by Lara Temple
He was closer than was wise given her masquerade. But she kept her feet planted. She was just a boy, just a boy...
‘Does anyone believe this Patrick nonsense?’ He tugged at a lock of her hair. She usually kept it short, yet unruly enough to hide her arched brows. They’d always been her undoing. She debated arguing, but there was something in the giant’s face, a lack of both curiosity and censure, that stopped the lie from forming.
‘It used to work well enough when I was younger.’
‘Much younger, I would imagine. This local garb is doing a poor job of hiding your bosom. If you weren’t so gaunt-looking, I would suggest trying for a portly look and padding out your stomach, but you’d just look ridiculous. You should put some flesh in those cheeks first.’
Gaunt-looking. It was true the past few months had been difficult, but...gaunt? Not that it mattered. She glanced down at her chest. She’d bound it, but obviously not rigorously enough. It was rather disappointing to realise it was this and not her face that gave her away.
‘Thank you for the advice, sir, but since I can’t do much about it at the moment, could you help me? I can pay.’
‘Can you? How much?’
Hell. She’d hoped he’d take pity on a fellow Englishman and perhaps even more now he knew her to be female. But clearly this was not that kind of Englishman, despite his cultured voice.
‘I have this.’ She tugged at the chain around her neck, extracting a pendant from under her gallabiyah. The metal setting was tarnished and twisted from when a trunk fell on it; but nothing could mask the quality of the emerald.
‘Good God, someone must have disliked you thoroughly to gift you that monstrosity.’ The giant plucked it from her hand and the chain tugged against her nape. She resisted the urge to pull away as he inspected it, turning it to catch the afternoon light. This close his eyes were even more intimidating. The green was pale, like peridots, held in by a band of dark steel. They were shaded by long straight lashes that rose as he looked from the stone to her. She was not often intimidated by men, but the hairs on her arms rose in alarm and she kept as much distance between them as the chain allowed.
‘Where did you get this?’ he asked.
‘My mother. It was a family heirloom.’
‘That’s what people call things when they feel guilty about wanting to toss them on the rubbish heap.’
‘I was told it is a small but fine emerald. It is yours if you see me safely to Cairo.’
‘No, I don’t think that’s a good idea. I’m most likely to toss it in the Nile at the first opportunity or hand it to the first blind beggar. Put that devil’s eye away.’ He finally let the pendant fall and she eased away, slipping it back under her gallabiyah. It felt strange against her skin now, as if he’d held it over a fire.
‘You won’t help me?’
‘Help you in what way? The river is all of a hundred yards from here. If you’ve already made it here from Meroe, which I admit is impressive, why do you need my help on what must be the final and easiest stretch of your journey?’
‘Because...’
She fell silent at the sounds outside. Horses, several of them. An unpleasantly familiar voice calling in Arabic for the owner of the guesthouse.
‘Never mind.’ She headed to the window, but the giant was faster than she, his arm creating a bar across the wooden shutters.
‘Not a good idea. If those men are clever, they’ll have a man in the back. Are they clever?’
‘I don’t know... Yes, I... Oof!’ Her breath left her as he picked her up and deposited her behind a thick cotton curtain stretched along a corner of the room to create a makeshift cupboard. Behind was a warped wooden dresser and pegs with clothes. He squeezed her between the dresser and the corner and planted his hands on the wall on either side of her.
‘You will remain absolutely silent, no matter what I say or do. Understood, Patrick the prevaricator?’
She nodded, between shock and gratitude.
She ought not to feel thankful. No doubt he would hand her over with as much emotion as he’d shown at discovering her sex, but somehow she was beginning to hope she might have made her first correct move in days.
She stared at the thick curtain as it fell back into place. She hadn’t even noticed the dun-coloured fabric closing off that part of the room. Still, she felt certain anyone entering would look directly at the curtain and through it. What if she had to cough? She looked around for something to stifle herself with. A white cotton shirt hung from a peg and she took it, burying her fists in its softness and raising it like a weapon.
In a tiny corner of her mind not given over to fear and exhaustion, she thought—expensive.
In another corner, far less sensible, she thought—it smells so good. Like the woods behind her childhood home where the stream created a little brush-covered island. She’d left there half a lifetime ago, but could almost imagine it lay just beyond the flimsy curtain.
Perhaps the heat and fear were finally melting her mind.
The knock on the door was like a hammer’s strike.
‘Go away. I’m shaving,’ the giant called out, but the knock repeated, sharper. ‘Oh, for heaven’s sake, what?’ The door squawked as he jerked it open. ‘I said I was busy. Who the devil are you?’
‘We apologise most strongly, basha,’ said the hated voice, not in Arabic this time, but in English. ‘We search for a young Englishman.’
‘Well, go find him, then. Simply because I’m English doesn’t mean this is a congress of that feckless breed.’
‘He was seen coming in this direction from the market.’
‘And?’
A few breaths passed and when the man spoke he was rather less peremptory.
‘We were thinking that perhaps he might seek out a fellow countryman.’
‘Why? Homesick, is he?’
‘No. Frightened. He has stolen something from my master.’
‘Not a very clever fellow, then. How much will you give me if I find him?’
Cleo froze, pressing the shirt over her mouth even as her heart tried to leap out of it.
‘How much...?’ The man sounded bemused now and she heard one of the men behind him mutter a colourful curse in Arabic about greedy foreigners.
‘I presume your master is paying you for your services. I’m a mercenary myself so I am perfectly willing to have a look for the felon. But if I do find him, what will you pay for him and the stolen property? What is it, by the way? Something valuable?’
‘Ah...no, no, not valuable to anyone outside my master. A book. A...a family bible. It is of sentimental value.’
‘A strange thing to steal.’
‘Indeed. But perhaps the young fool was misled as to its worth. My master is very sad. Naturally, we will offer a reward if—’
‘How much?’
‘Two hundred piastres.’
The door creaked.
‘Five hundred piastres!’
The creaking stopped.
‘I’ll think about it,’ said the giant with a grunt. ‘I’m just bored enough to try for the fun of it. Where do I bring this bible-filching fellow if I find him?’
‘To the house of Bey al-Wassawi. Ask the servants for al-Mizan.’
‘Bay Wassa We. Al Meezan. Good. Now go away. I wish to dress. And you, landlord, find my rascally valet. He went out two hours ago to have my knives sharpened. You’ll probably find him at whatever brothel this city boasts.’
The door snapped shut. In the silence she heard the men descend the stairs, their argument fading. Then the scuffle and whinnying of horses as they rode away. Still nothing. Then three heavy treads and a large hand pulled aside the curtain.
‘I was beginning to wonder if you’d melted through the wall, Pilfering Pat. What the devil are you doing to my shirt?’
She shook
her head, the fabric brushing over her lips.
‘I was afraid I might make a noise,’ she whispered hoarsely.
‘So was I.’ He smiled. It lit his face, transformed it. The pull of his scarred skin on his jaw gave it a wry twist, but did nothing to dim its magnificence. No wonder those men had turned tail. This brusque, ill-mannered man possessed the strange magic of charisma.
She knew about charisma. It was as untrustworthy as building a fortress on sand dunes.
She shook out the shirt.
‘I apologise. I hope it is not too badly wrinkled.’
He tossed it on to his shoulder to join the towel.
‘I don’t think the tabbies of Almack’s will notice. Now, who the devil was that and why are you stealing bibles?’
‘I never stole anything in my life!’
‘Not a thing?’
His incredulity flicked at her nerves and absurdly a memory returned...a length of blue ribbon dangling over Annie Packham’s bedpost at school.
‘A ribbon. When I was at school. It was sky blue and I wanted it. My mother always bought plain ribbons because they were easy to wash.’ She snapped her teeth shut. She was truly losing her mind. But at least his smile was back—with blinding effect.
‘I think I believe you, Pat. Do you happen to know if there was a bible or was everything he said a fabrication?’
For a moment she debated sharing what little she knew. But that was weariness and hunger talking. She shook her head.
‘I have no idea why he is following me.’
‘No idea? None at all?’
Blast, it was hard to hold his gaze. She decided to offer something to satisfy him.
‘I...perhaps it has to do with my father. He dealt in antiquities.’
‘One of those fellows who dig holes wherever they go?’
‘My father preferred to make copies for collectors rather than dig for originals.’
‘You sound as if you prefer he remain above such practices.’
‘Naturally I would. He kept claiming he would stop once he found something of true value.’
‘Ah. One of those. “Tomorrow, I promise, dear.”’
She clamped her teeth shut against the need to defend her father. This man was only reflecting her and Dash’s thoughts and frustrations, but somehow they rankled coming from a stranger. He smiled at her silence.
‘So, what happened to your enterprising father and why aren’t you with him?’
‘He is dead.’
‘I see. Lucky you aren’t with him, then. Is this recent?’
She blinked a few times. Dash had often told her she lacked sentimentality, but this man exceeded her by several leagues.
‘I don’t know. The last letter we received from him was several weeks ago.’
‘We?’
‘Do we have time for this family history, sir? Or are you merely drawing it out while you consider whether I am worth five hundred piastres?’
The lurking smile extinguished like a candle in a rainstorm. He stepped closer.
‘You aren’t worth a single piastre to me, Patrick. And I certainly don’t need that gaudy emerald. You forced your way in here asking for help. I am considering offering it. Don’t press your luck. Who is we?’
‘My...my brother, Dash... Dashford.’ Damnation, she was stuttering like a child.
‘Dashford? I hope that’s a title and not his given name.’
‘He has no title. Most people call him Dash.’
His mouth quirked upwards again and relief flooded her. He was a volatile man, this giant, but at least he calmed as swiftly as he stormed.
‘Dashford.’ He drew out the first syllable. It sounded like a mincing dandy. ‘Tell me you are named nothing more objectionable than Patricia?’
How she wished that were true.
‘Pattie? Petra? Patience?’
She shook her head.
‘Patrice. You’re half-French. That might account for the dashing Dashford flourish.’
‘Do we have time for this? Aren’t you worried those men will return?’
‘We will hear their horses and you will hop right back behind the curtain. Patsy?’
‘Cleopatra,’ she snapped and he threw back his head in a shout of laughter.
‘Dashford and Cleopatra. What were your parents thinking?’
‘As little as possible, I think. What does it matter what I am called? Will you help me?’
‘I’ll not leave you here at this al-Mizan’s mercy, that is certain. But it’s damned inconvenient.’
‘I’m dreadfully sorry,’ she said, unable to keep all traces of acid out of her voice. To her dismay, her voice cracked and she cleared her throat. He inspected her again.
‘You aren’t about to cry, are you?’
‘Of course not. I...perhaps...perhaps if I might sit?’
He grunted and guided her to the table like an old lady. She sat, resting her elbows on it and barely resisting the urge to lean her head on it as well.
‘When did you last eat?’
‘Breakfast. Yesterday.’
‘Idiot.’
‘I am not an idiot... I was hiding. Then I went to the market to try and buy bread, but I heard al-Mizan again.’
He rubbed his jaw and her own palms tingled. She laid them flat on the table.
‘My friend went to buy food, but you need something to settle your nerves.’ He went to the cupboard and took out a bottle. She watched his back as his muscles bunched and relaxed. It was like the sand dunes in the Western Desert—a smooth, sculpted landscape broken occasionally by a jagged scar. His skin looked warm—pliable but firm. She leaned her chin on her hand, feeling a little warm herself.
Hunger and weariness explained a great deal.
‘Are you truly a mercenary?’
He glanced over his shoulder. ‘Do you even know what that is?’
‘Of course I do. A soldier of fortune.’
‘Well, fortune is debatable, but, yes. You’re lucky I am currently not employed and can act as knight errant.’
She looked about the simple room, noting the scuffed boots and the rather ratty backpack by the cupboard. But then there was the expensive cotton shirt. She could not quite make sense of the man. Perhaps he was down on his luck?
‘I can pay. The pendant may be hideous, but the emerald itself is quite valuable.’
He turned and smiled and her gaze slunk away; she felt as though she’d been caught peeking through a spy hole in a bath house. The man finally pulled the shirt over his head. Then he sat, resting his arms on the table.
Thank goodness. Trying not to stare at his chest and arms was exhausting. Clothed, he looked a little less intimidating.
‘I have more than enough for my simple tastes,’ he answered. ‘Keep your beastly pendant for a rainy day, or an overly sunny one. I haven’t seen a drop of rain since we dropped anchor in Alexandria. I am beginning to miss England, which is quite an achievement.’
‘You have been away long?’
‘A while. I must return though. My father died as well.’
‘I’m sorry.’ Her movement was instinctive, her hand settling on his forearm before she could censure herself. It was so unlike her she left it there for a moment before carefully drawing away. He didn’t even seem to notice, just shrugged and uncorked the bottle, pouring two glasses.
‘Don’t be sorry. He was a right bastard as Birdie would say. The world heaved a sigh of relief when he finally cocked up his toes, but it means I probably must return to England and see how my family fares. Here.’
‘What is this?’
‘Brandy. Just a little until Birdie returns with something to eat.’
‘You are being very kind, but I must pay...’ She faltered as his gaze flicked back to her.
‘Will you stop harking about payment? I’m not the most reliable of fellows, but I can’t desert the Queen of Egypt in the middle of the desert. You asked for help, I’m offering. I’ll see you to Cairo...’
The knock at the door had her back behind the curtain before she could even think. His chuckle followed her.
‘It’s only Birdie. Come in, Birdie. I hope you have brought enough food. We have a guest.’
Chapter Two
Rafe tried hard not to smile as the young woman’s honey-hazel eyes widened at the sight of Birdie.
She had an almost unfortunately expressive face. It was like watching a battlefield, constantly changing and frequently surprising. But some reactions were thoroughly predictable—like her reaction to his scars and to Birdie’s ugly mug.
To her credit, she adapted swiftly to shocks. She’d done an admirable job keeping her eyes away from his scars without appearing to do so and he’d finally taken pity on her and put on the shirt she’d crushed.
Peculiarly, it felt different against his skin and he tugged at his sleeves and rubbed his forearm where she’d touched it briefly in commiseration. Hers hadn’t been the first condolence he’d received after his father’s death, but it had felt surprisingly sincere.
He had probably shocked her with his unemotional response, but he refused to add sugar to vinegar. The world was well rid of the bastard and he wouldn’t pretend otherwise, not even to a stranger. Certainly not to such a strange stranger.
Birdie placed the basket on the table and turned. After his first glance at the woman, he’d predictably ignored her.
‘A guest, sir?’
‘This is Miss Cleopatra...something. We haven’t been formally introduced. She is being chased by some unsavoury individuals and we shall be escorting her to Cairo.’
‘We shall, eh? What about your brother, Master Edge? He’s the reason we’ve come to this godforsaken place and now you want to run off before we see this through?’
‘We are not running off. We’ve done everything we can and left a trail of breadcrumbs the size of pyramids to tempt his sorry carcase through Egypt. If that doesn’t knock him out of his apathy, I abandon hope for the fool. Once we reach Cairo we will know if our ruse worked. If not, I shall arrange with some friends to hit him over the head and throw him on the first boat to England.’
