Seduce Me

Book 1: The Legend Hunters

by Robyn DeHart

Genres: Historical Romance

Synopsis

First in the romantic adventure series about treasure hunters, from the award-winning author of the Lords of Vice series. Fielding Grey is the second son of the Marquess of Eldon, and fortune hunter by night. He’s on a mission for the Legend Hunters—a group of wealthy, titled, and heart-breakingly gorgeous men, each of whom are after the find of the century. Fielding has his eyes set on obtaining the illustrious Pandora’s Box. But before he finds it, he encounters an equally alluring treasure—the woman bold enough to look inside. Esme Worthington can’t resist taking the tiniest peek inside when fate drops the real Pandora’s Box in her lap. Thus, she unleashes one of Pandora’s irresistible curses: the curse of lust. Now, both Esme and Fielding must deal with this passionate curse—or blessing?—before unknown implications of Pandora’s Box overpower them both. “Spine-tingling adventure and sexy secrets! Robyn DeHart’s vibrant characters sweep the reader into a clever and sensual romp that is not to be missed.”—Julia London, New York Times –bestselling author of Highland Scandal “A rousing and rollicking romantic adventure! If you like The Mummy and Pirates of the Caribbean, you’ll love Seduce Me. Robyn DeHart proves that falling in love is the greatest adventure of all.”—Teresa Medeiros, New York Times –bestselling author of Some Like it Wild “Indiana Jones meets Lara Croft in DeHart’s pulse-pounding adventure romance, the first in the Legend Hunters series. With strong dialogue and fast pacing, her intricate plot is brought to life by characters that leap off the pages.”— Romantic Times

Release date: July 14, 2009

Publisher: Forever

Print pages: 242

Sample

Near Alexandria, March 1887

Sweat and sand mingled and dripped into his eyes, clouding his vision. Fielding Grey, the Viscount of Eldon, swiped an already
damp rag across his mud-streaked face. There was never anything easy about crawling into a cave or digging up a tomb. Or excavating
a temple, which was what he was doing now.


The grit and grime didn’t matter. Nor did the object he sought. All that mattered right now, as Fielding squeezed himself
into a small antechamber lit only by the lantern in his hand, was the huge sum of money his client would pay him once he found
what was left of the Great Library of Alexandria.


The royal library had once been the largest in the world, housing such treasures as Aristotle’s private collection. By royal
mandate, Ptolemy II had stormed ships to confiscate any books or scrolls on board to add to the library. Legend had it that
the library was destroyed by Julius Caesar’s command, but most claimed warning had come in time to relocate the vast collection.


More than sixteen months of research had finally led Fielding here: the Temple of Isis on a small island off the coast of
Egypt and not far from Alexandria.


He jumped to the ground of the antechamber, the sound of his feet slamming onto the stone floor echoing through the room.
The two Egyptian men he’d paid to assist him entered next carrying more lanterns. The new light shone about the stone room,
illuminating hieroglyphics. The colored drawings depicted several versions of Isis nursing Horus, as well as a full-grown
Horus.


Fielding walked the length of one wall, running his hand against the cool stone. There would be a lever or a loose stone,
something that would take them into the next hidden chamber. But he felt only smooth brick beneath his palm. He knew he needed
to go down as deep as possible. The remains of the library would be hidden there; in particular the rumored secret writings
of Socrates, a prized possession in Aristotle’s collection. These writings were what the man who’d hired him was specifically
interested in.


A six-inch black scorpion scuttled over his boot, trying to find a way into his pants. Fielding kicked his foot out, causing
the offending insect to fly across the room. His assistants jumped simultaneously and huddled together against the wall.


“We need to go deeper,” he told them in their native tongue. He wasn’t fluent, but he knew enough from previous digs to get
by.


The two brown men nodded but made no further movement.

Looking down, he noted a slight groove in the sand where he’d kicked away the scorpion. “Hand me the water.” He reached out
his arm and one man, the braver of the two perhaps, stepped forward to give Fielding the canteen.


With his boot he moved additional sand away, revealing more of the groove. He knelt and poured a small amount of water into
the crevice. The liquid bubbled with the sand, turning light brown, and then it thinned out, leaking somewhere below. Fielding
scraped more of the sand aside and pressed his ear to the floor. Then he poured more water, this time a greater amount.


It disappeared into the crevice, and Fielding could hear the drips landing somewhere far below them.

“There is another chamber beneath this one,” he told his assistants. “Look around for a way to open it.” He pointed to the
two men, who still stood pressed against the wall. “Shuffle your feet around; move the sand away from the stones.”


When they still hadn’t moved, he said to them, “And stop being so bloody afraid of a curse. This is a temple, meant to welcome
people for worship.” He didn’t add that the closer they got to the legendary library, the more likely it was they’d run across
some danger. People went to great lengths to protect items of value from treasure hunters like himself.


Another scorpion crawled across the sand-covered stone floor, making its path toward one of Fielding’s diggers. The man jumped
over the creature, landing hard on a stone to his right. Suddenly, the entire floor shifted, leaving huge gaps between the
stones. The offending insect fell through the opened floor. Fielding grabbed onto the wall to his right.


“No one move,” he warned.

For several seconds they all stayed motionless. Gingerly, Fielding took one step forward and then another. His third wobbled
enough that he leaned into the wall, and when he did a loud click sounded behind it and the floor below him gave way.


He cursed loudly as he fell several feet into the chamber beneath them. He landed with a painful thud, the lantern he’d been
holding shattering next to him, dousing the light. He could barely see the glow of his two assistants’ lanterns above him.


“Throw me down a torch,” he yelled.

They did as commanded, but the unlit torch landed somewhere to his left, swallowed by the shadows. Briefly he tried to feel
for it, but remembering the scorpion was down here with him stilled his hand.


“Lower one of the lanterns on a rope so I can see.”

The lowered lantern shed enough ambient light around the room for him to find the fallen torch. He quickly lit the thing,
and warmth from the fire soon heated his face. A quick cursory glance around the room showed two more torches hung on the
wall. He lit them both, and the room filled with a soft glow.


There was a tunnel going off to the right, which warranted exploration. Whether he found his client’s ancient library or not,
whatever he found down here would fetch a pretty price.


“Lower the rope back down so I can climb up when I’m finished.” Neither of the men answered him, but the rope once again dropped
to hang through the hole into which Fielding had fallen.


There were more hieroglyphics in this room, but instead of being painted on the walls, they were carved. Fielding inhaled
deeply, the chalky chilled air filling his lungs. The tunnel proved smaller than he’d anticipated, and he found he would have
to travel through it on his hands and knees. Not an easy task when one needed to carry a torch at the same time.


Carefully he set out down the tunnel, clumsily crawling on three limbs while he held the torch in his right hand. He was halfway
into the narrow space when he realized the tunnel might not be complete. With his left hand, he tested the space directly
in front of him, gauging the strength of the stone, but it held firm.


He inched forward, noting the darkness in front of him grew increasingly blacker. It was several rapid heartbeats before he
could see the tunnel continued past a considerable gap in the stone.


He was getting close. Someone had gone to extreme measures to protect whatever was on the far end of this tunnel. He crawled
to the edge and peered down into a rock-walled chamber that dropped off into darkness below.


Ordinarily his height was a hindrance to his job, as he was always having to squeeze himself into the tiniest of places. But
in this regard, Fielding wagered he could make it across. He leaned over the edge, holding the torch low to see what fate
he would meet if he were to fail. The sand at the bottom of the chamber was littered with bones and wooden spikes that shot
up from the ground.


He took a steadying breath and, holding the torch in his teeth, made a leap to the other side. The distance was wider than
he’d anticipated, and although he managed to get his upper body across the divide, his legs dangled down toward the yawning
gap below. The bag around his waist shifted, changing his balance, and he began to slide. Using his hands and feet, he scrambled
for a hold on the slick walls of the chamber and managed to stop his descent.


Hot ashes from the torch fell to his face, burning his eyes. He’d been in difficult situations before, he reminded himself.
And he’d always survived.


With that thought he climbed back up to the ledge of the chamber, pushed himself up to his waist, and crawled back onto the
stone floor of the tunnel. A moment later he found himself in an enormous room, this one with shelves built of stone. Scrolls
and tablets covered every surface.


At long last, he’d found it. The lost Library of Alexandria.

He started with the shelf to his immediate right, careful to handle the fragile pieces with care. There was a fortune in this
room. His client might have hired him to find a group of specific texts, but everything else he’d be able to sell to the highest
bidder.


It took him the better part of an hour to sift through several shelves before he came across something with Socrates’ name
on it. He bundled the scrolls into his bag and turned to go. Tomorrow he’d come back with a team to retrieve the rest of the
materials.


Getting back across the tunnel was much easier now that he knew to gauge the distance of the trap chamber, and soon he found
himself standing below the rope his assistants had used to lower the torch.


“Tighten the rope,” he called. “I’m coming up.”

Fielding secured the bag to his waist, then began the climb up. He made it to the top and held out his hand. Firm fingers grabbed his forearm and allowed him enough support to pull himself back into the antechamber.

He swiped at the dust on his pants, then stood straight. “Who the devil are you?” Fielding asked the man before him. He looked
around the room but found no sight of the two men who’d climbed into the temple with him. “And what did you do with my men?”


“Your men were paid and sent home.” The man held out his card. “I am a friend.”

What kind of pompous idiot carried a card into an excavation site? Fielding grabbed the card and read it: Jonathon Kessler, Solomon’s. Well, of course, a pompous member of Solomon’s. And here he’d thought the scorpion was bad. Fielding flipped it back to
the man. “Solomon’s is no friend of mine.” He did nothing to hide the coldness in his voice.


Kessler smiled and pocketed the card. “The men of our club wish to discuss a business proposition with you,” he said. The
man, several years Fielding’s senior, had somehow managed to climb into the ancient tomb without getting even a speck of dust
on his crisply pressed suit. Fielding fought the childish urge to kick sand onto the man’s shiny black boots.


Instead he picked up the rope and wound it around his elbow and hand until it was in a manageable form, then he tossed it
into his pack. “A business proposition. And they sent you all the way to Egypt to find me.”


Kessler’s mouth twitched with a slight grin. “Of course not,” he said with disdain. “I was already in Alexandria. And now
that you have found what you came for”—the man nodded to the bag tied at Fielding’s waist—“you’ll be returning to London.
They wish to speak with you upon your arrival.”


He had a lengthy list of things to do once he returned to London: a long, hot bath; a good glass of brandy, perhaps several;
and about a week in the bed of a willing woman. A visit to Solomon’s was nowhere on that list.


“I have no interest in Solomon’s,” Fielding said.

“Ordinarily the feeling would be mutual, I can assure you, Mr. Grey. But under the circumstances, I do believe a brief alliance
would behoove both parties. Perhaps you will reconsider.” The man withdrew a folded piece of parchment and handed it to Fielding.
“This is an offer you simply cannot refuse.”




London, Mid-June 1887

One Friday night on a sleepy side of London, Esme Worthington yawned a most unladylike yawn, then sniffled her nose before
looking back at the text on her lap. It was long past a reasonable time for bed, yet here she sat. Sometime after midnight
she’d abandoned the hard chairs of her study for the more comfortable sofa in the parlor next door. But the plush floral cushions
assisted only by lulling her to sleep rather than encouraging her to continue her research. She readjusted herself and blinked
several times, trying to focus on the book before her.


She read the last sentence once again, trying to absorb the words. Some of these so-called scholars simply had no notion what
they were suggesting. Precisely how was an artifact from ancient Greece supposed to have ended up in the jungles of South
America? Preposterous. There was no possible way that Pandora’s box had ended up on a Spanish explorer’s ship.


Another yawn.

Her great black tom lifted his sleepy head from where he lay curled warmly over her thighs. His gold eyes were nothing more
than slits as he yawned. “Horace, I do believe I shall retire for the evening. I don’t seem to be getting any work done at
all.” She scratched him behind his ears, and he rewarded her with a rhythmic purr. Placing the heavy book on the table next
to her, she stood. “You guard the books, and tomorrow morning I shall pour you some warm milk.”


Esme doused the lamp, then stepped into the hallway. Horace followed her, and she scooped him into her arms. “Want to warm
my feet tonight, do you?”


She stopped. Something had scraped against the wood floor in the very next room. It was far too late for Aunt Thea to be awake.
Perhaps it was one of the servants, though they were normally early to bed as well. She padded over to the room and nudged
the door open.


Two men, dressed head-to-toe in black, stopped what they were doing and faced her as the door swung open.

A scream caught in her throat when Horace leaped from her arms and strolled into the study where the villains stood, his tail
high in the air. Evidently his feline sense of danger was sorely lacking.


Her heart thundered, but she couldn’t very well leave them to continue their misdeeds now that they’d seen her. “I beg your
pardon!” she said, straightening her back and trying to appear taller. “Precisely what do you think you’re doing?” Her study
was in tatters. Papers thrown about and books on the floor. What kind of barbarians… she picked up the book resting by her
toe and clutched it to her chest.


They were of equal height, but one was clearly more athletic and stronger than the other. The larger one strode over to her
and she realized, far too late, that she had nothing to use as a weapon against the brute. Even her slippers were worthless
for that sort of deed. She supposed she could whack him on the head with the book she held, but it was her prized copy of
Gulliver’s Travels. She certainly couldn’t risk damaging the book. Besides, she didn’t want to wake her aunt or her elderly servants lest she
put them in danger too, so Esme stood her ground.


“I can assure you I have nothing here worth stealing. You are in the wrong neighborhood for that,” she said. “Although you
are doing an admirable job of destroying my library.” Then it occurred to her that her precious books might very well be what
they were after. “I have no original texts,” she lied. “These are all silly novels, not worth anything.” Another lie.


The man took another step toward her. His eyes were wild and frightening, and when he ran them up and down her body, she became
all too aware of the clothing she wore. Or rather the lack thereof. Granted, it was several hours after midnight, and a woman
was generally given the right to sit in her own home wearing a night rail and robe. This man’s intense gaze penetrated her
and caused the hairs on the nape of her neck to stand erect. She forced herself not to shiver.


Surely they were not here to ravish her. Pulling her robe tighter around her, she eyed her opponent. She would certainly cause
all sorts of noise if that was the case. No matter that the other three persons in the house were grayed and wrinkled, they
could grab a fire poker or sturdy umbrella and fend off her attackers. And Aunt Thea had those ridiculously heavy candelabra
in the dining room. Perhaps it would have been much smarter had Esme grabbed one of those before storming in here unarmed.


“Where’s the key?” the man asked.

“Evidently you don’t need keys.” She pointed to the emptied drawers and shelves. “You simply force things open when you need
to see within.”


He closed in on her, his expression one of ravenous greed. He ripped the book from her grasp and whisked it across the room.
It landed on its spine, the pages fanning out until they settled open. Esme winced. Panic fluttered in her chest as she considered
the damage they’d already done to her desk and books. She didn’t like to contemplate the damage such fiends could perpetrate
on her person.


She narrowed her eyes at the man. “You should know that if you intend to ravish me, I will scream the house down,” she said,
forcing her voice to be as calm as possible. “And believe me when I say that the people who will come running to assist me
will do you much bodily harm.” An absurd notion.


He reached out and fingered the ruffled hem of her sleeve. His lip curled. “Tempting. But we only want the key.” His voice
was deep and raspy as he added, “And we’ve seen your staff.” A smirk, then a vicious chuckle escaped his ugly mouth.


Bored with the exchange, her cat took that moment to flip his tail in the air and strut out of the room. Now she was utterly
alone with these dangerous men.


She crossed her arms over her chest, mostly to hide her shaking hands. She hoped it made her look formidable. Not an easy
task for one so small in stature, but she did her best. “I simply don’t know which key you’re referring to.”


The man on the other side of the room twitched. “Thatcher, we don’t have time,” he said, his voice heavy with a Cockney accent.

“We take her, then,” Thatcher said.

“You will do no such thing,” Esme said, taking a step backward.

The man in front of her silently closed the door behind her, then shoved a cloth into her mouth. Furiously she tried to spit
it out, then reached up for it, but before she could he grabbed her wrists and held them tight.


Esme tried scratching him while he manhandled her, but her blasted nails were so short, she caused little damage. She really
must stop chewing them. With her feet she kicked and flailed, trying anything to deter them from taking her.


Nerves rippled through her stomach in sickening waves. She was in serious danger. With renewed effort, she kicked her legs
about, desperately aiming to hit a target, but failing nonetheless.


This simply was not happening.

Her efforts to wrench herself from her captor’s viselike grip only succeeded in exhausting her. She fought to keep her breathing
under control lest she end up hyperventilating and suffocate herself on the gag. Think, Esme. She could find a way out of this situation.


Surely they had mistaken her for someone else. She didn’t own anything valuable. Certainly not any keys. They didn’t even
have a cabinet to lock up the family silver. Of course, they no longer had any family silver. These foolish men were in the
wrong house, kidnapping the wrong woman.


Thatcher yanked the tie to her robe and the loose folds fell open, leaving her exposed to the chill. “Waters, tie her hands
together.”


Waters did as he was told while Thatcher climbed out the library window. The thin satin sash became a harsh cord as he tightened
it around her wrists. With the stronger of the two captors distracted, she doubled her efforts at trying to break free from
Waters’s clutches. But despite his slender body, his hands gripped her arms, sealing her in place.


“Hand me her feet,” Thatcher said in a harsh whisper.

Waters complied, and in an instant she was being passed through the window as if she were nothing more than a sack of potatoes.

“Her bum is stuck on the window,” Waters said.

“Well, lift her up.” Thatcher’s impatience was evident.

Waters gave her a lift. “She has quite the bottom for such a wee thing.”

She glared at him, but he was not looking at her face. More than anything she wished to take the wretched cloth out of her
mouth and give them both a tongue-lashing for speaking so cruelly about her bottom. Perhaps it was a bit on the large side
for a woman of her size, but she had always been rather fond of it.


Once they were all out on the ground, Esme noticed the waiting coach. Four black steeds stomped impatiently. Clearly owned
by someone quite wealthy, the large carriage was black with gilded filigree, and despite the dark night, Esme noted how it
shone. A crest emblazoned the door, backed in red and in the center a great black bird, its wings spread as if it were about
to fly away.


The street was barren except for the coach, but she was only a few steps from rounding the corner to a much busier lane. Now
was her chance to try to get away. She bolted toward the front street, but the clouds shielding the almost full moon made
seeing rather challenging. Nevertheless, she’d made it a far distance before one of the men crashed on top of her, knocking
the air from her lungs and crushing her with his weight.


The damp grass chilled her immediately, reminding her all too well she was clad only in her aging night rail.

“You’re not going anywhere, you little bitch.” Thatcher pulled her to her feet and tossed her over his shoulder. In one swift
movement he had dumped her on the dirty floor inside the carriage. Then he jumped in right behind her as they began jostling
down the street.


“Get up on the seat,” Thatcher snarled at her. When she didn’t move, he lifted her and shoved her onto the seat. “You can’t
ride on the floor like that. We have a long trip ahead of us.”


She kept her legs pulled to her chest, trying to warm her body. But the shivering would not still. Squeezing her eyes shut,
she willed this scenario away. This couldn’t possibly be happening. When she opened her eyes, though, it was all too real.
Both villains were in the small confines with her. She pushed the curtain back as best she could with tied hands. If she couldn’t
escape, the least she could do was find out where they were taking her.


The dimly lit streets of London sped by, and she tried to keep a running catalog of all the roads they passed. But soon they
turned down a road she didn’t recognize and then another until she was thoroughly lost. She let the curtain fall back in. . .