The Return of the Disappearing Duke

by Lara Temple

  She continued this bracing inner dialogue until they passed through the ravine on to a broad plain. Several camels were tethered together by a copse of palm trees, one camel hobbled, his front leg bent upwards and tied to prevent him from running off. A young Bedawi was seated on the rim of a square well and he jumped down and flashed them a grin, sweeping the scene with his arm as if he’d produced the whole oasis from thin air.

  Still wary, she approached the closest camel, a cow with a swan-like neck and eyelashes as thick and curling as their guide’s.

  ‘She likes you,’ the Bedawi said in French as he adjusted the cow’s bridle, smiling at Cleo. Cleo returned his smile and was just reaching out to pat the cow’s neck when a large camel to her right gave a resentful grunt and stretched out his neck to nip at her robe with large yellow teeth. She leapt back and the young man shoved the hairy face away, but gave it a quick rub on the chin and the grunts subsided.

  Cleo rubbed at her shoulder though the camel had done no damage.

  ‘I don’t think he likes you flirting with Gamal, Pat,’ Rafe said beside her. ‘Pity you two got off to a bad start, especially since you’ll be riding him.’

  ‘I... Him? You must be jesting!’

  ‘Best way to make sure you don’t turn your back on the brute is to be on his back, right? Pat here will be riding Kabir, Gamal.’

  She was quite certain the giant was making game of her, but the Bedawi took him seriously, raising his hands in horror.

  ‘No, nadab. Kabir no like women. He al-Shroud. Only men ride him. Boy will ride Gamila.’ He patted the cow.

  Well, Gamila wasn’t as pretty as her name proclaimed, but her soft muzzle brushed Cleo’s shoulder, as if to compensate for Kabir’s bad manners. Cleo smiled into her doe-like eyes and stroked her wiry neck.

  ‘You’re nothing like that great brute, are you, darling?’ she cooed. ‘You’re a beautiful little sweetheart, aren’t you? Yes, you...ack!’

  She gave a whoop of surprise as Rafe raised her by the waist and deposited her on the blanketed saddle.

  ‘Do try to remember you’ve taken a vow of silence until I say otherwise, Pat. And if you must talk, try not to sound as though you’re making love to the blasted animal—anyone hearing you will see through that disguise faster than I did.’

  He strode off and Cleo glared after him. It hadn’t hurt, but her skin tingled where he’d touched her none the less, as if she’d left it exposed to the desert sun.

  * * *

  They rode in silence, Gamila falling into an easy rolling gait, her long neck swinging a little from side to side as if to some unheard tune. Occasionally Rafe glanced back at her with a half-amused smile, as if remembering a good joke, or as if convinced his demand she remain silent was proving a true penance.

  Which it was, blast him.

  Silence was usually no hardship for her. She’d long ago developed the skill of daydreaming her way through interminable and uncomfortable hours of travel. But now the temptation to demand he tell her his plans was churning inside her like the cataracts of the Nile.

  * * *

  After what seemed like hours he checked Kabir’s pace and came alongside her.

  ‘You may speak now, Pat. All those thoughts bouncing about inside of you can’t be good for your health. Or my longevity. I should have remembered to take away that little toothpick tied to your belt while you slept before you’re tempted to wield it against me.’

  She pressed her hand to the ‘toothpick’ and narrowed her eyes against the glare of the sun as she looked at Rafe. He and Birdie had wrapped linen cloths into turbans to protect their heads like the local fellahin and he had tucked the cotton end of it so that it covered the scarred side of his face.

  ‘Where are we heading?’

  ‘To a port further north.’

  ‘Is that wise? Once al-Mizan realises I am no longer in Syene, he will likely search the neighbouring port towns.’

  ‘Not when he hears your brother hired two men to take him to the Red Sea port of Berenice yesterday evening.’

  ‘What? Why did you not tell me? I must return...’

  She tugged on the reins and at Gamila’s protesting grunt Kabir’s long neck snaked out, his teeth bared and heading for Cleo’s knee. Fortunately, they closed with a snap just short of her as Rafe angled the animal’s head away.

  ‘What the devil is wrong with you, you hairy tortoise? He really doesn’t like you, does he? And there is no call to hare off in pursuit. Your brother is not on his way to Berenice. That is what is termed a diversion.’

  Her excitement fizzled.

  ‘Al-Mizan is too intelligent to fall prey to a trick.’

  ‘Which is why I paid two men to leave town in a highly secretive manner after spreading rumours of taking a furtive, honey-eyed hawagi to Berenice.’

  ‘What will happen to them if al-Mizan catches them?’

  His gaze moved over her face.

  ‘What a sensitive conscience you have, Pat. Once they provide your admirer with the information they were well paid to deliver, he will let them go.’

  ‘You cannot be certain of that.’

  ‘I am certain of nothing, but I choose my pawns well. They are cousins of Bey al-Wassawi and were in pressing need of some funds. It would not serve al-Mizan’s purpose to harm the relations of the local Bey with no cause.’

  ‘And what information were they to pass along?’

  ‘That Birdie and I are on the run from Mehmet Ali after I tried to...ah, elope with his niece and that we presumed al-Mizan came to my rooms using the tale of an English thief as a cover to gauge my defences.’

  She tried not to smile. ‘That is...elaborate.’

  ‘I thought so, too, but Birdie concocted it and he has an affection for tall tales. To give him his due it did possess the right elements—honour and revenge and cowardly foreigners and all that.’

  ‘No element of truth?’

  ‘Did I elope with the Khedive’s niece?’ His brows rose in mockery.

  ‘No, I meant...are you on the run?’

  ‘Only from myself. But this wasn’t what you were anguishing over just now, though, was it?’

  ‘I wasn’t anguishing.’

  ‘If you’d squeezed your lips together any tighter, you’d have lost them. Now that we are a safe distance and can talk I think it is best you tell me more about your predicament so we can be prepared for the worst.’

  Suspicion came back with a roar, chasing away her amusement—what if all this openness and charm was aimed at coaxing the information out of her without risking violence? What if he and al-Mizan—?

  ‘There. You’re anguishing again,’ the mercenary interrupted her thoughts. He looked cross and impatient now, not the kind of expression one expected of a crafty killer. Still, she looked around—they were truly in the middle of nowhere. If he chose to kill her, the only beings to witness her demise would be jackals and vultures and the creepy crawly things that feasted on carrion and...

  ‘Where are we heading?’ She forced the question out, her voice as rough as the ground under Gamila’s sure hooves.

  ‘I told you, Gamal is taking us further up the river.’

  ‘Which port?’

  ‘You needn’t concern yourself with that. Gamal knows what he’s doing. I hope. Now, why don’t you tell me—?’

  She spurred Gamila forward until she came up beside Gamal. Rafe sighed and clicked his tongue, spurring Kabir after her.

  ‘May I ask you a question, Gamal?’ she asked in Arabic.

  ‘You speak Arabic!’ The young man’s eyes widened, accentuating the lines of kohl under his eyes that protected them from sun and disease.

  ‘I learned in Acre.’

  ‘Ah! Far away.’ He glanced past her and switched to his lilting mix of French and English. ‘She speaks good Arabic, nadab. Now
someone understand Gamal and I not speak as to little children.’

  ‘Just remember this little child here is the one paying you,’ Rafe replied, tapping his chest. Gamal’s smile widened.

  ‘I shall keep your secrets, nadab.’

  ‘You don’t know my secrets, Gamal.’

  ‘Then it will be easy, yes?’ He winked at Cleo and she smiled and answered him in Arabic.

  ‘I don’t want to cause you trouble, but could you tell me where you are taking us?’

  ‘Biltakid! Of course! To Daraw. We shall reach it by nightfall. There is a small port there where a fishing boat could take you to Luxor and from there you could find a proper dahabiya. That would be fastest.’

  She thanked him and allowed her mount to fall back again. Unfortunately, Rafe did the same.

  ‘Why didn’t you tell me you spoke Arabic?’ he demanded.

  ‘You didn’t ask.’

  ‘True. Would you have told me had I asked?’

  She considered that.

  ‘Probably. I don’t enjoy lying unless I must.’

  ‘Good. So now tell me what you spoke of and why it worried you.’

  ‘How do you know it worried me?’ she temporised.

  ‘Because when you aren’t impersonating a sphinx, your face is as expressive as a toddler’s.’

  ‘Ah, I see you are still smarting from Gamal’s child comment.’

  ‘No, I merely don’t like people talking behind my back.’

  ‘We were right beside you.’

  ‘Don’t quibble, Pat. Tell me.’ He paused, his gaze holding hers. ‘I see. You don’t trust me...’

  She waited for another flash of panic, but it refused to come. Somehow facing his scarred and frowning visage made him less fearsome.

  ‘All he said was that we are heading for Daraw, a small port not far to the north. There are only fishing boats there, not the larger feluccas or dahabiyas that could transport us to Cairo.’

  Rafe tapped his hand on his thigh and scanned the horizon.

  ‘I wish we had a decent map of this place. Mine shows nothing between Syene and the temples. I’ll have a word with Gamal and Birdie and decide what is best.’

  ‘I’m dreadfully sorry to be such a bother, Mr... Rafe.’

  ‘How very English of you, Miss Pat. And it is either Rafe or, if you are clinging to the codes of civilisation, Mr Grey.’

  ‘Mr Grey.’ She smiled at the wholly inappropriate name. Mr Grey had to be one of the least grey men of her acquaintance. ‘I am pleased to make your acquaintance, Mr Grey.’

  He smiled back and gave a little bow.

  ‘The pleasure is all mine, Miss Cleopatra... What is your full name?’

  ‘Osbourne. Cleopatra Osbourne.’

  ‘Osbourne? Well, well. The pleasure is all mine, Miss Cleopatra Osbourne.’

  Chapter Four

  ‘Tired?’

  Cleopatra-Patrick Osbourne glanced up from staring at her saddle and shook her head without a word.

  She was proving to be one of those rare people who only spoke when they had something to say. There was even something a little intimidating about the way she made no requests for either sustenance or rest as the hours melted away in the blazing heat. She’d eaten when Birdie brought her dried dates and bread, bestowing that same surprisingly warm smile upon his friend, but otherwise she seemed miles away, as unapproachable as the desert.

  The broad, padded saddles were far more comfortable than he’d expected and the camels moved with impressive balance and occasionally speed over uneven ground, but the desert was just as uncomfortable as anticipated. It was mostly rock-strewn plains between stark hills, tufted with thorny trees and bushes. It was nothing like the illustrations of rolling sand dunes he’d seen in his brother’s books. He’d have to have a word with Edge about authorial integrity.

  It was also empty. He’d seen not one living soul the entire day other than a few lizards poking their snouts at the sun. It was daunting as hell and hot as Hades. The only positive was that it would be impossible for anyone to approach them without being seen. He untucked the cloth that covered his face and breathed deeply.

  ‘Gamal said we are stopping for the night at the end of this plain,’ he said to the girl and she glanced up from her contemplation of her saddle.

  ‘So soon? We could cover quite a few more miles before dark, surely.’

  ‘You could, perhaps, but there is a well there and I think the camels might prefer to stop and drink. They’ve been doing the hard work all day, after all. You’ve only been sitting there scowling and stewing.’

  Even under the film of dust that covered her face he could see her colour rise, but then the lines at the corners of her eyes crinkled in laughter.

  ‘You are a strange man, Mr Grey. I cannot tell if you are trying to annoy me or make me laugh.’

  ‘I haven’t yet decided. Either will serve the purpose better than you sinking into a brown study. Though to be fair, brown is pretty much all there is to study out here.’

  She laughed and unhooked the cloth covering her mouth, shaking off a small cloud of dust.

  ‘I love it.’

  ‘You and my brother.’ He sighed. ‘I wish you would explain what it is about the desert that appeals to you, for I am yet to understand this passion for sand.’

  ‘Now you are being facetious. There is so much more than sand here.’

  ‘Rocks. Thorny bushes and stunted trees.’

  ‘Have you seen none of the antiquities?’

  ‘A little. Birdie and I have been on a forced march, or rather forced sail up the Nile.’

  ‘You said as much before. Why are you here if you are not interested in these lands? Has it to do with this brother of yours?’

  He found himself on the verge of telling her about Edge when he realised she had done it again—very neatly deflected attention from herself.

  ‘Miss Osbourne—’

  ‘Look!’ she interrupted with a little sigh of pleasure. ‘An oasis.’

  They’d just come around an outcropping and a burst of blessed green met their eyes—palm trees waving above a clump of bushes and a streak of low green grass marking the run off from a well.

  ‘Thank the lord,’ he said with equal pleasure. ‘Miss Osbourne, would you care for a cup of tea?’

  * * *

  Rafe held the two chipped cups as Birdie poured from the kettle.

  ‘Campfire tea again, Colonel,’ Birdie said with satisfaction. ‘It has been a while, no?’

  ‘You have a peculiar sense of nostalgia, Birdie. We had perfectly respectable tea only yesterday. Without the mud. I hope the boiling killed whatever that is that’s floating in it.’

  Birdie poked at it with the tip of the stick he’d used to stir the fire, adding flecks of charred wood to the brew.

  ‘Looks dead to me. You drink that and give her the other.’

  ‘Thank you, Birdie.’

  ‘You’re welcome, Colonel.’ Birdie grinned unrepentantly and Rafe sighed and walked across to where the young woman was seated on a wide boulder. She was staring hard at the ground, oblivious to the spectacle of the setting sun turning the hills around them into a dance of red-orange fire. She might be dressed like a man, but she looked the image of a desert princess being conveyed to some unwanted fate—resolute but inwardly resisting.

  ‘May I join you, Pat?’

  She cast him a guilty look, as if she’d been caught thinking very uncharitable thoughts of him and their little camp.

  Well, he’d been thinking the same.

  She met his gaze but he felt her thoughts were several leagues away. She did not even appear to notice he was holding out a steaming cup of tea so he raised it, making the steam weave tipsily between them.

  ‘Here. For you.’

  She blinked and
took the steaming tin cup warily. ‘What is it?’

  ‘Tea. Sugar. And something murky at the bottom, so drink carefully.’

  Her sudden laugh was even more a surprise than her smile—it was rolling, joyous...irresistible. It took years off her face and he found himself smiling as he sat down on the boulder beside her.

  For a few moments, they sipped their tea and watched the sun melt into the hills. The wind was rising, sweeping away the baking heat of the day, and the scent of earth and tea soothed the edges of this stark world.

  He knew it was time to discover more about his charge, but the moment was so...peaceful, he didn’t want to let it go just yet.

  In the end she spoke first.

  ‘The last time I had tea in the desert was with my brother.’

  ‘Tell me about him.’

  ‘He is two years younger than I. Very clever. We write articles together for the Illustrated Gazette about our travels under the name D.C. Osbourne. Do you know the Gazette?’

  ‘I don’t, I’m afraid. A local newspaper?’

  ‘Oh, no. They are London-based and very selective.’

  ‘Impressive.’

  She glanced at him as if gauging whether he was being serious. Birdie had given her soap and she’d washed her face and hands and her lashes were still spiked together. With her short hair uncovered and the wind teasing it against her cheeks and brow she could easily have been a model for Leila, the heroine of the Desert Boy novels his brother penned. He smiled at the silly notion and she frowned.

  ‘It is impressive,’ she insisted, mistaking his smile. ‘We have had almost a dozen articles appear in the Gazette. Do you know how many journalists would give their eye-teeth to achieve that?’

  ‘Many, I presume. I have no idea what eye-teeth are, but they sound valuable.’

  Her frown gave way to laughter again.

  ‘They are the pointy teeth, like a dog’s, though I am quite certain you know that. You are a strange man, Mr Grey.’