Desert Song (DeWinter's Song 3)

by Constance O'Banyon

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Prelude

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Epilogue

  Author’s Note

  Desert Song

  By Constance O’Banyon

  Copyright © 1994

  Constance O'Banyon

  All rights reserved.

  This is gratefully dedicated to you, my readers. Many of you I know through your letters, many I have met in person, and some I will never meet. But we know each other all the same. You are the reason I spin my tales. Your warmth has touched me in so many ways. Thank you for your wonderful support and encouragement.

  Two Hearts United Beneath the Desert Moon

  "My friend Prince Khaldun would have me believe that every marriage in Kamar Ginena is enchanted. Shall we believe him about that?" Michael said.

  "It makes a lovely story," Mallory returned.

  "Ah, a skeptic. You don't believe that if we kiss beneath the moon, our lives will be entwined for eternity?"

  She wanted to tell him that her heart already belonged to him, but she dared not.

  He bent his dark head and touched her trembling lips, ever so softly. She sighed, drawing closer to his hard body. His hand moved up to cup her face, and he turned it toward the moon. "I believe I'm enchanted already. You are beautiful, Lady Mallory DeWinter."

  Mallory curled up in Michael's arms and he saw mischief dancing in her eyes. "So this is what it feels like to have a legend make love to you."

  Prelude

  Cairo, Egypt—1845

  Raile DeWinter, the duke of Ravenworth, moved out of the bedroom of his rented quarters when he heard his valet arguing with someone at the front door.

  "If you wish to see His Grace, you must wait until morning. He's retired for the night," Oliver said imperiously, barring the person's way.

  "I'm not asleep, Oliver," Raile said, wondering who would be visiting this late. The man was out of his view because he stood in the shadows. "Come forward so I can see you," Raile ordered, his eyes narrowed.

  Reluctantly, Oliver stepped back and allowed the man to pass into the room.

  The stranger wore a black robe and a white turban. He had a black patch over one eye that gave him a sinister appearance. "Effendi," he said, bowing subserviently. "I want but to deliver a letter to you from my esteemed master, Sheik Sidi Ahmed."

  Raile looked the man over, then took the letter from him and began to read.

  English Lord,

  It has come to my attention that you are searching for certain individuals. I want to aid you in your mission because these men are dangerous to us who love peace. I can help you if you will meet me at an appointed place. Understand that I do this in peril of my own life. If you are interested in my information, come at once with the man who delivers this letter. He can be trusted, and I have anticipated your needs, so you will travel in comfort. Tell no one about this meeting, or it will not take place.

  Raile raised his head and looked at the guide speculatively. "You know what's in this letter?"

  "Only that I am to take you to my master if you agree to go."

  "I don't know your master."

  "He knows you, O exalted one."

  Raile had no choice but to meet with this sheik. He had been in Cairo for eight weeks, trying to discover who was arming rebellious Bedouin tribes and inciting them against the British. But the Egyptians were suspicious of foreigners, and this was the first time he had been contacted with an offer of help. He was uneasy, but could think of no reason why he shouldn't trust this man. "Very well, I will accompany you. But I should first contact the British consul."

  The man bowed. "Sorry, please, illustrious one, but my master instructed me not to guide you if you tell anyone."

  "Very well. Oliver, pack only what I can carry in one valise."

  Oliver had been with the duke for thirty years. He'd served him faithfully in the war against Napoleon, and when the duke had been wounded at Waterloo, Oliver had devotedly nursed him back to health. He would not let the duke go into the desert without him.

  "I'm coming with you, Your Grace," Oliver said, with a look that dared the foreign guide to object.

  Raile's lips twitched. "Of course you are, Oliver."

  It seemed Sheik Sidi had thought of everything. Besides two guides, there were three servants to see to Raile's comfort. Under Oliver's direction, the servants set up camp each night with quiet efficiency.

  Each day they traveled farther and farther from Cairo, until at last they stopped at a small oasis. Raile began to wonder if Sheik Sidi Ahmed really existed.

  Raile stepped impatiently from beneath the awning of his tent. Looking past the small oasis where three tents dotted the sand, he raised his hand to shade his eyes against the scorching Egyptian sun.

  His two guides had ridden off early in the morning and should have returned hours ago. How long did it take for them to arrange a meeting with Sheik Sidi Ahmed?

  Raile's jaw tightened in anger. "Oliver, what am I doing in the middle of the Sinai Desert without benefit of guide and with no notion how to get back to Cairo? There are any number of men that Her Majesty could have chosen— why did she choose me?"

  "Because, Your Grace, she knew you were the only man for this mission," the faithful retainer said with pride.

  "A dubious honor," Raile replied cryptically. "Damn," he swore softly. "Where are they?"

  He watched grimly as a gathering cloud of dust swirled in the distance, filtering slowly upward toward the sun. The storm would hit soon. Already the wind was whipping grains of sand and whirling it into Raile's face, stinging his eyes and blistering his cheeks.

  "We're in for a fierce blow, Your Grace," Oliver, observed with growing concern. "If the guides don't return soon, they'll be caught in the sandstorm."

  "If I knew the way back to Cairo, I'd leave now," Raile fumed.

  "I'll ask the other men if they have any notion when the guides will return," Oliver said, hurrying toward the servants' tent. He returned a short time later. "Something odd has happened, Your Grace. The servants aren't in camp, and they took their belongings with them. Strange we didn't see them leave."

  Suddenly a gust of wind struck with such a force it ripped one of the guy ropes away from the tent, causing one side to collapse. Raile and Oliver grabbed the rope, securing it firmly to the stake.

  Oliver had to shout to be heard above the wind. "I rather like the Sinai Desert, Your Grace."

  Raile glanced up at the cloud of dust that was quickly descending on them. "I find little to admire about this cursed place."
>
  "It's so pristine and quiet," Oliver said reverently. "It makes me feel close to ... I don't know—it seems almost sanctified."

  Raile gave Oliver a disparaging glance, as if he questioned his man's sanity. "When that storm hits, you'll most probably retract your opinion. Your only thought will be how to breathe."

  Oliver tightened the last knot and looked at their handiwork with satisfaction. "I believe this should hold it, Your Grace."

  "We'd best seek shelter. The storm's about to hit."

  Raile entered the tent and tossed aside the burnoose he'd worn to protect him from the sun. "I'm wondering how much longer we'll have to remain in this hellish country. Already we've been here for over two months, and I still don't know who is arming the bedouin."

  "When our guides return with Sheik Sidi, he'll be able to help you, Your Grace," Oliver said encouragingly.

  "I'm not even certain there is a Sheik Sidi, Oliver. I may be on a fool's mission."

  Raile turned to the camp table and lit a lantern. He wondered what his wife, Kassidy, was doing at the moment. He didn't want to be here; he only wanted to return to her. Not that she needed him—God only knew she was a most capable woman, but perhaps she missed him, too.

  He picked up a miniature of his wife and stared at it for a long moment. He felt a deep aching need for her— he longed for the sound of her voice and most of all the musical sound of her laughter.

  Dropping down on a cot, he reached into his breast pocket and withdrew the letter he'd received from her just before leaving Cairo. Apparently she was concerned about their son, Michael, and there must be cause since Kassidy wasn't one to worry needlessly. He reread the letter, trying to decide what to do about Michael when he returned to England.

  My Dearest Raile,

  How long the days seem without you. I pray each night for your safety, and for your speedy return to me. I received a letter from Arrian today and her health is good. You should be a grandfather within the month. I wish I could be with her, but so much requires my attention here at Ravenworth, and Scotland is so far away. Michael came home last week but stayed only three days. Raile, I believe it's time our son took on more responsibilities. I have insisted that he spend the winter at Ravenworth. Perhaps here, we can bend his mind to important matters, and he'll be less inclined to squander his life in frivolous pursuits.

  Raile folded the letter and placed it back in his pocket, glancing up at Oliver, who was closing the flaps on the tent.

  "I believe it's time I took my son and heir in hand, Oliver. Perhaps it was a mistake to allow him to reside in the London town house. He's too much a favorite with the ladies, and that crowd of young people he's connected with have no aim in life other than having a good time."

  Oliver smiled. "As I recall, Your Grace, you were much the same in your youth."

  "I suppose. But Her Grace is worried about Michael."

  Oliver had a great respect for the duchess. "Then there would be a reason to worry, Your Grace."

  The tent rattled and shook as the full force of the wind hit. The flap blew open, and it was dark as pitch until Oliver relit the lantern. "I'll just go and check on the horses, Your Grace. They seem to be restless."

  Raile watched Oliver leave. If this meeting with Sidi wasn't fruitful, then he planned to return home at once. He frowned as he glanced at his travel clock. It was nearing evening, and still the guides hadn't returned. Most probably they had been forced to hole up until the storm abated.

  At that moment the flap of his tent was thrown open and five men in dark robes entered. At first Raile wasn't concerned, thinking they must be the sheik's men. But when one of them leveled a gun at him, Raile instinctively dove for his holstered revolver, which was lying draped across a folding chair.

  He never heard the shot that hit him so hard he was propelled backward from the impact. Sudden weakness drove him to his knees, and he fell face forward.

  Kassidy's picture had been knocked to the ground, and one of the men crushed it beneath his boot.

  "Kass . . . idy." Raile groaned, reaching his hand for the miniature of his wife—it was out of reach.

  Raile fought against the black tide that threatened to swallow him, but he was soon engulfed in a dark void.

  The black-robed man with a patch over one eye turned Raile over with his foot. "You fool," he said to his companion, "you killed him. Sheik Sidi will have you beheaded for this."

  Blood ran from Raile's wound and was soon absorbed by the sand—he moved no more.

  Two men lifted him and carried him out into storm. One of them spoke with uncertainty. "We shall take his body. Our lord will want proof of his death."

  The other man asked with concern, "Is his man dead? Sheik Sidi wanted no one left alive to tell what happened here today."

  A third man, who held the horses, nodded at Oliver's dead body that was impaled by a lance against a palm tree. "The English servant is dead, but he gave a valiant fight. He will talk to no one—he is food for the jackals."

  Raile's limp body was thrown over a horse, and the black-robed men led him away from the oasis. They were soon swallowed up in the howling storm that sounded very like a woman's scream.

  Chapter 1

  London

  The room was dark but for the lone candle that flickered on the shiny surface of a round mahogany table. Twelve fashionably dressed people were seated at that table, and the silence was so pronounced that even the rustle of a taffeta gown drew attention. All twelve pairs of eyes were riveted on the old Gypsy woman dressed in black with golden coins dangling from her headdress. In a trance, she rocked back and forth while she waved a gnarled hand over a crystal ball.

  Just outside the circle of light, Lord Michael DeWinter sat with a cynical expression on his face. He half smiled as the fortune-teller predicted wealth and happiness for Lady Lenora Reeves. Lenora already had the wealth, and she always glowed with happiness. Why not? She was spoiled and pampered by her mother and father—a beauty with many gentlemen vying for her attention. But Lord

  Michael was not one of admirers. He found her too inexperienced for his taste and her conversations rather dull.

  Lady Samantha, who was more to Lord Michael's liking, rose from her chair and approached him, smiling. "Come, Michael," she cajoled, taking his hand and urging him to come to the table. "Join us. It's all done for our amusement. Allow the Gypsy to tell your fortune."

  Lady Samantha wore her dark hair pulled straight back from its widow's peak and secured with a pearl clip. Her eyes were dark brown, her skin creamy and flawless.

  "Hardly my idea of entertainment," Michael said with a morose expression on his face. "That woman can no more see into the future than you or I. She makes her fortune by predicting what naive fools want to hear." He nodded toward the table contemptuously. "Observe how your guests hold on to her every word—I must congratulate you on such a successful party," he said mockingly.

  Lady Samantha was crushed. She had planned this evening just for him. She was desperately in love with Lord Michael. She was certain she would have loved him even if he hadn't been born the only son of one of the most powerful families in Britain. He was tall and broad shouldered. His hair was almost as dark as hers. There was a dangerous, exciting power that emitted from him. When he entered a room, everyone watched him. And when he left a room, it became strangely empty.

  Now, as she looked into his cold, green eyes, Lady Samantha saw no evidence of the love she desired. She had realized long ago that she would have to break through a tight reserve to reach his heart. She was jealous of every woman who flirted and fawned over him. She envisioned herself as his wife, and no one was going to stand in her way.

  Thus far, Lord Michael had not committed to any woman, and Lady Samantha was determined that when he did, it would be to her.

  Michael glanced back at the table where the fortuneteller held her audience spellbound, and he almost envied them their jovial mood. Nothing interested him for long, and this dinner part
y was becoming tedious.

  "Michael," Lady Samantha said pleadingly, "I planned this evening just to amuse you. You can't know what I had to do to get Madame Zambana to attend my gala." She shuddered. "Imagine if you will, I personally rode to her house on Swinton Street to engage her for tonight. Madame Zambana has been the rage ever since Lady Wilhelmina used her to entertain her guests at a garden party last spring."

  With a resigned sigh, Lord Michael rose to his full height and moved to the table. After he was seated beside Lady Samantha, he watched the old Gypsy wave her hands over a crystal ball and gaze into the depths as if she saw that which others could not see.

  Madame Zambana smiled at Lady Garnet, who stared back at her with wide-eyed innocence. "You will obtain your heart's desire. The man you love also loves you. The two of you will live in wedded bliss, have many children, and grow to an old age together."

  "Is it Charles?" the young girl asked, looking shyly at the man beside her.

  The Gypsy pointed a bony finger at Lord Charles Bonnom. "That is the man who will be your husband," she said in a mysterious voice.

  Lord Michael sneered as he watched Lady Garnet beam at the man she had been betrothed to for two years. Everyone knew Lady Garnet and Lord Charles were to be married in June. The old fortune-teller had certainly made no great revelation in predicting their union.

  The Gypsy finally turned her attention to Lady Samantha, staring at her for a moment and then glancing down at her crystal ball. The gold bracelet on her wrist jingled as she waved her gnarled hand over the shimmering orb. The old woman hesitated before she gave her next revelation. "You will never obtain that which you desire. The man you wed will never have your heart, and the man you love will never be your husband."

  Lady Samantha gasped and shrank visibly. "I don't believe you," she said in a trembling voice. "You cannot possibly see what will happen just by glancing into that silly little glass ball."

  The old woman raised her dark eyes and shook her head. "I see many things that I do not tell because it is not good to know too much of the future. What I tell you tonight will come to pass."