An Egyptian Affair (The Regent Mysteries Book 4)

by Cheryl Bolen

  She tried kicking her captor in the hope that he would yelp, but he remained as quiet as a slithering snake. From the dark, a second man emerged. In the moonlight she could see the gleam of the sword strapped around his black robes. Then she saw that he was a European. He rushed toward them, and her heart hammered. But he went past her, and she saw he held a long frond and was sweeping the foot imprints from the sand where they’d just stepped. He was covering their tracks.

  No one would be able to come save her.

  As hopeless as things looked, she was determined somehow to escape from these beasts.

  A few hundred yards away, two horses waited. The European said something to the other man in Arabic, and then the European mounted a black horse. The Egyptian hurled her on top of the same horse as if she were a sack of grain, and the European coiled his arm around her. She kicked madly. She elbowed the man in his ribs. He pulled her into his chest as he uttered a guttural threat in English with a bit of a Celtic accent. “Do as I tell you, and I won’t have to kill a second woman this week.”

  The very breath in her wind pipe trapped. Her heartbeat exploded. Her blood went cold. This was the killer of Prince Singh’s mistress. She stiffened.

  What could he possibly want with her?

  He must also be the one who rigged the falling stones in Khufu’s burial chamber.

  “You’ll sit this horse,” he ordered.

  She’d been flung across it, belly first. He gave a yank, and she allowed herself to sit upright. Sidesaddle style. It only then occurred to her she was wearing nothing but a thin linen night shift. Under normal circumstances, she would be mortified for a man to see her like this. Under these circumstances, she cared not what these beasts thought of her. As long as they did not try to take liberties.

  She was beginning to think her abduction was not for the purpose she had originally feared. Now she believed her interest to these men centered around Jack and Daphne’s inquiries about the missing Indian prince.

  It was still dark when they arrived in the old city of Cairo. They came to a narrow street where the tall, slender houses were constructed of the local brick. Long ago. Their condition was not the best. The windows all protruded, and all were shuttered in elaborate wooden works of art. Long ago. Many of the shutters were now missing chunks of wood, and many of them needed a fresh coat of paint.

  How could she use this situation to escape? She couldn't call out. She did still have the use of her hands and legs. She must try to run away from them. It even crossed her mind that she could mount the horse and flee.

  The Egyptian dismounted first and went to open the door to the most slender house on the narrow lane. The three-story house appeared to be just one room in width. After he opened the door, he came back and yanked her from the horse, bruising both her arms.

  She lunged away and tried to sprint ahead as the British murderer was leaping from his horse. He started after her and soon was able to snatch a piece of her shift. She stumbled to a stop. Her shift ripped, but he still held it. Even though she resisted mightily, he managed to haul her into his arms and began to stride back to the skinny house—all the while suffering a barrage of kicking and pummeling from Rosemary. If only that beastly cloth weren't binding her mouth. If only she could scream. That would have summoned rescuers.

  Her despair infused every cell in her body.

  The European lit a candle, and she saw that unlike many houses in Cairo, this was a real house rather than a house that had been turned over to a series of one-room flats, each bulging with large families. They took her to the second floor. From the manner in which it was furnished, she thought this must belong to the Egyptian because nothing gave any indication that a European lived here. There were a few papers lying about, all the lettering in Arabic. She observed some filthy Arabic clothing. There was no sign that a woman lived here.

  The British man told her to sit in the room’s only chair. He began tying her to it and made no effort to be gentle. More blood-chilling fear walloped her as she thought of other vile things this man was capable of.

  When he finished, he turned to the Egyptian and spoke in Arabic. The other man then promptly collapsed on one side of the bed.

  It occurred to her these men had not slept all night. Quite naturally, they would be sleepy as well as tired.

  “I’ll question you after we get some sleep,” he said. She was now certain he was Welch.

  And she was certain they had abducted her to question her about Jack and Daphne’s investigation. When she was unable to tell them anything useful, she had no doubt they would kill her.

  Thank God they were tired. If they could just fall into a heavy sleep, perhaps she could somehow contrive a way to break free.

  Her shoulders sank. So did her heart. How did someone whose mouth and hands were bound break free? She pictured the handsome Captain Cooper and fancied him showing up to rescue her from her captors as would a knight of yore.

  Then she realized what an immature, unrealistic, moronic notion that was. With their footprints having been swept away, she knew no one was going to find her here in this city of a quarter of a million people.

  * * *

  It was still dark when Maxwell led them to another narrow street where the narrow houses on each side of the lane almost came together on the top level. As before, they took care to keep Daphne as well as the soldiers from rounding the corner in case someone was on lookout duty. “The Egyptian who knew the suspected abductor said he lives in a house on this street,” Maxwell told them. “I’m not precisely sure which house, but he said we’d know it because it’s the slimmest on the street. This abductor—Mohammed Asker—has all three floors.”

  Since Maxwell had continued to wear his Arabic garb, he would be the least conspicuous of the three to stroll down the alley-like lane for reconnaissance.

  They solemnly waited for him to return. Beneath awakening skies, he strode down that street. When Maxwell reached the skinniest house, his head lifted to peer at the upper floors as he walked by. At the end of the block, he turned onto the intersecting street, presumably to walk down the block behind these houses.

  When he returned, he said, “They're almost certainly there. Two freshly ridden horses are tethered in front of the house. A candle burns on the second floor, but all was quiet within. There’s no back entrance, so that’s good.”

  “The three of us go. As quietly as possible.” Jack eyed the soldiers. “Wait five minutes, then come after us. I don’t have to tell any of us, our mission is to rescue Lady Rosemary.”

  “I pray to God she’s there,” Maxwell said.

  Jack brushed his lips across Daphne’s. “Please be prudent.”

  She nodded solemnly. "You too."

  He eyed the soldiers. “Protect my wife.”

  “You have our word on it, sir.”

  Uncharacteristically, Jack followed another man—a much smaller, more inexperienced man. He knew better than to threaten Maxwell’s command. Maxwell’s passion and intelligence more than compensated for his physical shortcomings.

  They kept to the same side of the street as Asker Mohammed’s house so they would not be seen were someone looking out a window. Jack was confident no one saw them.

  At a few of the houses they passed, they heard sounds of an awakening family. But no one shared the street with them.

  Maxwell went to open the door of Asker’s house, then turned back. “It’s locked.”

  Since this was not an affluent section of the city, many of its windows would be glassless, covered only by the unique wooden shutters of elaborate patterns.

  Jack moved to the sole ground-floor window at the same time as Maxwell did. Their minds were on the same page. It was good to work with someone whose thinking patterns so closely mirrored his own. That was one of the reasons his and Daphne's marriage was so strong. They were mental equals.

  Though the shutters were hooked together to prevent opening, the wood was so old and brittle they had no difficulty
breaking off a big enough section to reach in and unfasten the latch. Maxwell managed to do this with only minimal noise. He then hoisted himself through the window and surveyed the chamber he entered. "It doesn't look like anyone's on this level," he whispered. "It's quieter for you to come through the window than risk opening a possibly squeaky door."

  Once both men were inside, they passed from the front room to the only other one on the ground floor, a chamber directly behind the first and of proportions identical to the first. It, too, was empty. Maxwell then started up the narrow wooden staircase, his pistol drawn. As carefully as he moved, it was impossible to do so noiselessly. Jack was fairly certain the noise would be confined to the narrow stairwell.

  The higher they climbed, the darker the stairwell became. He wouldn't have been able to see Maxwell if he'd worn dark clothing like Jack and Petworth.

  When they reached the landing, they were better able to see. Maxwell padded to the first door, gently tried the handle, and eased the door open. Swiftly, he moved into the chamber.

  Jack followed. There was nothing more than a cot in this small chamber. No one was here.

  What if this turned out to be another fruitless search? Where else could they possibly look for his sister-in-law? Jack was beginning to feel impotent. How could he ever face Daphne or Lord Sidworth if Lady Rosemary met the same tragic fate as Amal?

  After assuring themselves this chamber was unoccupied, Maxwell re-entered the corridor and crept toward the second floor's front chamber.

  His pistol still drawn, Maxwell began to slowly open the door, Jack's head behind his as they looked into the room. The first thing Jack saw was Rosemary. Wearing a flimsy night shift, she was strapped to a chair, her mouth bound.

  As soon as those observations registered, he realized her captors were pounding across wooden floors. Definitely more than one set of footsteps. The slight noise made by the scraping of the door must have alerted them.

  Maxwell threw open the door. And came face-to-face with an Egyptian with a huge dagger. Maxwell fired at him, striking him in the gut. But the man still managed to stumble toward Maxwell, muttering venomously in Arabic as he drove his dagger toward Maxwell's chest. Maxwell spun away, but the knife still slashed his arm.

  From the right, the second man lunged toward Jack, knocking Jack's pistol to the ground with his saber. Jack whipped his saber from his side and faced the man who wore black robes. It was Williams. What a pleasure it would give Jack to drive his saber through the vile man's gut. Or choke the life from him as he had most likely done to Singh's mistress. But in spite of his great animosity toward the former soldier, he knew he would do neither because it was imperative he learn from whom Williams was taking orders.

  Jack had a distinct size advantage. He was almost a head taller than the deserter and considerably outweighed him. Jack also held the advantage of having studied fencing under talented masters—an opportunity that almost certainly would have eluded the lowly soldier who'd served under him.

  Yet despite these disadvantages, Williams was no easy prey. He was quick, and he fought as if he were fighting for his life. He was even smart enough to avoid being cornered. He kept moving toward the open door.

  An all-or-nothing lunge to run his sword through Jack sent Williams sprawling on the floor when Jack spun away. Williams slid into the corridor. Jack whirled to take victory while his opponent was down, but Williams was quicker. He sprang to his feet and raced away from Jack. "Running away, Williams? You always were a bloody coward."

  Since the man held information vital to Jack's quest, Jack was not about to allow the coward to get away. He sprinted after Williams.

  Williams then did an odd thing. At the top of the stairs he stood and waited for Jack. "You want a fight, Dryden, you'll get one from me."

  As Jack moved closer, Williams did an even odder thing. He backed himself into the corner.

  Now this was easy prey. Jack inched closer until he was in striking range. As Jack thrust, Williams put his whole body into a flying kick. The man's foot plowed into Jack's chest. The surprise move knocked Jack down, half of his body on the landing, the other half slipping downstairs. He then knew Williams' aim had been to send him bouncing down the stairs, like an egg off the wall.

  While Jack was down, the wiry man ran several feet back in the corridor, which overlooked the top of the stairwell. Petworth flew from the front room, planted his feet, and aimed his pistol at Williams.

  The Welshman hopped over the balustrade, and landed midway down the stairs, just missing Petworth's musket ball.

  Now on his feet, Jack went after him. "This man's mine, Petworth!"

  Williams scurried from the building.

  Sword in hand, Jack went after him, but when he reached the street, Williams was nowhere to be seen. The horse that had been tethered there was gone.

  Jack stood there dazed, not knowing if he should go to the left or to the right. Surely if Williams had gone left, he'd still be visible on the block. Unless he'd popped into one of the neighbor's houses—horse and all. He'd likely gone right since the street terminated there—just two houses away. Jack went right. But when another lane intersected this one, he looked right and he looked left, but there was no sign of Williams.

  If Williams had lived in this urban labyrinth for long, he would easily know how to elude Jack. Jack turned and went the length of the block to Daphne and the soldiers, quickly telling them what had transpired. "He doesn't know that we know where his lodgings are. Let's go there now."

  Jack turned to Daphne. "Go to Rosemary. Maxwell and Petworth should have the Egyptian their prisoner by now."

  * * *

  When she had first seen a robed man ease the door open, fear strummed through Rosemary. Then she recognized it was Mr. Maxwell. He was the most welcome sight ever. How had they found her? Her glance alighted on Jack. Both men were exceedingly clever. She should have known they could outsmart beasts like her two captors.

  Unfortunately, the captors were light sleepers. The slight scraping noise of the door partially opening must have awakened them. Each man surged from the bed, weapons in hand.

  Her flicker of hope died. How could poor Mr. Maxwell compete against cut-throats like these two depraved men who'd abducted her? He was a scholar from Cambridge, for pity's sake.

  She could not remove her gaze from Mr. Maxwell. He didn't seem so small of stature when going up against the Egyptian who was even smaller. He was quick of reflex, too. He managed to get off a shot before her vile abductor reached him.

  Then her heart beat in a rapid staccato that pounded through her entire body. The Egyptian was attempting to drive his dagger into dear Mr. Maxwell! Her rescuer twisted away, but the other man still drove his knife into Mr. Maxwell's arm. Blood gushed. Mr. Maxwell's white robe darkened with his spilt blood.

  The wound did not deter Mr. Maxwell from attempting to disarm the man he shot.

  The redheaded House Guard then came to Mr. Maxwell's assistance as Jack and the European launched into a full-fledged sword fight.

  "This man's mine," Mr. Maxwell snapped as he forced the dagger from the Egyptian's hand. By now the Egyptian was losing a great deal of blood and losing consciousness as he slumped to the floor.

  Mr. Maxwell straddled him and barked out something in Arabic. The man did not answer him. Mr. Maxwell repeated his demand. This time the man said something that apparently satisfied Mr. Maxwell.

  She was in complete awe of the Orientologist. Not even her worshipped Captain Cooper could have been so masterful.

  The Egyptian went unconscious. Mr. Maxwell turned to the redhead. "Pray, Petworth, be a good man and tie up this varmint."

  Mr. Maxwell got to his feet and came to her. "Are you unharmed, my lady?"

  Of course, she could not respond, given that her mouth was bound.

  Then the brilliant man realized how foolish was his query. "Forgive me. I should have removed these first," he said as he took the confiscated dagger and slashed through th
e thick fabric that had silenced her.

  "I . . . I think so," she croaked. "The beast struck my face, and I suspect it's swollen, but I believe I'm doing tolerably well. Now that you've come, my dear Mr. Maxwell," Her glance fell again to the massive blood flow from his stab wound. "You must allow me to help bind your wound, sir." He sliced through the rope that held her wrists to the chair.

  She hastened to take the cloth that had covered her mouth. "We must stop your bleeding. I should kill myself if I was the cause of you receiving a mortal wound."

  "There now, my lady, don't worry. I've had worse."

  She was seeing Mr. Maxwell through new eyes. Worse? He could have been killed! "You must get to a surgeon."

  "First, I go to Dryden. He may need help." He whirled toward the door.

  She sprang from her chair and followed on his heels.

  When they got to the house's street entrance, there was no sign of Jack. "Please, Mr. Maxwell, we must see to your wound. Where is my sister? She will know what to do."

  "Allow me to take you to her."

  It was at that moment her state of undress occurred to her. "I am mortified over my appearance. You mustn't look at me. I need clothing. Desperately."

  "If it pleases you, I will close my eyes."

  "Very well."

  There was movement at the end of the street. She quickly saw that it was Daphne, and Daphne began to run to her. The two sisters fell into each other's arms. "Oh, my dear Rosemary, I was so afraid you'd be killed."

  "I was too." The tears she'd suppressed began to flow.

  As did Daphne's.

  "I owe my life to dear Mr. Maxwell." Then she remembered about his wound. "Oh, Daf, he's been injured. We must see to his wound."

  Daphne spun around. "Pray, Mr. Maxwell, why are you closing your eyes?"

  "I didn't want him looking at me," Rosemary said in a feeble voice.