City of Jasmine

by DEANNA RAYBOURN

  “It won’t do, Gabriel,” I told him rather more gently than he deserved. “The Cross belongs to the dig site. You have to turn it over to Miss Green.”

  “I won’t.” His expression was indignant. “I found it myself well before Green launched her dig. I was unaffiliated with any expedition and on entirely other business when I discovered it.”

  I furrowed my brow. “What other business could you possibly have in the desert besides archaeology?”

  He gave me a bland look. “An ethnographical study on the variations in the Bedouin tribes of the Badiyat ash-Sham.”

  “Liar. You loathe ethnography. You always said it was work fit only for academics, not real archaeologists. I repeat, why are you here?”

  “I like camels.”

  “All right, then. Don’t tell me. I’m sure whatever it was would make me an accessory after the fact. But surely you understand the government won’t possibly let it out of the country.”

  “The French control the interim government at the moment,” he corrected, “and they would never let the locals keep it. It’s a valuable piece of Crusader history, and the French know it. They would do exactly as I’m doing. They’d get it right out of the desert and into a museum.”

  I narrowed my eyes. “Gabriel, the man’s name you gave me on that wretched piece of paper—who is he?”

  He muttered something unintelligible.

  “Gabriel?”

  “Oh, very well. He’s the curator for mediaeval antiquities at the British Museum.”

  “You intend to have me sell the Cross to the British Museum?”

  “They can afford it,” he said, waving an airy hand. “Two birds with one stone, pet. I get the Cross where it belongs, and I would be free and clear of my obligations to you.”

  “There were no obligations,” I reminded him. “I thought you were dead.”

  He rose, standing so near to me I could smell the familiar scent of his skin through the rank, filthy clothes and appalling beard. Memories rushed at me from all sides, and I fisted my hands at my sides as he smiled down at me.

  “Did you really?”

  “Yes,” I lied. His nearness was confusing, and I stepped away as if to inspect the knight who lay flat on his back. I peered at the inscription on his tomb while I collected myself.

  “I can’t quite make it out,” I said. Gabriel did not move closer.

  “It says ‘Nec Aspera Terrant.’”

  “‘No fear on earth,’” I murmured. “The same as your signet ring.”

  He touched the little tin box tucked in his breast pocket. “It’s a common old motto but a good one. I haven’t carried much with me from one life to the other, but the ring at least made it.”

  “The ring but not the wife,” I said softly.

  His hands tightened and his nostrils went white. But his voice was low and even. “Fair enough. I won’t fight you, Evie. I haven’t the stomach for it. Sharpen your claws on me as much as you like.”

  “That takes all the sport out of it,” I said, baring my teeth in a smile. “Now, what you haven’t told me is why you didn’t just pack the bloody Cross up and bring it to me yourself instead of dragging me out to the desert.”

  He shrugged. “Things have got quite dangerous out here with the French attempting to exercise an authority that isn’t entirely official. The Bedu don’t entirely appreciate being told what to do. Besides which, there are bands of renegades left over from the war to contend with, brigands, thieves and opportunists. A person can’t go two steps without falling over someone nefarious out here. It complicates retrieving the Cross, you know. It isn’t the sort of thing one wants to go around parading in front of thieves and brigands. A fellow could get killed that way.”

  “You’re afraid,” I accused.

  He opened his mouth then closed it on a smile that did not reach his eyes. “Yes, Evie, if that makes you happy. I’m afraid. I meant to have you in and out of Damascus with the artefact. Now, I don’t like the notion of you being here any longer than necessary. I want you to go back to Damascus. If I don’t contact you in two days, get right out. Get out and don’t look back.”

  I thought it over. “Is it dangerous for you to retrieve the Cross?”

  He rolled his eyes. “It’s complicated. The French aren’t actually supposed to have an official presence out here, but that isn’t stopping them. They’re sending patrols from Damascus with an eye to taking over some of the old Turkish garrisons. Clashes are growing more frequent and more violent and not just among the people you expect to find out here. When I went to get the Cross, I found a detachment of armed and rather testy French Foreign Legion deserters were camped out where I stashed the bloody thing. It would have been suicide to retrieve it.”

  “Are they still there now?”

  “No, they moved off yesterday in the direction of Palmyra.”

  “Then why don’t we go and get the Cross now?”

  He gave a short laugh. “You think it’s that simple? It isn’t the corner shop, you know. It’s a desert oasis half a day’s journey from here over extremely rough country. Not to mention, I have to take extreme care not to be followed.” He hesitated. “I suspect someone from the dig site might have an inkling that I’ve found something. I don’t know who to trust anymore.”

  He passed a hand over his face, raking his fingers through the knotted beard. It must have aggravated him to no end. Gabriel had always been fastidious, even on expedition, groomed to perfection under the most trying of circumstances. But Mr. Rowan’s character was more slapdash and unkempt. It was not a bad strategy, I reflected. Few people would ever have connected the stooped and cranky Mr. Rowan with the larger-than-life glamour of Gabriel Starke. But it must have been a lonely life, hiding himself from everyone, even his closest companions, I thought....

  I started with a sudden realisation. “You don’t trust Miss Green. That’s why you planned to fetch the Cross when she was in Damascus. But the deserters scuppered your chance and now she’s back and you can’t go because you won’t take the chance she’s the villain.”

  “I might have made a slight miscalculation in taking a post with Green’s expedition. We met once, years ago, and I thought she’d never be able to connect the schoolboy named Gabriel Starke with the cantankerous old devil called Rowan. But she might be sharper than I gave her credit for. I think she may have searched my things once. I can’t prove it, but she is the likeliest suspect. The rest of the staff were down at the dig.”

  “I wonder if she was the one who searched mine,” I mused.

  His gaze sharpened. “What did you say?”

  “I wonder if she searched my things, too. Someone went through them today, but nothing was taken. Oh, drat. It can’t have been her—she was busy overseeing the excavation of that little find of jewellery.”

  “Someone is looking for information,” he said grimly. “They are looking to tie us together.”

  “But that isn’t possible,” I pointed out. “Your identity is perfectly established as Mr. Rowan, and the only time Rowan and I met in public was when Miss Green introduced us. She would have already known that.”

  “But there is our past history.”

  “We—Mr. Rowan and I—do not have a past history,” I pointed out. “There was nothing for her or anyone else to find to tie us together.”

  He said nothing, but his colour had faded to something sickly white.

  “Gabriel?”

  “The cuttings,” he managed. “If anyone found the cuttings, they’d know there was a connection between us.”

  “What cuttings?”

  “Your exploits around the world,” he said, his tone cold. “Newspaper photographs of you with your various conquests—the newspaper magnate whose chin you were tickling, you draping yourself over the Bulgarian tsar, that
English mechanic that you keep as some sort of pet.”

  “Wally is not a pet,” I returned hotly. “And as for Boris, he was simply my host and the Bulgarians are a surprisingly demonstrative people—” I broke off. “And why on earth would you have cuttings of my travels?”

  “I had to keep track of your whereabouts to know where to send the photograph,” he said, biting the syllables off sharply. “But it might be enough to prove a connection between us.” He swore fluently for several minutes. I waited for the tantrum to pass and hoped it wouldn’t take long. The stone floor was decidedly uncomfortable.

  Finally, he fixed me with a piercing gaze. “You have to go back to Damascus. Tonight. I’ll drive you. I’ll make up some story about you taking ill. No one will believe it, of course, but it will at least get you out of harm’s way.”

  “And you’re coming back here?”

  “I do have a job, you know,” he reminded me. “The character of Oliver Rowan was a damned nuisance to establish. I’d rather not leave him behind.”

  “If you’re going into the desert, anyway—” I began.

  He held up a hand in refusal. “Absolutely not. I’m not taking you. It’s simply too risky.” His manner turned brisk. “If I can manage to get my hands on the Cross after I run you back to Damascus, I will, but that is the most I can promise, and if I were you, I shouldn’t count on it. Now, don’t look so glum, child. I will give you instructions on precisely how to find the hiding place. Perhaps someday, when all of this is over, you can come for it.”

  He rose, flicking dust from his trousers, and I stared at him, openmouthed. “That’s it? That’s all you have to say? You’re going to drive me back to the city as if we just had tea at the vicarage and call it a day?”

  For a moment something sharp and hot flared in his eyes but he smothered it, giving me a cool look. “I’ve already explained the dangers, my dear. To both of us. Do you really thirst so much for my blood?” he asked lightly.

  I thought of the Cross and all it represented. It was the holiest relic in Christendom. Men had died gruesome deaths for it, and although it carried a bloodstained legacy, it deserved to be in a museum. I was determined to see it there, even if that meant crawling halfway across the Badiyat ash-Sham and risking my neck to get it.

  At least that was what I told myself as I stepped to stand toe-to-toe with him. The real reason to stay with Gabriel in the desert—the only reason—was one I didn’t even dare to think about.

  “If you didn’t want me involved, you shouldn’t have sent me the photograph. I am not letting you stay entangled in this life of crime. You must break free of it and grow up, Gabriel. Do the right thing for once in your life.” I should have known an appeal to his better nature would get me nowhere. He merely gave me a long, cool, level look and said nothing. I squared my shoulders and adopted a brisker tone. “I don’t like to use such tactics, but you’re forcing my hand. Either you guide me into the desert to retrieve the Cross, or when you take me back to Damascus, I will wire every major newspaper in the known world immediately with the entire story.”

  “You wouldn’t dare.” His hands went to my shoulders, gripping hard, and I felt a rush of sheer inexplicable joy. This was the man I had married. The Gabriel Starke I had known was brilliant and mercurial and up for anything. But I hadn’t understood how quickly he could change, settling a mask of indifference so swiftly over his features it seemed to be all there was to him. I had learned that lesson the hard way, bitterly and with many tears, and for an instant I was savagely happy to have goaded a reaction from him. I smiled up into his face as his fingers dug into my flesh.

  “Careful, darling. Remember, I bruise easily.”

  Instantly he recovered himself. He removed his hands, thrusting them into his pockets. He was in command of himself, but not fully. His hands were still fisted, but his tone was bored and I realised I had not truly reached him. He was as distant as a star and twice as cold. “My dear child, this seems to be a game to you.”

  I stood my ground, matching his tone. “Yes, and for extremely high stakes. But you haven’t figured out yet that we are on the same side. So let go of my arms and get the keys to Mother Mary. We’re going after the Cross whether you like it or not.”

  Eight

  Gabriel argued the point for another half an hour. He stopped just short of threatening me outright, and when he saw I wouldn’t budge, he tried appealing to my sense of reason by explaining exactly what dangers we might face. In the end, he gave in with extremely bad grace and a great deal of swearing, and I smiled to myself to see his sangfroid slipping so badly. He was finding it more and more difficult to keep up his pose of cool detachment, and every bitten-off curse seemed like a victory.

  We agreed that he would go and fetch some water and food from the storeroom while I made my way to Mother Mary. We would drive a little way down the track that led to Damascus, and when the ground was suitably rough to hide the traces, we would turn eastward into the desert.

  “You understand we will have to leave it almost immediately?” he warned. “There isn’t a vehicle built that can withstand the rigours of the Badiyat ash-Sham proper. We can manage a mile or two before we shall have to leave it and walk into the desert. It will be rough and I can promise you won’t enjoy it.”

  “It is dear of you to be concerned, but I am sure I will manage just fine,” I assured him sweetly. He cursed again and stomped off as loudly as he dared to secure the food and water. He returned a little while later looking slightly less grim.

  “The night watchman is snoring behind the tents, thank God,” he told me. “I’m not at all certain whether I should dock his wages or give him a bonus.” We held our breath as we opened the driver’s door to Mother Mary. I slid in and he came immediately after, so close behind he nearly crushed me. He gave me an irritable shove and I took the goatskins of water and packets of food from him as he let out the brake. We dared not start the engine, but it had been parked on an incline, and it coasted smoothly away from the camp. As we put distance between ourselves and the site, I looked back. A shadow, small and plump, detached itself from one of the tents and stepped onto the dirt track. It was impossible to be certain, but it looked very like Herr Doktor Schickfuss. I told Gabriel and he shrugged.

  “Bugger all I can do about it now,” was all he said. He told me he’d left behind the note we discussed, explaining I’d been taken ill and he had decided to drive me to Damascus and would return as soon as possible. “That story wouldn’t deceive even a fool like Daoud, but it might buy us a little time before anyone actually comes looking for us. Now, keep a sharp eye out behind while I try to find a place to turn off.”

  I turned around and sat, watchful and alert, until he turned off the track. We went further than I expected, bumping along rougher and rougher terrain until at last he swung the vehicle behind a boulder and stopped. “This is as far as she goes,” he told me. He collected half the food and one of the goatskins, handing me the rest. He rummaged in the glovebox for a moment, emerging with two items—a small medical kit and a torch. “It won’t last forever, but we’ll be glad of it tonight.” He pocketed the items as he got out of the car and beckoned me to follow.

  “Hang on a tick,” I told him. I lifted the bonnet of the car and reached into the hot engine carefully. I tinkered with the wires a moment, yanking them this way and that.

  “What on earth are you doing?” he demanded.

  “Disabling Mother Mary. That way, if anyone finds her, they won’t be able to use her to follow us,” I told him.

  He shook his head. “Do you always make things complicated?” He picked up a rock and brought it down with a decisive blow to the fuel tank. Petrol spilled out into the sand as he dusted off his hands. “Let’s go.”

  I trotted after him.

  We walked for miles, moving from patchy, scrubby dirt dotted with
rocks and shrubs through long barren sandy swathes and back again. There were hills to scramble over, some of them rocky and others deceptively soft, tripping up inattentive feet—and it was cold, far colder than I’d ever realised a desert could be. I thanked heaven for the fact that I’d put on my boots and picked up my warmest jacket before leaving the tent. I’d left behind my toilet articles but nothing of importance. My papers and my pistol were tucked into my pockets, and as we clambered over the hills and through the bushes, I felt a surge of something like excitement. This was a proper adventure, far away from advertisers and formal dinners and bill collectors. It was glorious, and I moved as swiftly as I could over the desert, fairly flying as I followed. Gabriel never once looked back but carried on, relentlessly, ever forward, until at last he paused, lifted his face to the dimming stars and pointed.

  “That little outcropping has an overhang that will shield us. We’ll rest awhile and then push on.”

  “If you’re stopping on my account, don’t. I can keep going,” I assured him.

  He gave me a cool look. “I wouldn’t dream of stopping for you, my dear. There is a track nearby that is heavily travelled by the Bedouin. I want to observe it for a little while in daylight to see if there’s anyone about and whether they might be friend or foe. Until I know it’s safe to venture out in the open, we’ll stay sheltered.”

  He moved on and I followed into the little outcropping. “Mind the stones,” he warned in a casual tone. “Might be snakes bedded down there.”

  “I know you’re still put out that I’m making you do this, but there’s no call to be childish. You can’t frighten me with talk of snakes. It’s the desert, Gabriel. One expects snakes.”

  “Oh, you’re right not to be frightened,” he told me in the same breezy manner. “After all, cobra around here hunt at night. They’re probably all heading in to rest now. Looking for some lovely sheltered rocks and maybe a nice warm human to cuddle up to.”