Desert Song (DeWinter's Song 3)

by Constance O'Banyon

  "M'lady, 'tis a pity. The driver of that carriage should be horsewhipped. It just shows that it isn't safe for a woman traveling without the protection of her husband. Now, when I was younger, men had more respect for women, but that's no longer the case."

  Mallory stared out the window as the black carriage pulled up to the dock and stopped in front of the Iberia. It never occurred to her that the man she had glimpsed through the coach window might be a passenger on the same ship she was taking.

  Mrs. Wickett peered over Mallory's shoulder, staring at the ship with concern. "I do so dislike traveling by sea, but I haven't seen my dear Horace in two years. The only thing that would induce me to make this voyage is to be reunited with him."

  Mallory brushed at her gown but saw the stain was hopelessly set. She turned soft blue eyes on the woman. "I'm sure Sergeant Wickett awaits your arrival with great anticipation."

  "Indeed he does. I only consented to remain in England until our last two daughters were settled in worthy marriages. That being accomplished, I'm now free to be with my husband."

  "I can imagine how difficult it's been for you and Sergeant Wickett to be separated for so long."

  "Indeed it has." The little woman glanced at Mallory's gown. "Perhaps you should find some water and dab on the gown, m'lady. Or," she remarked indecisively, "you could wait and let it dry so you can brush at the mud." Her mind moved on to other matters as she fanned herself with a tattered newspaper. "I do declare, the weather is unseasonably warm for this time of year."

  "Yes," Mallory said automatically, "and I'm told Egypt will be even warmer."

  "It'll be sweltering. You'll have to remember to cream your face every night, Lady Mallory. The hot dust just takes the skin right off you. You dare not go out without benefit of bonnet and parasol."

  "Tell me about Egypt," Mallory said. "I've read about it extensively, but that's not the same as talking to someone who has been there."

  Gloria Wickett shuddered. "I'll never understand those people's strange customs. I've seen hostility in their eyes when they look at us English. Horace says it's a sinister land—and make no mistake about it, they resent foreigners, especially the military. You'd think they would be grateful that we're there to help them. They'd never have defeated the Turks without our aid."

  "And yet Mehemet Ali is Turkish and he's viceroy of Egypt."

  "Well, who can explain those people. One day you're their friend, the next day they'll knife you in the back."

  Mallory tried to push her apprehension aside. "I'm sure I will enjoy it once I'm settled with my father and mother."

  "I've never had the pleasure of meeting Lord and Lady Stanhope, but I know they are accomplished in their field of antiquities, and I've heard they made many great discoveries for our museums."

  Mallory could have told Mrs. Wickett that she knew little about her parents or their activities, but she remained silent.

  Gloria Wickett glanced at Mallory with curiosity. Although she had been friends with Phoebe, she knew little about her young cousin. On the coach ride to Southampton, Gloria had been able to assess Lady Mallory's character and found her to be a delightful young lady. And she'd been a most amiable companion.

  "Look who that is!" Gloria Wickett exclaimed, glancing out the window at the man who stepped out of the carriage that had splashed Mallory. "It can't be—but yes—it's he! Do you suppose he'll be accompanying us on the voyage?"

  The man was apparently someone of great influence because everyone seemed to be scurrying about to do his bidding. Mallory couldn't see him well from this distance, but he was tall and moved with the imperious air of one who felt his importance.

  "Who is he?" Mallory asked, trying to get a closer look at the man. She felt only vexation toward him and his driver.

  "Why, m'lady, surely you know him—everyone knows the duke of Ravenworth's only son."

  Mallory shook her head. "I don't know of him, nor do I care to make his acquaintance."

  "He's Lord Michael DeWinter, son of the duke of Ravenworth. Such a fine gentleman. Look how he's allowed to board before anyone else. Horace always says money and power will tell. I'm sure that Lord Michael had no notion his carriage splashed you or he would have apologized."

  "Oh, he saw me all right," Mallory said, wishing she could tell that "fine gentleman" what was on her mind.

  "M'lady, Lord Michael's something of a legend in London society. It's hard for me to believe you haven't heard of him, you both being titled."

  "I'm not a member of London society."

  The older woman's eyes glowed. "He's dashing, handsome, and has a different lady on his arm every day, or so they say. He'll one day come into a great fortune. I've heard his mother, the duchess, is an intimate friend of Her Majesty."

  "You are acquainted with him?"

  "Goodness me, no. I don't associate with the nobility, but I certainly know of him. My Horace says that the duke and duchess of Ravenworth are the only aristocrats that he respects. His Grace fought bravely under Wellington and was awarded the Order of the Garter, along with other honors. Surely with a man like that for a father, Lord Michael is a most worthy gentleman."

  Mallory's eyes followed the man who walked leisurely up the gangplank. She noticed how everyone gathered around him as if they hoped to please him. A duke's son. Well, she was not impressed—bad manners were bad manners, no matter what the rank.

  "I'll surely be introduced to him," Mrs. Wickett continued. "I can't wait to write Phoebe and tell her we sailed on the same ship with a member of the DeWinter family."

  Mallory's lip curled with contempt. She doubted the man would give poor Mrs. Wickett a glance. Certainly he appeared to be more concerned with his own comforts and needs than with being courteous to others.

  Mrs. Wickett smiled with delight. "Look, the other passengers are now going aboard. Come, m'lady, you are in for a great adventure after all."

  Since the Iberia was a mail ship, it offered very little in the way of comfort to its passengers. Mallory's cabin was located under the quarterdeck and was cramped and cheerless. There was a bunk, a washstand, and her trunk, which had been placed at the foot of the bed, leaving scant room for her to move about. Mrs. Wickett's room was next to hers and similarly cramped.

  Mrs. Wickett had informed Mallory that the captain's cabin was located in the aft of the ship along with the larger cabins that were reserved for important passengers. Of course, Lord Michael would occupy one of those.

  Hoping to accustom herself to the swaying of the ship, Mallory braced her back against the wall while trying to remove the muddy smudges from her gown. She brushed the material with a stiff-bristled brush, then dabbed at it with a damp cloth, but she could not remove the stain.

  She sat down on the lumpy bed and stared at her ruined gown, knowing it was destined for the rag heap. She folded it and put it at the bottom of her trunk. Perhaps some of the material could be used to trim another gown.

  As night gathered, Mallory lay in her dark cabin feeling alone and friendless. She was going to a mother and father who wouldn't want her. She thought of the doll they had given her for her birthday. When Cousin Phoebe's letter arrived, they would be expecting a child.

  Mrs. Wickett appeared at her door dressed for dinner, and looked disapprovingly at Mallory's robe. "My dear, you aren't ready. We've been invited to dine with the captain tonight. This is an honor."

  "I'm just too weary, Mrs. Wickett, and want only to go to bed early."

  "I'm sure Lord Michael won't be dining there, if that's what's worrying you. He'll probably have dinner in his cabin," Mrs. Wickett said.

  "I haven't given that man a thought," Mallory said. "I must meet him soon enough, but I don't feel up to it tonight."

  "Very well, m'lady, I'll have the steward bring you something light to eat."

  After Mrs. Wickett had departed, Mallory lay back on the bed and stared at the swaying overhead lantern. She tried to visualize what her father and mother looked like, but
they were only shadowy memories.

  She felt as if her life were spinning out of control and she was unable to predict what would happen next. Her blue eyes hardened. It was Sir Gerald's fault that she had to leave England. She was determined to make herself as unattractive as possible. She had no desire to encounter another overzealous man like Sir Gerald.

  Later, Mrs. Wickett knocked on the cabin door to relay the events that had taken place at dinner. She had endless praise for the captain's table.

  "Although this is only a mail ship, and far from the luxury one would expect of a proper passenger ship, I found dinner a delight." She gushed about Lord Michael, who had indeed dined with them tonight. "He actually spoke to me," she said, her eyes shining. "He even asked if I found my quarters comfortable—can you imagine that?"

  After Mrs. Wickett departed, Mallory went to the small porthole, staring out at the stars that twinkled in the ebony sky. She was lonely for the only home she'd ever known. And she missed Phoebe.

  She searched for the North Star, as she had as a child. When she located it, she smiled and imagined herself back at Stoneridge riding her horse over the green hills.

  Chapter 6

  Captain Eustace Barim had served in the Royal Navy for thirty years before retiring to a small farm with his wife. After the first year, he had found farming tedious, and his wife too demanding. That was why he became the captain of the mail ship, Iberia. He was a tall man with a weather-beaten face, wrinkled from too many hours of sun and salt air. He was always popular with crew and passengers because he had a ready wit and an engaging manner.

  After the evening meal, Michael sat with the captain and the only other Englishman aboard, Mr. Alvin Fenton, a banker from London.

  The glass of brandy the captain had given Michael went ignored, as did the unlit cigar. His mind was on his father, and he was impatient to reach Egypt so he could begin his search. Sir Robert Peel, the prime minister, had given him letters to present to the viceroy of Egypt, Mehemet Ali, in hopes that he would aid Michael. He reached inside his breast pocket to make certain the papers were still there— he never let them out of his sight.

  Michael became aware of the heavy silence and glanced up to find the captain and Alvin Fenton staring at him. "I beg your pardon, were you speaking to me?" he asked.

  Captain Barim poured brandy into his own glass before he spoke. "I merely asked about your family yacht, the Nightingale. I've heard she's a fine ship."

  "Yes, she is. The Nightingale has been in my family since I was three years old. My father had her refurbished last year. I've made many voyages on her. Captain Norris always said I cut my teeth on the railing. It's certain that my sister and I carved our initials there."

  Captain Barim nodded in approval. "I'm nothing but a seafaring man, myself, your lordship. Although the Iberia is not a ship of the line, you'll find she's fast."

  "I've been impressed thus far," Michael said graciously. He was having a difficult time making polite conversation when his mind was on his father.

  "Since she's been fitted with engines, we'll be reaching our destination in ten days," the captain said with pride, "rather than the two weeks it took previously."

  "I'd heard how fast she is, although it's hard to comprehend such speed," Alvin Fenton said. "I would like to see the engines when it's convenient."

  "It would be my pleasure to show you about whenever you say." The captain looked at Michael. "I'd be happy to show them to you as well, m'lord."

  "Thank you. I'd like that."

  Captain Barim looked pleased. "Tomorrow, then."

  "How many passengers can you accommodate, Captain?" Michael inquired, more to keep the conversation light than from curiosity.

  "We've carried as many as twelve, but this voyage we have only seven. Besides you and Mr. Fenton here, there's three Arabs and two English ladies. You've met Mrs. Wickett, who is joining her husband's garrison at Cairo. There's also Lady Mallory Stanhope, who I believe is joining her parents."

  "Lord Michael, what I can't understand is why you would be going to Egypt alone if you are on a hunting excursion," Mr. Fenton questioned. "Unless you are meeting a larger party?"

  Michael had decided it would be prudent to keep his father's disappearance a secret, so he had fabricated a story of game hunting to explain his visit to Egypt. "Yes, I'll be joined by others once I reach my destination."

  "But surely India would have been more ideal for hunting than Egypt," the man persisted. There are tigers and other large game animals that you won't find in Egypt. Also, we have garrisons there that would provide you with all you require. In Egypt there is only a small army post."

  Michael swirled the amber liquid around in his glass before answering. "Yes, but you see, I'm not interested in hunting in India."

  "But why not?" Fenton pressed.

  Michael took a sip of brandy, then put the glass on the table and raised cold eyes to the presumptuous man. "What I seek can only be found in Egypt." He stood up to take his leave. "Captain, Mr. Fenton," he said with a nod to each, "if you gentlemen will excuse me, it's been a long day."

  Both men watched him move to the door. "Then what do you hunt?" Mr. Fenton asked insistently, willing to cross the bounds of politeness to have his curiosity satisfied.

  Michael's green eyes flickered. "I hunt not for pleasure but for exigency," he said.

  He walked out of the cabin, leaving his companions staring after him.

  "Lord Michael's a secretive one," Captain Barim said, putting his thoughts into words.

  "I say he's not going to Egypt on a hunting expedition, as he'd have us believe," Mr. Fenton declared. "A man of his station would never go abroad without a valet to attend him. No, he's up to something mysterious—I wonder what."

  The captain rubbed his chin. "Who can say? Whatever his reasons, I wish him well, but I'm afraid Lord Michael will find the Egyptians a suspicious lot with little love or trust for we English."

  Fenton nodded in agreement. "I noticed the three Arabs on board are a brooding lot. They are watchful and silent behind those white kaffiyeh. I tried to engage one of them in conversation, but he merely stared at me with those great dark eyes and pretended he didn't understand English."

  Captain Barim moved toward the door, hoping to put a stop to Mr. Fenton's speculations. "They don't bother me and I don't bother them. They pay like everybody else and are therefore entitled to the same courtesy." He looked pointedly at his guest. "I'm sure Lord Michael won't appreciate anyone meddling in his affairs."

  But the man was not to be deterred. "Don't you find that the aristocrats are a strange lot?"

  The captain halted in his tracks. "In what way, Mr. Fenton?"

  "Take Lord Michael, for instance. I have the feeling he thinks I'm beneath his notice."

  "Well, I'll tell you, Mr. Fenton, if you were surrounded by people whose only task is to see to your comfort, and if your family was one of the oldest and most respected in England, I suspect you'd also appear proud."

  "That may be, but his lordship isn't being honest with us. I know enough about human nature to detect when someone is hiding something."

  Captain Barim opened the cabin door and waited for his guest to precede him. "If you'll excuse me, I have the early watch."

  * * *

  Mallory woke early and quickly dressed so she could take a turn about the ship before the other passengers rose.

  The sun was just rising above a watery horizon when she stepped on deck. The only people about at this hour were two crew members who were swabbing the deck. She stepped around them and moved leisurely along, enjoying the fresh breeze.

  She paused at the railing to watch the waves build and splash against the ship. Continuing her walk, she stopped to inspect the lifeboats that were secured with rope and covered with canvas. By now she had come full circle so she could return to her cabin.

  Suddenly she gasped and sputtered as someone threw saltwater into her face. She almost lost her footing and had to ho
ld onto the railing to keep her balance. Her eyes were stinging from the salt, and she was temporarily blinded.

  The poor sailor hadn't seen Lady Mallory as he dashed water on the deck to wash the suds away. He was just wondering how he'd explain himself when Lord Michael came up behind him and grabbed the bucket from his hand.

  "Fool, why don't you watch what you're doing?" Michael admonished the poor man.

  Mallory rubbed at her eyes and then turned angrily on the man who held the bucket. As her vision cleared, she recognized the same mocking green eyes she'd seen once before. "My lord," she said icily, "is it your lot in life to make my life miserable? Do you derive some satisfaction from ruining my gowns?"

  He dropped the bucket and it clattered to the deck. "But—"

  He had never seen eyes that color of blue, and they were sparkling with anger. Her damp red hair lay plastered to her face. The wet bodice clung to her and made her gown transparent. "I—"

  "Save me your apologies. I think you are the most despicable man, with an unconventional sense of humor. Why don't you leave me alone?"

  He could only stare at her. He could not defend himself, for if he did, the crewman would probably be reprimanded by the captain. He watched the woman turn on her heels and head angrily down the steps to her cabin.

  Michael's jaw set in a grim line. What was the matter with that poor, pathetic girl? Did she really believe he was capable of such an ungentlemanly deed? He exchanged a glance with the crewman who was the real culprit.

  "I'll tell the lady that it was my doing, m'lord."

  "Don't bother. I have a feeling she wouldn't believe you."

  When Mallory reached her cabin, she stripped off her wet gown and hung it over her trunk. She grabbed up a towel and began drying her dripping hair. Had that man no sense of honor? she wondered. She should report his conduct, but she doubted the captain would do anything to a man with Lord Michael's influence. She detested Lord Michael—in her mind he was no better than Sir Gerald. Why did he take such delight in humiliating her?