archaeologists, they’d discovered that even their intellectual gifts complemented each other. Bored with the library and laboratory, Jack came alive in the field, displaying an uncanny ability to sniff out seemingly impossible finds. Diana, on the other hand, despite her youth, was an unusually talented linguist who could speak several languages and read ancient Greek and Egyptian hieroglyphs as well as anyone in the world. Together, they felt the excitement of being pioneers in a profession that was young and filled with endless promise. It was only natural that they’d be married, joining the Sanbourne and Rutherford families and teaming their unique abilities to become what they knew they were destined to be: two halves of one remarkable whole.

Diana would never forget the day he’d asked her to marry him. He’d taken her on a Sunday picnic at Birch Haven, his family estate in Bedfordshire. With an irresistible romantic flourish, he’d carried her to a waiting rowboat and laid her gently in a luxurious bed of brocade pillows. Snaking their way through the reeds that lined the narrow curves of the River Kennet, they’d whiled away the lazy afternoon. As Diana lounged, barefoot and filled with a sense of peace and contentment, Jack had spoken quietly but with heartfelt candor of all he wanted his life to be. He’d described for her the crucial moment when he’d first understood his destiny.

My father told me something when I was ten years old, which I’ve never forgotten. He said that what he did—what we do, Diana—is more important than the work of any kings or prime ministers. Because when people see for themselves the legacy of the past, they understand history in a way they otherwise never could. It ignites in them a passion and curiosity they’d never feel from reading the dry volumes of dead writers. By digging up the lost past, we make it live again. And the only way our species will ever improve itself or learn from its mistakes is to know exactly how we reached this point in time. Archaeology connects us in a very real way to our roots, makes us realize we’re all one human family.

Even now, as Diana stood before the mirror in a side room of the church, adding the finishing touches to her bridal finery, the memory of those words brought tears to her eyes. On that exquisite afternoon, she’d looked directly into Jack’s soul and glimpsed there an unshakable bond—a bond that few couples would ever be privileged enough to share. As precious as this ceremony would be, it was merely a formality.

In the reflection, she caught a glimpse of her mother, Prudence, looking triumphantly out the door at the sea of important faces. Prudence was a dedicated social climber, the daughter of a merchant who’d thought Stafford Sanbourne a good catch when she was young, only to become disenchanted with his long absences and to regret that she hadn’t held out for an earl, at the very least. Diana glanced again at her own image, at the bold and striking countenance, the sleek black hair, the catlike ebony eyes. So different from the blond frailty of her parents, her mother sharp-visaged and small, her father gentle-featured, his skin eternally tanned from years spent in the sun.

She’d always disliked her looks. They were too exotic, branding her as different from the rosy-cheeked children at school and their pale, aristocratic parents. But now all she saw was the happiness that seemed to glow like a light from within her.

Getting into position