by Lara Temple
‘I’m so sorry, Rafe! I did not mean to hurt you!’
‘When I advised you to throw something, I did not think you would start with doors. As usual you are highly precocious, Cleo.’
Her concern crumbled as swiftly as her anger and she burst into laughter and gave him a little shove. He didn’t step back and she stayed there for a moment, her hands on his chest. Then she rose on tiptoe and touched her lips to his cheek.
Absurdly, that shock was on par with his earlier terror. His skin turned into a carapace of ice and his insides to a chaos of thumping heat. He didn’t even realise he’d closed his arms around her waist, pinioning her to him, until she leaned back against their confining band.
She’d been flushed with anger before and the laughter was still there in her eyes, but also the softening, speculative heat she’d shown before.
She pressed upwards again, bestowing the same light kiss, but this time she stayed there, her lips parted against his skin, moving gently. He let his eyes close, his hand moving against her back, mirroring the motion of her lips.
God, it felt so good. Even her touch against his scars felt...
It was a sign of how addled he’d become that he only now realised it was his scarred cheek. He let her go faster than she’d charged at al-Mizan, but she’d already anchored her hands in his shirt and her mouth came to rest against the corner of his. She seemed to be gathering herself, either waiting for a signal or preparing to withdraw.
All he had to do was nothing. Ignore the warmth of her breath against his skin, the pressure of her body leaning against his, the heat trapped between them like a captured sun. The thudding, demanding, hungry, ravenous heat he was tired of shoving down.
He felt the tensing of her muscles as she prepared to push away and with a smothered moan he wrapped his arms back around her.
Not yet.
Just a little more.
Just an inch. Not even an inch. That was all it would take to bring her lips to his. He wanted so, so badly to kiss her. Properly, thoroughly. All of her, every warm living inch of her.
Step aside?
Like hell.
He turned his head, his lips touching hers. Hers parted just a little, fitting against his. She breathed in, sucking the soul from his body and setting the rest on fire. He heard the sound deep inside him and the answering buck of her body against him and he felt his reins slip from his hands.
Just a taste.
He let his lips move against hers, just gathering the feel of that warm, pillowy bow. He kissed it very gently, catching the corner of her mouth with the tip of his tongue, just where it hovered between smile and laughter. She gave a little moan and then her tongue touched his, a galvanic shock driving their bodies together, hard. His hand was suddenly in her hair and he felt it shake a little as her short feathery hair slipped like shattered silk between his fingers. God, he wanted to do that again and again.
He wanted...everything.
She had her hands in his hair now, too. Was on her tiptoes as she met his kiss, her breasts flattened against his chest. From a slight, brief embrace they were fast approaching combustion and he waited for the sword’s thrust of conscience, he even went in search of it, hoping it might come to his rescue, but there was nothing inside him now but fire and the deafening thump of drums...
Not drums, someone was clumping up the stairs...
She must have realised it before him because she disentangled herself with the rapidity of a cat escaping a dipping.
‘Birdie is back.’
‘I don’t care.’ He moved towards her.
‘We are in the dining room. He is sure to come here...’
Before he could even admit she was right the door opened. She was halfway across the room by then and Rafe scraped his hands through his hair, but clearly their attempts were unconvincing because Birdie stopped whatever he was about to say, looking from one to the other. Then at the plates on the table.
‘Hungry, were you?’
Starving.
He didn’t say it. He couldn’t think of anything sensible to say and in the end it was Cleo who spoke, moving past them to the door.
‘We were, thank you, Birdie. It was delicious. The stew, that is,’ she added just before closing the door behind her.
Birdie placed the sack he was carrying on the table. When he spoke he pitched his voice low, but it did nothing to hide his anger.
‘Sooner she’s on her way to England the better, sir. Not like you to play fast and loose.’
‘I am not doing anything of the kind.’
‘Made her an offer, then?’
‘What? No, of course I haven’t.’
‘Not well-born enough for the likes of you?’
‘Birth has nothing to do with it. At least not hers. I don’t even exist. Rafe Grey is nothing more than the figment of a boy’s imagination.’
‘Aye, but the Duke of Greybourne is real enough and that’s what you are now, like it or not.’
‘You know damn well I don’t and that is precisely the point. With any luck Edge will have another son. I’m not going back to that place...that life. This life is all I know and all I’m good for, and it sure as hell is no place for a wife even if I wanted one, which I don’t, so keep your opinions to yourself.’
‘I will if you only keep your hands to yourself.’
‘She kissed me first.’
‘Jumped on you, did she?’
‘No,’ Rafe admitted. ‘Hit me on the head with a door first.’
‘Good for her. I might try that myself. Except you might kiss me, too.’
Rafe grinned in relief that Birdie’s ire was fading.
‘We had an incident with al-Mizan. At her lodgings. I was trying to distract her and I admit it got out of hand.’ Far, far out of hand. ‘I won’t do it again.’
There wasn’t as much conviction in his voice as he hoped, but Birdie’s attention had been diverted by his previous comment, his ragtag brows climbing into his hair.
‘You found the scoundrel?’
‘He found us and almost introduced me to his dagger. That little hellion stopped him. The sooner we take her to Alexandria the better. With luck Chris and the Hesperus will still be in port.’
‘She might take issue going aboard a privateer’s ship.’
‘Chris isn’t a privateer. There’s no war on that I know of at the moment.’
‘Smuggler, then.’
‘No one has ever accused him of smuggling.’
‘Not yet.’
‘If I see he has dubious goods aboard, we can find her other means of travel, but you know she’ll be safer on the Hesperus than travelling alone on a merchant ship.’
‘That’s the truth.’ Birdie sighed. ‘So, that’s the plan? We hand her to Chris and wash our hands of the whole affair?’
Rafe poured the wine, but did not pick up his cup.
‘No,’ he said at last. ‘Now I know Edge is safely in Egypt, it’s time we returned to England ourselves. As you said—I can’t run for ever. I need to take stock of Greybourne so I can get on with my life. That way we can see Cleo safely to England as well. With any luck her brother will already be there and that will be the end of that.’
He waited for Birdie to raise objections, but all he said was, ‘Have you told her?’
‘No. I don’t think I should.’
Birdie picked up his glass.
‘It sits ill with me to lie to her, Colonel.’
‘With me, too, but we’re between a rock and a hard place. Unless we prove that nuisance brother of hers is safely on his way to England, her conscience won’t let her sail. But she’s not safe here, Birdie. It’s not al-Mizan that worries me any more, it’s how he spoke about this Boucheron fellow. I don’t want her in his domain any longer than absolutely necessary.’
‘Very well. I’ll pack our belongings. You go with Naguib to speak to the Captain of the dahabiya. Best not leave you here alone, just in case she throws herself at you again,’ he added with a snap and headed into the kitchen.
Chapter Twelve
Alexandria
Cleo had not been to Alexandria since her arrival in Egypt. It had changed since then, but it was still rather a ruin of a town. Like many port cities she’d seen, there was a sense of miasmatic menace. Rootless people came and went and one knew little of them—perfect for the venal, the criminal, and the lost.
A small closed carriage drew them through the town and past the shattered structure of an old Roman tower. Behind it the sail-studded turquoise sea stretched away, and in front stood an obelisk, stark and tall and covered base to pyramid-pointed tip with hieroglyphs.
‘There is my namesake,’ she murmured and Rafe turned to her from his inspection of the view. With a word he motioned to the driver to stop.
‘That must be some sixty feet tall,’ Birdie mused and she nodded.
‘It is called Cleopatra’s Needle. I’ve seen illustrations in Description de l’Egypte, but I’ve never seen it myself. I wanted to come here when we arrived in Egypt, but my father said we hadn’t time. It’s...amazing.’
Rafe swung open the low door and held out his hand.
‘Come along, Queenie. There is no one here but the camels and donkeys to see us and we can spare a few moments to pay homage to your birthright.’
* * *
Cleo had reason later to be doubly grateful for their short excursion to see the obelisk and climb the tower to look over the expanse of the Mediterranean. From the moment they reached their rooms in a lovely Mameluke palace overlooking the bay, her curfew began. She’d given Rafe her word she would remain indoors for the rest of the day as he and Birdie made enquiries, but the inaction sat ill with her.
By afternoon she was seriously contemplating going in search of her errant knights, but just then she heard voices from the courtyard. She hurried into the sitting room, but it was only Birdie, instructing a servant to place a large wicker basket on the table. He glanced up with a smile, but immediately shook his head.
‘No news yet, miss.’
‘Oh.’
‘But we’ve set matters in motion. Tomorrow we’ll go see Captain Carrington. This is not a large city and the Colonel’s friend is still docked here, which is good news as he knows many people. If your brother is here, or if he has recently sailed, we are likely to know very soon.’
‘Dash might not have travelled under his own name.’
‘I hope he hasn’t, but there are still ways to trace him. There cannot have been many ships sailing for England this past week so the options are limited.’
‘Unless he sailed to another port...’ Her heart constricted. That would make the possibilities multiply. And the risks.
‘It is possible. Tomorrow we should know more. I’ve bought you some new clothes.’
She looked absently at the shirt he was unfolding, but her attention was elsewhere. ‘Did Rafe not return with you?’
Birdie glanced up.
‘Don’t worry, miss. He stopped at the hammam and paid the fellow to have the place to himself. I’m off to prepare supper. Go rest. It will be a long day tomorrow.’
‘I’ve been resting all day,’ Cleo said in frustration.
‘I know it isn’t easy, miss, but you agreed it would not do for Miss Osbourne to be seen in public when we want it known she already left for England.’ Birdie sighed and extracted something from his pile and placed it on the table. ‘Here. This is from the Colonel. To keep you occupied.’
It was a rather beaten volume in ochre-coloured leather with most of the gilt worn off, but still enough to read the print on the spine.
Shakespeare. Vol. IX. Taming of the Shrew.
She snorted.
‘Very amusing—and it is my least favourite comedy of the lot, Mr Grey,’ she muttered and went to her room. She stared at the wall for a few long moments, cradling her farewell present to her chest.
Tomorrow was likely her last day with them. Whatever they discovered or not about Dash she knew she had to release Rafe to seek his own brother, by force if need be. So, if this was her last day of unfettered freedom, she should not be spending it moping in her room. She wanted an altogether different farewell present.
She wrapped her turban round her head and slipped quietly downstairs.
She’d seen the unobtrusive entranceway to the bath house on their arrival. It stood just a few steps from their lodgings and she gave herself no time to think before she plunged inside. Her heart, already rushing downhill at a swift pace, slammed into her ribs when a man in a long white robe stepped out of the overseer’s room.
‘The hammam is closed. Come tomorrow,’ he said, shooing her with his hands.
‘I am the hawagi’s servant,’ Cleo said in Arabic. ‘I have an important message.’
The guard shrugged and went back to his little room.
Cleo proceeded, her heart thumping in her ears as she pushed aside the heavy curtain covering the entrance to the maghta and a burst of steam enveloped her.
‘Ijo de cabron... Cleo!’
She stood frozen for a moment. He’d thrown a long cotton towel over his shoulder, like a Roman toga, but it did little to cover his steam-slicked body. She knew men were required to cover their hips with a futa in hammams, but Rafe was clearly taking advantage of his privacy.
‘What are you doing here?’ he demanded. ‘Has something happened? Where is Birdie?’
She shook her head, gathering back her scattered thoughts.
‘Nothing happened. Birdie thinks I’m resting.’
‘Then what in the name of all the rings of hell are you doing here?’
‘I wanted to see a male hammam.’ She looked around, trying to sound casual and wondering why this had seemed a good idea. ‘It’s not very different from the women’s. I thought it would be larger.’
He didn’t answer and she went to look at the nearest portal. A small pool with stone steps stood as flat as a sheet of ice and several buckets of water stood beside a spout. Above her a murky light entered through the ornate glass pieces that studded a low dome.
It was almost dark outside and she was alone with a mostly naked man in an Egyptian bath house.
‘You shouldn’t be here, Cleo.’ His voice was muffled by the steam.
Her heartbeats reverberated through her like the clanging of a deep bell but she unwound her turban and breathed in the hot, scented air. Once again her life was about to change, through forces beyond her control. But how she acted, what she did, was hers. Soon this man would be gone from her life. It felt absurd and wrong, but she knew it to be true. Therefore, she had to choose how to act now.
‘I think I will miss being a man when I return to England,’ she said.
He didn’t answer, so she took off her robe, folded it and placed it on a wooden shelf by the room with the dipping pool. She gathered the skirts of her gallabiyah and there was a curse behind her as he grasped her arm.
‘Enough, Cleo. Go back to the rooms.’
This close she could see every sinew and muscle. His skin shone, water tricking slowly over the landscape of his body. He was beautiful. Not just the force of his body, but remnants of his mistakes. He might be built like a Roman statue, but it was the damage that made him real. She knew she would probably never again see anything so beautiful.
‘Cleo, stop.’
‘I’m only looking,’ she murmured and he groaned and dropped her arm, turning away.
‘You’re mad, you know.’
‘I don’t think it is mad to enjoy looking at you, is it? I’m certain enough women have done so before me. Why am I different?’
He gave a slight laugh and went to sit on a bench,
his back to her.
‘I told you I won’t take advantage of you.’
‘We are in Alexandria. Tomorrow we either find Dash here and you consign me to his care, or I will secure passage to England. Either way you are relieved of your protector’s duties.’
She took off her gallabiyah and closed her eyes, breathing in the spice-scented air. Sage and mint. She would miss those scents. She would miss Egypt.
She would miss this man most of all.
Her breath shortened and she swallowed. There was nothing for it. She knew the world kept moving beneath them.
‘I’m going to wash myself. You may leave if you wish. Or stay.’ She went into the next room and poured the warm water over her. She’d washed in the small tub the servant had brought to her room, but this was different. With the steam all around her and the warm water streaming over her she closed her eyes to explore the image of Rafe’s body, slick with steam, the pressure of his hands on her body, shaping her...
* * *
Rafe stood helplessly in the doorway. His code required he do as she suggested and leave, but he couldn’t.
She stood with her back to him, her body shimmering like pale marble in the dimming light from the dome. She might as well have been a statue come to life, the line of her back and the rounded rise of her behind as she rubbed the soapy palm fronds over her arms.
He’d been right—she had a lovely body, generous and beautifully curved. Perhaps she was right, he was making too much of this. She was no virgin, no English miss. She was Cleo, a wholly strange and independent entity. If she wanted this, why not allow this temporary breach?
He picked up another ball of stripped palm fronds, lathered it with soap and moved towards her. He knew she felt his approach because her chin rose a little, but she did not turn.
‘I’ll wash your back,’ he said.
She gave a little nod and straightened. He touched the slope of her shoulder and closed his eyes for a moment. He was as hard as the rock floor. All he had to do was one step closer and... He breathed in and out, clasped her shoulder gently with one hand and brushed the fronds down the curve of her back.
