by Lara Temple
‘You have children?’ Her thoughts leapt to children far away, wondering where their father was...
‘I had a nephew, but he died. Jacob. He was all of two years old.’
‘Oh, no. Oh, no! I am so, so sorry.’
‘So am I. He charmed everyone who knew him. Well, almost everyone.’
‘Your brother’s son?’ she asked. ‘The brother you came to Egypt for?’
‘The same.’
‘What happened to him?’
‘My brother or Jacob?’
‘Jacob.’
He sighed.
‘He was ill for a long time and then he died. I didn’t mean to add my ghosts to yours. There is something about sleeping under the heavens that loosens the tongue. Go to sleep, Queenie.’
He turned on to his back, his profile etched against the darkness behind him. She felt he was tempted to turn his back to her completely, but was resisting the urge. For a mercenary he was very considerate of other people’s feelings.
Fair play would be to turn over herself and give him the privacy of his thoughts, but there was something comforting about the sharp-cut lines of his profile. She could feel the strange sink and jerk of sleep and in that floating moment before her eyes sealed themselves against her will she wished one could embrace someone in pain without a thought to propriety or consequences.
* * *
It might have been the jackals that woke her, or the grunt of the camels. Whatever it was, sleep dropped her from its embrace and she landed flat on her back, her eyes wide and staring at the moon. She turned immediately, half expecting to see a wild beast crouched, ready to leap, but instead there was nothing.
Not even a sleeping giant.
Mr Grey’s pallet was empty, the blanket neatly folded, and at the edge of her vision, between the boulders, a dark shape was moving. Away.
No...two dark shapes. She rose to her knees, squinting into the ink of night. They moved lightly and quickly eastwards. She could still hear the faint rumble of snoring near the trees—probably Birdie asleep by the camels.
She knew she had not been asleep for long—the stars and moon had barely moved. She rose, pulling her robe about her and attaching her dagger. Her mind tumbled through possibilities but one held firm above all—the path between the boulders led down towards Daraw.
* * *
Rafe watched the band of stars shimmer above him, cold and bright like shards of crushed ice scattered on the darkness. Without even looking he could feel sleep weigh Cleopatra Osbourne down, long lashes lowering over her intense golden-brown eyes.
He closed his eyes as well, willing everything away, willing himself not to turn and look at her. Then he turned on his side and watched her after all, wondering what on earth he was going to do with her. Eventually she gave a little puff of a sigh and her body relaxed as she sank into a deeper sleep.
He rose carefully and went towards where Birdie was leaning against a boulder.
‘She’s asleep,’ Rafe whispered, motioning to Gamal to join him. ‘We’ll back as soon as we take a look at this port and the lay of the town. I don’t want any surprises tomorrow.’
Birdie yawned widely and nodded.
‘She won’t like you doing this behind her back.’
‘I can handle her dislike. It’s her mistrust I have a problem with. If I tell her, she’ll insist on coming and that might prove dangerous. I want her here where it’s safe.’
‘What do I tell her if she wakes?’
‘Hopefully she won’t, but if she does, tell her the truth.’
Birdie cast a glance towards the fire.
‘Just come back quick like, will you?’
‘As quick as we can.’
* * *
On this side of the Nile the village was a small one. He and Gamal made their way to the north of the village to where they could see the feluccas and fishing boats tied to the two simple wooden wharves that spanned the reedy shallows. The small open space by the wharves was surprisingly full for such an hour and small port.
‘Is the port always so crowded at this hour, Gamal?’
‘No, nadab. This is the hour for home and shisha and kahwa, the coffee place. I do not like this.’
‘Neither do I. Blast...’ Rafe shifted further back into the shadow. ‘See that man, the tall one just at the edge of the port talking to the fat one?’
Gamal leaned a little past him.
‘You are right, nadab. It is al-Mizan speaking with the Sheikh.’
‘Devil take him.’
‘Al-Shaitan is more likely to take us, nadab.’
‘Good point. Come. There’s nothing for us here. We shall have to keep to the desert until the next—’ He stopped as Gamal’s hand clamped on his arm.
‘Anzur!’
Rafe had no idea what that meant, but he followed Gamal’s gaze towards the other end of the wharf where the reeds took over. Beyond, the half-moon was a shattered reflection on the inky water and the pale blur between the reeds might have been a large bird looking for frogs, but somehow he knew it was not. He motioned Gamal back the way they came.
Coming round the north of the village, they found her easily enough. She’d chosen a good vantage point to watch the port, but was so intent on the figure of al-Mizan as he stood talking to the rotund Sheikh she did not even notice Rafe approach until he was three feet from her.
He found himself praying she would not cry out. He never liked to employ force, but in this case... Just as he was wondering if indeed he could do it, she turned on her haunches, her hand dropping to the ground as if ready to propel herself forward. He touched his finger to his lips, his eyes locking with hers in the darkness.
They remained like that for a moment and for a second her gaze flickered over to where al-Mizan was standing. There were two other men with him now and they were conferring and looking about them. When her eyes returned to Rafe’s he shook his head and pointed into the darkness behind them. Finally, she moved to follow him.
* * *
They were halfway back to the camp before he felt capable of speaking calmly.
‘What did you think you were doing?’
‘I woke and you were gone,’ she replied. ‘I thought—’
‘You thought we’d gone to sell you out.’
He’d been betrayed often enough through the years and he rarely took it personally. He shouldn’t take it seriously, but somehow this show of mistrust after everything she’d told him...everything he’d told her...
He tried to tell himself it was understandable—she was frightened, worried, and all too used to thinking the worst of people. He should not be angry with her.
Well, he wasn’t angry with her, he was furious. He’d forgotten what that felt like—like molten steel filling him. He felt as though he had to do something or explode, but there was nothing he could do. He did not understand this volcanic pressure inside him, but he knew it would, it must pass.
‘I had to be certain,’ she whispered as they entered the encampment. Her voice was low but insistent, on the verge of a plea. Gamal cast them a worried look and slipped off towards his pallet by the camels where Birdie’s snores still rumbled gently. Rafe drew a deep breath, but the expected calm didn’t follow.
‘Go to sleep, Miss Osbourne.’
‘You are being unreasonable...’
‘I am being unreasonable?’ He dragged his voice down and she sighed.
‘Yes, you are. You are in a temper because I disobeyed you, but you should have told me of your plans.’
‘I would have you know I am a model of good temper when dealing with reasonable people, Miss Osbourne,’ he snapped.
‘I think it very reasonable to insist on taking part in deciding my fate.’
‘That is not what happened and you know it! You knew full well you were meant to stay at
the encampment!’
‘And I decided not to. That is my prerogative. I am after all paying for your services, Mr Grey. I am not obligated to follow your advice.’
‘You aren’t paying me a scuffed piastre, Queenie, and if you don’t want to find yourself alone in the middle of the desert, you are obligated to follow my advice.’
* * *
Cleo rarely felt truly angry. Long ago she’d often felt this kind of impotent fury at her father as he’d dragged them from one disastrous venture to the next. But her anger had faded into frustration and finally sloughed off her altogether. She’d forgotten how hot and cold and confusing it felt.
It also felt alive. Vivid. Bubbling inside her more powerfully than fear.
Amazingly, it felt good.
‘Do you often issue threats you won’t act upon, Mr Grey?’
‘How do you know I won’t act upon them, Queenie? You don’t know the first thing about what I am capable of.’
She snorted.
‘I know you are capable of dismissing perfectly good advice. I told you Daraw was too close to Syene to be safe, but you had to go sneaking about at night just to prove me right. What if al-Mizan’s men or someone in the village had seen you?’ She was well aware she was fanning the fire and perversely she was enjoying it.
‘The only person they almost saw was you, Queenie, and the only time I and Gamal were at risk was trying to stop you from putting your neck into al-Mizan’s noose!’
Her anger faded a little at the thought that she had endangered them as well. She tried for dignity instead of righteousness.
‘If you had discussed your plan with me, I would have happily complied—’
‘Ha!’ he interrupted. ‘You wouldn’t recognise compliance if it kicked you in the backside. You may be used to ruling the roost, but if you plan on spending the next few days haranguing me and ignoring my directives, I’ll happily leave you here.’ He snatched his pallet from the ground and stalked off towards the camels.
Cleo lay awake for a long while, her cheeks stinging with a swirling contradiction of heat and anger and hurt. She watched the last glimmer of embers die, very aware of the emptiness behind her.
Chapter Six
‘Tired?’ Birdie asked as helped her dismount at the end of the following day’s ride. It was the first word any of them had spoken to her since they’d set out that morning. Concern was writ large on his puckish face so she managed an almost-smile and shook her head.
She wanted to tell Birdie the truth—she wasn’t tired, she was exhausted. With the look on Rafe’s face haunting her, it had taken hours to fall asleep. Even admitting his anger was justified, she didn’t know why it affected her so. He wasn’t her friend, so she could hardly lose his friendship. Yet it felt precisely as if she had.
The closest thing she’d felt to this was when they’d been forced to leave Acre after living with the Tawil family in their sprawling house just north of the port. But that had been a real loss—a loss of love and friendship built over years. Her father had hardly given them a chance to say goodbye to the people who’d become their family. It was absurd to feel the same deep wrenching sensation merely because a man she hardly knew was angry with her.
She glanced at Rafe’s broad back as he helped Gamal remove the saddles while Birdie set out his pots by the fire. It was the same scene as the previous night and yet she felt they were already excluding her.
If he hadn’t been a mercenary, and a flippant one at that, she might almost believe he’d been hurt by her mistrust.
‘Here, miss.’ Birdie approached her and held out a steaming cup. She took it and bent her head over the steam to hide the pricking of grateful tears.
‘Thank you, Mr Birdie.’
‘Just Birdie, miss. That’s not good for the heart, you know.’
She started and some of the tea splattered over her hand. He handed her a surprisingly clean handkerchief and she dabbed at the stinging liquid.
‘What’s not good for the heart?’
‘Worrying when you can’t do a thing about it. It was my fault for falling asleep, but next time just give me a good kick and wake me before you go off on your own so I can calm your worries.’ He hesitated. ‘We’ve been in far worse situations than these, believe me. And if something happens to him I’ll see you through.’
She breathed through the burn of tears. These men hardly knew her and yet somehow they were more committed to her safety than her own father ever had been.
‘Thank you, Birdie.’
He flushed and frowned. ‘No need. Best thing to do is keep yourself busy. Finish your tea and go draw more water for those thirsty beasts while Gamal and I prepare supper.’
The brusque order calmed her far more effectively than empty reassurances. She finished her tea and went to unhook the water gourd by the well. She’d watched men and women work the wells, but doing it herself was harder than she anticipated, the rope burning her palms as she dragged up the heavy leather buckets.
How the women who filled large clay jugs with water carried this weight on their heads over miles back to their villages or tents, she had no idea. She tried not to spill the precious water as she poured it into the trough and was concentrating so hard on her task that the blow caught her completely by surprise. She landed neatly on her behind in the mud and found herself staring up into the bulbous eyes of Kabir as he ambled past her to the trough. Her nemesis looked well pleased with his victory as he slurped noisily at the water.
‘I’m doing this for you, you ungrateful wretch. You might at least show some respect,’ Cleo muttered as she struggled to her feet. The other camels approached, Gamila huffing gently and batting her long, curled eyelashes at Cleo as if in apology for Kabir’s behaviour. Cleo stroked Gamila’s neck as they both stood and watched the slobbering Kabir with what Cleo was certain was shared disgust.
‘Typical male. No consideration or manners,’ said Rafe behind her and Cleo turned in surprise, her hands covering the muddy patch on her behind.
His comment sounded like an olive branch, but his expression was as blank as it had been all day. They stood for a moment in silence before he jerked his head towards the campfire.
‘Supper is ready.’
* * *
Unlike the previous evening, supper was a subdued affair. The tension between her and Rafe was palpable and both Gamal and Birdie exchanged glances and ate in silence. When Birdie poured out the last of the tea, she gathered her courage and turned to Rafe.
‘May I know where we are heading next, Mr Grey?’
Rafe put down his cup.
‘I was wondering how long before you started making demands.’
‘It is not a demand, merely a question.’
Birdie directed a frown at Rafe. ‘We’ve decided the ports are too risky, miss. Gamal suggested we go by way of the camel route and take a boat from Asyut, which is too large for them to control.’
‘Asyut! That means several more days in the desert.’
‘That’s right, miss. So we’d all best catch some rest now.’
She took her pallet and followed Rafe to arrange it by the fire, searching for some way to ease the tension that strummed between them.
‘I am sorry you have had to extend your journey because of me.’
He shrugged. ‘Never mind. Hopefully we have confused them sufficiently to give your brother time to reach Cairo and leave Egypt. That is your object, no?’
‘Yes. Yes, of course. I only hope Dash acts immediately once he sees my letter.’
‘So do I. Was he named for his speed or for his dashing manners?’
There was a hint of lightness in his voice and her relief bloomed.
‘Neither. An ancestor of ours from Ashford in Kent went to France and took to calling himself d’Ashford. My mother decided to perpetuate that foolish vanity in Dash’s nam
e. She was very...poetically minded.’
‘So she’s to blame for you quoting Shakespeare?’
‘She’d be proud to accept that blame.’ She smiled and turned away to unfold her blanket, surprised by the burning in her throat. It seemed so long, long ago—those evenings reading with her mother in their small back parlour where it was warmest because it shared a wall with the kitchen. She’d thought that was her life—simple and safe and happy, just the three of them with occasional visits from her father. Now it felt far less real than sitting in the desert with a mercenary.
But it was still there, that memory—of warmth, her mother’s deep voice as she read, holding the book a little away from her because she always misplaced her spectacles...
‘You miss her.’
His voice was brusque but not unkind and she both shrugged and nodded, waiting for him to move away. To her surprise, he spread his pallet between hers and the desert once more and came to sit on a boulder by the fire. He picked up a twig and traced neat little rows on the ground. The sand rushed into them like raindrops into a crack in the pavement.
‘I’m sorry, Cleo-Pat.’
‘It hardly matters. It was so long ago.’
‘Some things never stop mattering. Was she responsible for you name as well?’
‘Of course. She said it was part tribute to Shakespeare’s play and part tribute to my father. In Greek it means “glory of the father”. All the Ptolemaic queens were named Cleopatra and all the kings Ptolemy, which means “warlike”.’
‘Well, that says it all. Name the kings after violence and the queens after kings.’
She laughed. She’d always hated that aspect of her name, but somehow his words blew away that slight with a puff of laughter. He smiled and the knot of tension in her stomach unravelled further.
‘I’ll call you Cleo, then. Or Glory.’
‘Not Glory, please. Besides, you already appear to have far too many names for me.’
