by Anne Gracie
She stalked to the door, wrenched it open, and paused. “What would you do if I disappeared?”
“Oh, I don’t know,” he said idly. “Probably send the pasha’s men after you.”
She blanched. “You wouldn’t.”
Rafe smiled. “Probably not, but I wouldn’t try it, if I were you. In the army my men trusted me because they knew I kept my word. They also realized I was a ruthless bastard who’d do whatever it took to achieve my aims and that it was easier to go along with me than oppose me. I promised Lady Cleeve I’d do my damnedest to find her granddaughter and bring her home. And I will.” He let that sink in, then added, “So I’ll see you for dinner this evening.”
Ayisha stared at him in disbelief. He’d just threatened to send the pasha’s men after her and now he casually invited her for dinner?
“No, you won’t.” She wasn’t going to linger an instant longer in this devil’s den than she had to.
“You have another engagement? What a pity, they’ll miss you.”
She frowned. “Who will?”
“Your friend Laila and young Ali.”
“What?”
“I invited them for dinner. Just after sunset.” He gave that faint, annoying smile again. It invited her to argue and at the same time smugly declared she wouldn’t win.
“They won’t come.” Laila would be dying of curiosity, and Ali would rave about those sausages, but there was no question of Laila coming.
“Oh, I think they will.”
“They won’t. Virtuous Arab women do not eat in the company of strange men, especially not strange foreign men,” she informed him loftily.
She was relieved that Laila would not meet him. Laila would probably agree with him, urge Ayisha to go with him. Laila had a weakness for a good-looking man.
Laila didn’t understand the danger he represented. Laila thought a small lie was harmless. She would think the Englishman was harmless. She would only see a handsome man who wanted to take Ayisha to a better life. And a lonely grandmother who needed family to take care of her in her old age.
Laila did not see what a threat this man was to Ayisha—on every level. Laila would not feel as if those blue eyes sliced open her every defense, leaving her naked and vulnerable.
“A pity, I was looking forward to meeting her.” He did not seem unduly upset.
He bent and took her hand in his and stood looking down at it, at her small brown paw held in his large, elegantly shaped hand. His hands were strong, she knew, strong enough to hold her safely over the edge of a precipice, but his fingernails were so clean and polished and smooth. Hers were ragged and grubby. Embarrassed, she tried to pull it from his grip.
And then he did an amazing thing; he lifted her hand and pressed his lips firmly against the back of her fingers.
“Adieu, Miss Cleeve.” His lips were warm and firm. A tingle ran right up her arm. She stared at her hand in surprise, snatched it back, and gathered her wits.
“Not adieu,” she said firmly, “but good-bye, Mr. Ramsey.”
She turned the handle of the front door. It was unlocked. She stepped outside, half expecting that at any minute he would snatch her back. She glanced back at him.
He bowed, gracefully. “Adieu,” he reiterated with an infuriating half smile.
She walked at a dignified pace to the front gate which, to her surprise, was also unlocked. She closed it carefully behind her, checked that he couldn’t see her any longer, then fled.
Six
It had been years since he’d fished for trout, Rafe thought as he watched her stroll with exaggerated casualness down the drive, but this felt just like it. Let the line play out, then reel her in. Let her fight, struggle, swim away. Then reel her back again.
Little Miss Cleeve could fight and argue all she wanted, but Rafe had made up his mind: she was his.
He’d never met such an extraordinary young woman in his life. And if she thought he could just walk away . . .
It took all the self-control he had to let her go: his every instinct was to take her—drag her if necessary, kicking and scratching and biting—away from this appalling life. He could have her on a ship leaving Alexandria by tomorrow if he wanted.
He could still feel her under him on the floor, all bones and spit and desperate courage, risking her life for a ragged little street thief.
She had pride, this girl, and courage, and after eight years at war, Rafe knew the value of both. He would roll her in a carpet and haul her onto a boat if he had to, but he’d prefer her to walk up the gangplank of her own accord, head held high.
He watched her carefully close the gate and saunter out of sight as if she didn’t itch to be gone as far away as possible from him.
How had she survived all this time on the streets? As a boy? The loose Arab clothing disguised her shape, and the streetwise swagger was perfect, and the dirt disguised what he was fairly sure was a fine complexion, but to Rafe, everything about her was deeply feminine.
Even if nobody divined her true sex, there were plenty of men who would prey on a pretty boy.
Why didn’t she want to go to England? What was she so afraid of?
And what the hell did she mean by Alicia is dead, here is only Ayisha?
She’d said she wasn’t raped, but something had happened, he was sure of it. There was a world of knowledge in her eyes, and some deep lurking fear.
She didn’t have that brutalized expression he’d seen in the eyes of raped women—he’d seen too much of it at war—a dead, dull look in the eyes that could spark to corrosive rage or bitter self-loathing.
But why else would she say she was dead and call herself by another name?
The question ate at him.
The sooner he got her home to England, the better. She could put whatever it was in the past and start a fresh, new life.
But first he had to cut her free from the ties of this life. The woman, Laila, and the boy, Ali.
Laila must have some sort of a hold over Miss Cleeve. Ali bore all the marks of a thief in training, albeit a clumsy one, while Miss Cleeve had silently scaled the high walls surrounding the house and slid noiselessly inside. It wasn’t the first time she’d done that, he’d swear.
Laila could be some kind of thief master. He would meet the woman, and soon.
As it happened, he met Ali in the street a short time later. He suspected the boy was lurking out of curiosity, or perhaps in the hope of food.
“Come and take some refreshment,” Rafe said through his interpreter.
Ali needed no second invitation. He sat at the table and waited, eyes shining with anticipation.
Higgins, showing a rare understanding of boys, brought out a large plate of sandwiches, some fruit, and a tall glass of milk. While Ali worked his way through the food, Rafe questioned him.
“This Laila, does she make you work for her?”
“Yes, of course. All the time. Work without cease,” the boy declared.
“What kind of work?”
Ali looked around in a conspiratorial manner, leaned forward, and said, “Women’s work!” He drained the glass and wiped off a milk mustache with his sleeve. Higgins handed him a napkin. Ali thanked him gravely and pocketed it. Higgins sighed.
Rafe had no interest in napkins. “What does women’s work mean?”
“Collecting greens and herbs from the river, sweeping, and selling pies and bread in the streets,” Ali told him. “The selling is not so bad, because Laila’s pies are the best in all Cairo and I get to eat the broken ones, and the sweeping, well, nobody can see me do that. But the greens . . .” He shook his head in a dire manner. “Other boys mock, make fun of me.”
Rafe’s lips twitched. Perhaps the boy was not exploited after all, not in the way he’d originally suspected. He seemed a bright lad.
He recalled Miss Cleeve’s reaction to his suggestion that Ali could come with her to England. Would the boy feel the same? he wondered. The two were clearly fond of each other.
&n
bsp; “Do you know I am going to take Ayisha to England?”
Ali munched unconcernedly on a sandwich. “She told me you want this, but she will not go. She is stubborn like a mule. Nobody can make Ash do what she does not want.”
“What if you could go with her to England?”
Ali stopped in mid-bite. He put the sandwich down and considered the matter. “To England?”
“Yes.”
“Me and Ash together?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Because Ayisha has a grandmother in England and she wants her to come and live with her.”
Ali nodded and picked up the sandwich again. “Old people need family to take care of them.”
“The old lady is very rich. Ayisha will also become rich if she goes.”
Ali nodded appreciatively. “That will be good.”
“But you could go with Ayisha if you wanted.”
Ali gave him a shrewd look. “Laila, too?”
Rafe shook his head. “No, not Laila,” he said firmly. Lady Cleeve might be willing to accept a ten-year-old Arab street urchin as the price for getting her granddaughter back, but he was certain she’d draw the line at a middle-aged Arab peasant woman.
Ali shrugged and, having finished all the sandwiches, started munching on an apple. “Then I stay here. Laila, she have no one, only Omar, and he is no good.”
“You would prefer to stay?”
Ali gave him a direct look and said simply, “Laila, she take me from the streets, treat me like a son. A son looks after his mother. I stay here. When I am a man, I will have my own house and Laila will live with me there.”
Rafe was speechless.
Encumbrances was clearly the wrong word.
He watched the small boy vigorously demolishing the apple, core and all, until all that was left was the woody stem.
Rafe believed in loyalty, valued it, demanded it from those close to him. That loyalty should be rewarded was an axiom he’d never questioned.
Until now. But Ali’s direct sincerity had knocked him for six with its simple power. Because loyalty could not be allowed to keep Miss Cleeve from taking her rightful place in society.
He was curious to meet this Laila. She certainly could inspire loyalty.
And then what would he do? Defeat her? Outwit her? Coercion? He would know the right tactics when he met her. He didn’t doubt there would be a fight of some sort.
Ali, having eaten everything in sight, stood up, thanked Rafe and Higgins for the meal, and left. A very direct boy. And a remarkable one.
Rafe glanced at the clock in the hall. Still time to write a few letters and then fit in a few visits this afternoon.
He would call on Laila and discover what sort of woman she was. But before that, a visit to the most unsociable man in Cairo.
Azhar! Ho, Azhar!”
Ayisha turned to see who was calling her. It was Gadi. He came running up to her, slapped her on the back, and hooked his arm through hers in the usual manner of friends.
Her instincts prickled: beware. Gadi had never been her friend. It was Ali who sought Gadi’s company, not the other way around.
“So, Azhar, not selling pies today, I see. Let us walk together.” His gaze dropped to her chest and stayed there an instant too long.
Ayisha knew at once what he was looking for: evidence she was a female. He would see nothing, she reminded herself, reminded her quickening pulse. Her breasts were bound tightly, and she wore several layers of loose clothing over them.
He looked up and reaffixed his smile. “Where are you off to?”
“To the river, collecting greens,” she said, showing him the bag.
Gadi made a rude noise. “Pah! Women’s work!” He sent her a crafty, sideways glance. “But you don’t mind that, do you?”
“It’s quiet and peaceful at the river. Collecting greens gives me time to think.”
He snorted. “A real man would find it demeaning to do such work.”
She gave a faint smile. “From the look of you, Gadi, you have always eaten well. When your stomach has gone days without food, real man or not, you learn that any work that puts food in your belly is good work.”
Gadi frowned. “Are you saying I’m fat?”
She repressed a smile. Gadi was a good-looking thickhead, and his vanity was not a small or a shy thing. “No, Gadi, you are strong and tall. Me, I have gone hungry many a time, so I am but small and puny.”
Gadi squeezed her arm. “You are puny,” he agreed complacently. Keeping hold of her he turned a look of close attention on her. “My uncle says he knows you.”
Ayisha shrugged. “Does he? Maybe. I don’t know him.” Her voice sounded bored, uninterested. She hoped Gadi hadn’t noticed the way her pulse had leapt.
“He says your father owes him something.” Gadi watched her face carefully.
Ayisha gave him a look of mild puzzlement. “My father? Maybe. I wouldn’t know. I haven’t seen my father since I was very small.”
“My uncle says your father was a rich Englishman.”
Ayisha stared at him a moment, then laughed. “An Englishman? Oh yes, behold me, the rich English boy in my rich English clothes.” She walked a few steps with a mocking swagger, then laughed again.
Gadi looked doubtful, but persisted. “You have light skin and strange eyes. You could be English.” Under the guise of checking for national traits, Gadi scrutinized her face for signs of femininity.
Luckily he was one of those quite feminine-looking youths himself, and his beard had not begun to grow.
“Pppht!” Ayisha made a scornful sound. “There are many in Egypt with light skin and eyes these days—Franks, Greeks, Albanians—and look at you—your eyes are almost gold.” Ayisha gestured. “My mother told me my father came from Venice, but she said he was a big liar, too, so maybe he was English. But what does it matter?” She spat in the dirt. “He sailed away from us years ago, and your uncle’s money with him.”
They walked on in silence. Up ahead was the fork in the street where she would turn right to the river and Gadi would turn left to the marketplace. It couldn’t come soon enough for Ayisha.
“I remember the first day I saw you on the streets,” Gadi said. “You just appeared, from nowhere.” Again his gaze dropped searchingly to her chest.
Ayisha snorted. “From Alexandria, you mean. It took me forever to get here. My feet nearly fell off.”
His gaze dropped to her feet. “You walked from Alexandria? All that way?”
“How else? You think my rich English father bought me a camel that I might ride into Cairo like a lord?” She laughed. “I wish I did have a rich English father. Oh, the life I would live . . .”
The turnoff was almost upon them. Gadi made one last try. “Did you hear about the Englishman with the picture?”
“Of course, the whole marketplace is talking.” She decided to take the bull by the horns. “Everyone tells he has a picture that looks a lot like me. In fact Ali says I should dress as a girl and see if I can get money from the Englishman.”
Gadi frowned. “Hey, that was my idea!”
She snorted and said in a sarcastic voice, “Do you think the Englishman would be that stupid? I know I’m small. I might be able to pass for a woman from a distance, but up close? And the girl in the picture is supposed to be English. How am I supposed to speak to this man in English, eh?”
“Oh.” Gadi hadn’t thought of that.
She could almost see him deciding his uncle had made a big mistake: because if the Englishman was looking for her and if she really was a girl, why would she not go to him? The pickings were bound to be good.
Gadi’s uncle hadn’t told him everything, that was clear.
“Well, my uncle still wants to talk to you.”
Ayisha turned toward the river, wondering how Gadi could have missed the pounding of her heart. It was almost deafening.
“Surely,” she said over her shoulder. “But not today, Gadi. I have muc
h work to do.”
To her relief, he let go of her arm and turned away. Ayisha continued to saunter casually on, aware that Gadi turned and watched her with a frown.
She’d convinced him this time, but for how long? Gadi’s uncle would not be so easily fooled. The net was closing in on her. Her options were narrowing, but she could still, perhaps, get something from the Englishman . . .
Ashort time later Ayisha stood by the gate of the Englishman’s house, dithering. It was not like her, but something about this man undermined her resolve. Part of her kept insisting the only safe thing to do was to stay away. Another part of her said she should make a bid for what she wanted, that fortune favored the bold. Or was it the brave?
Or the brazen? That was the part that Ayisha was doing her best to squash; the part that leapt with excitement the moment he stepped out the front door in those long, close-fitting buff breeches and his glossy high boots.
He saw her straightaway, of course, and that at least gave her a decision, for she would not let him see her run like the coward she suddenly felt like.
Get it over. He could only refuse. Nothing ventured and all that.
“Miss Cleeve, come in out of the heat and let me give you a nice cool drink,” he said, with every evidence of pleasure—only he was secretly crowing with triumph, she could tell. He’d said she’d be back and she was.
She didn’t want to accept, but Egyptian manners demanded she be polite and accept the offer of a drink, at least.
As Higgins set a glass of lemonade before her, she gave Rafe a narrow look. “You said you want to help me. That you don’t like the way I live. And that my grandmother worries about me.”
“Yes,” he said cautiously.
“Then why not help me?”
“How?”
“Give me the money you say my grandmother will give me.”
He raised a dark brow. “How much?”
She named a huge sum, a bold sum. Laila would have a fit at her asking for so much, but why not? She really was the old woman’s granddaughter. It would solve all their problems. She and Laila and Ali could escape Cairo and start a new, good life, free of her past, and best of all, free of Omar.
