by Thea Devine
On every level.
He didn't give her the satisfaction of a retort. Better to act as if it were meaningless. He could make do without a weapon; he had done it before. His expertise was the desert, where she would be but a mewling infant in his hands. And then they would see who had the power
He went on, his voice flat and without expression: "You were forethinking enough to bring those sheets, with which you will fashion a burnoose to protect yourself from the sun. We will travel from sunrise to sunset so as to cover a lot of ground. I assume you want to get to your destination as soon as possible."
"Faster," she said, feeling as if she were running for her life.
But she'd had no life. She'd had the morals and mores of the Valley, and every moment of her time there had been directed toward one aim: to prepare her to spread her legs.
Wasn't it ironic that she was escaping from the valley with the only man who wouldn't want her to.
The only one perhaps that she wished did.
Well, there were many miles to go. They'd be sharing a tent, sharing food. Sharing anything with him couldn't be worse than sharing everything with the self-indulgent, gluttonous men of the Valley.
She hadn't forgotten their abortive encounter. Neither had he, and it didn't take any oven signal from him for her to know it. It was there, simmering beneath the surface, what she had been, what she was, and how he'd resisted her.
She was still what she was, she supposed, and he would still deny he wanted her, but she might seduce him yet.
And that was another kind of power, yet to be tested.
She stared at the gun, and then out at the Valley, so tiny, from where they sat, a village of ants, a village of insects, all of them, buzzing and sucking all the queen's honey, obedient to their king.
Pledging allegiance to their amoral, murderous, debauched king ...
She stood up abruptly; there had never been any other decision she could make. "I will go to England, however long it takes."
Chapter Eight
Curious, the power she felt with a gun in her hand. Five inches of nickel-plated steel that could make six feet of indomitable male pride bend to her will. That was power.
Except she'd probably not be able to sleep for the entire journey worrying about what his next move might be. Charles Elliott was not one to come to heel that easily. He needed her now, and he was clever enough to cede her the upper hand—for the moment.
When they cleared the mountains, it would be another story entirely. Because of that, the farther they got from the Valley, the more wary she became. She was playing a game in which she did not know the rules. It appalled her how much she didn't know.
Like how to deal with someone like Charles Elliott. Which was why he was riding ahead of her, and she had the gun pointed straight at his back.
He seemed unconcerned. Maybe a little apprehensive. Someone unschooled in handling a gun who had an itchy trigger finger was definitely cause for apprehension. She might shoot and actually hit him.
That alone would keep him on the track, she thought. He took her warnings seriously; he did not want to die on the mountain.
No, he wanted to get off the mountain, and leave her to her fate.
It was a long plodding trip, on a narrow track that climbed high above the Valley and then suddenly dipped downward. And the ponies were skittish, uncertain of the footing, the weight they were carrying unsettling them. There were points at which Elliott dismounted and led them both on foot. There were places she couldn't walk with her fragile slippers.
"You could put down the damned gun and trust me," he muttered, as they came through a particularly fraught stretch of the track.
"I'd trust an arak faster than I'd trust you," she retorted.
"You might have to."
They went on in silence. He couldn't fight the spirits; they were everywhere, even in the licentious soul of the whore who thought she'd bested him. Little did she know. Much she would soon find out.
They camped for the night on a narrow ledge overgrown with desiccated shrubs.
They cooked some rice, ate it with dates and water, after which Charles fed and watered the animals, and settled them in for the night.
"Let yourself sleep. I would not for a moment try to find my way off the mountain without you."
"But you might try to find your way to taking the gun. That I can't allow because I will go to England, and you are going to take me."
She was as determined as the dawn; he knew when he was beaten. He settled down on the narrow strip of grass about five feet from her, crossed his arms, and went to sleep.
This was an ability he had cultivated during his years at Oxford. To snatch that half hour's rest, and to keep moving, moving, moving. A man needed to be alert and refreshed when he was at the danger point.
Traveling with a novice with a gun in her hand was a danger point.
She could not keep up her brave stance much longer. She had to get some sleep. They had to come off the mountain sometime. There would be a breaking point, and then, probably very easily, he thought, he would regain control.
It required some preparation before they could enter the village of Akka. She could not go waltzing in dressed as she was, Charles told her as they camped on a rise about a mile from the village.
The time had come for modesty and restraint.
"And what exactly does that mean?" she asked suspiciously.
"It means you must cover yourself head to foot, and that the most you can reveal is your eyes. And even then, khanum, it is too much."
It was inconceivable to her. Shroud herself wholly and completely? Just to pass through a village where they meant only to stop and rest for a night?
"Why do you call me khanum?" she asked fractiously. "Do you not know my name is Georgiana?"
Ah, the queen had a name. In all this time, he had never thought about her name. She was the queen—the queen of courtesans and concubines. A lady of rank to a certainty.
"It is the equivalent of my lady. And no, I did not know your name, nor did I particularly care."
That stung. "Really? My lady? You depended on me, the whore of Bliss River Valley, not even knowing my name or if I had a shred of honor?"
"We use what instruments are given to us," he murmured.
"Truly? So I am an instrument, a whore, and a lady?" He wasn't in a mood to coddle her. Even with the gun still pointed at his breast. Five inches of barrelhead could do a lot of damage if he set her off. "Be sensible then. We are two desperate people who can help each other, and so you will shroud yourself as best you can in those sheets and you will leave everything else to me."
"I'm willing to cover up to travel in the desert. Why must I do this now?"
"Because, khanum, that is what is done. You have a lot to learn, and this is but the first lesson. Modesty in dress. A foreign notion, admittedly, for one who thinks flaunting her naked body is dressing up." He stopped abruptly at the picture his words conjured up.
But he hadn't forgotten, hadn't let himself think of it. Not while the queen—Georgiana—had the power to shoot off his balls. But now here they were, on the edge of the desert, and the thing was as tangible between them as the air. He saw it in her eyes, and a certain little gleam of triumph as if she knew, as if she were waiting for him to slip, to slide, to need.
He was stronger than that. Words were just words: they could provoke desire, or kill it. The queen needed a little humility anyway. That much he could give her while the game was in play.
He went on brusquely, "Perhaps we can trade for a proper abeya, but until then, the sheets you brought will veil you adequately."
He picked one up and started to drape it over her head.
She waved the gun at him. "Don't touch me."
He shrugged. "Do it yourself then."
"I won't do it at all."
"Then we don't continue the journey."
"I won't do this."
"Khanum, if you walk into th
at village clothed as you are, they will kill you."
That was stark enough. She didn't believe him. Maybe.
And she didn't trust him as far as a camel could walk. She kept the barrel of the pistol aimed straight at his heart. "Why?"
"It is ever the lure of Eve. Man cannot resist it. So he suppresses it."
"Or he avails himself of it," Georgiana spat. "These men are no different from the men in the Valley. And I will not kowtow to some ridiculous dogma. I'd sooner walk into the village naked than clothed like a nun."
"Yes indeed, khanum, we know you like to walk around naked. But those are paltry words against the doctrines of this culture. You will do what I tell you, and cover yourself or we can go no farther. No. You can go no farther."
It was a pretty potent threat. He could leave her there. And all the money in the world would not get her where she wished to go then.
She nodded. "All right. What do I do?"
"Put down the blasted gun."
"That I won't. What next?"
"May I touch, my lady?"
She nodded warily, and he began again, taking one of the sheets and draping it over her shoulders and around her arms, making sure it fell precisely to the floor and didn't pool around her foolish slippers, which were now almost in shreds.
The second sheet went over her head. He folded the edges up and around her face and then pulled them forward to obscure everything but her eyes. Then he crossed the tails and tied them to secure it.
"You know too much about this," she muttered.
"I know what I need to know," he answered, and instantly the words hung between them, fraught with possibilities, everything transformed into sexual terms.
He disliked it intensely that she was so unaware, for one who had lived on the Continent from birth. And yet, she'd been as cloistered as a nun in some respects. She'd never gone beyond the mountains. Her whole life had been schooled to the philosophy of the Valley.
She would never be able to live elsewhere. She couldn't even bear to have a makeshift veil over her head. She was stamping and shaking like an agitated mare, her hands tight around the pistol, which made him as nervous as a stallion about to be gelded.
The boots were the hardest. Smart as she was to have thought of bringing them, she could not make herself put her feet into them.
And they weren't all that big on her. It was just they were so confining. So heavy. Hard to walk in.
"You'll get used to it," he said, unmoved. "You'll have to get used to all of it to make this journey."
"I don't have to like it."
"Ah, but who does, khanum? We do what we can with what we are given."
"Exactly," she murmured, and she meant it, literally.
Everything in sexual terms with her, he thought acidly. He had never known a woman like this. And she could not be left to fend for herself if this was how she spoke, how she acted and thought.
But that was for later consideration. If he dwelt on it, he might not take her a mile farther. For now, the goal was to enter Akka with impunity, an itinerant Bedouin tribesman traveling with his woman to rejoin his people.
"You'll do," he said finally. "And I do the talking."
She couldn't argue that. Although the queen, it seemed, would argue anything with a gun in her hand. Still, it was always good to have a story; there were fewer questions that way.
And once he had her properly attired, it took but ten minutes more to transform himself, via the change of clothes in his bedroll, to an errant son of the desert. He was, after all, a man who moved easily between the two worlds, and was always prepared to function in both.
The kachebia turned him into a wholly different man, more commanding, more demanding.
More arrogant.
"Keep your head down," he ordered, in a tone she could not disobey, as they trekked slowly down the rise and toward Akka. "Never say a word. Follow my lead. Quell your instincts, they count for nothing on this journey."
"Yes, master," she hissed through gritted teeth. "Whatever you say. Whatever you want..."
Oh damn. Everything she said had two interpretations. She had to stop, now, if she wanted to ensure his cooperation. Because there would be a point beyond which her weapon would be useless, and then she could call upon other weapons at her disposal. Once they were on their way, there would be time, there would be proximity, there would be needs and desires to be fulfilled, and other ways to repay him that only she knew.
Yes. He wouldn't abandon her, of that she was certain.
And so she kept her head down, and followed his path, and they made their way into Akka to the notes of a Bedouin flute playing eerily in the twilight.
It was hardly even a village. It was a traveler's rest, deep in an oasis of palms and hard by a pool of water, a place to decamp, to bathe, to rest and refresh oneself, and to barter with the Bedouins who camped there for necessities.
This was the first test. Sefra was two days' trip to the west, the gateway to the Kalahari. They could make that on horseback. Buy the proper supplies. Connect up with a caravan or take the first leg alone, guided by the stars and the crude maps of the Sadi-Anram.
The village was in an oasis surrounded by houses of whitewashed toub, and winding walkways with blooming oleander, palm trees, and the scent of melon and basil.
The souk here, in the center of the village, provided everything from camels to cushions to coffee, all for a price. A steep price.
Water from the wellspring was free.
He chose carefully: fruit, flatbread, marinated hare for the first night out, another goatskin for the water, and a mule to transport their gear.
"I thought I had gotten all the money," she whispered as he paid the vendor.
"Not all of it, clever lady. Enough. Enough so you should watch your back with your weapons and your irresponsible ways. We can camp at the tall palms at the edge of the village. Come ..."
He led the way through a babbling crowd of travelers, beggars, traders, and merchants. Here and there, they were stopped as a vendor admired the horses, and offers were made in trade, in baksheesh.
"I hope we find this enthusiasm for the horses in Sefra," Charles muttered as they settled on a small dune just under a grove of palms not far from the wellspring. "Hunch over, khanum, you are sitting too imperiously for a mere woman."
She sent him a scathing look. "You enjoy this."
"It makes for less trouble. Subservience is the way of a woman in this land, khanum, and her consort is her master in all things."
"Not all," she muttered.
"Mind your tongue and keep your head down."
"And my weapons, as always, at the ready," she retorted, and could have bitten her tongue once again. Her weapons. That futile piece of cold steel in her hand was not her most potent weapon with this man. Only he had yet to know it.
He was tearing apart a piece of flatbread, which he then dipped into a little of the sauce he had purchased, and handed to her. "With your fingertips, khanutn. No part of your body can be bared to public sight."
"I hate this."
"Eat. Bow your head and be grateful that the fates have allowed us to come this far."
"And how many hundreds of miles are there yet to go?" she asked waspishly.
"So many they cannot be reckoned. And so many one does not count the miles. They come as they come; we go as they go. And that is the plan."
"That doesn't sound like a plan; it sounds like fatalistic waffling."
"Sometimes all we can do is leave things to fate. Why else would we be here? How likely is it that you would have engineered that escape without something determining your need to break away from everything you've known your entire life? And how was it that those two things happened at the exact moment when one would coincide with the other? Go to sleep, kbanum. These are weightier questions than can be answered even by the most gifted philosopher. "
But she was determined not to go to sleep. There were questions
yet to be resolved, and promises to be tested. He could sneak away in the dead of the night, taking everything with him, if she slept.
There was no kindness in him, no pity. He had meant to destroy his mother, and she had no conception of what he was capable of. The fury in him was banked now that they were away from the mountain. But that didn't mean it couldn't be roused.
How rash she had been, how unthinking of the consequences and ramifications of fleeing the Valley with him. He was still, would always be, a stranger. And she felt just cold-blooded enough to shoot him if he ever attempted to abandon her, and so she must always be on her guard.
And if he died . . . Well, at least she would have the money, the weapons, the rations and the ponies, and surely she could, somehow, make her way to England with those resources.
And one other thing she could trade . ..
She drew in her breath with a hiss. Always that. Always. How would she get on outside the Valley if all she could only think in terms of was her sexual value?
This was going to be enormously harder than she thought. And the first wall she had to breach was Charles Elliott. And by heaven, she swore, before this journey ended, she would make it fall.
They had done all they could. They'd sent men on horseback every which way, even up on the mountain, searching for Georgie and Charles Elliott.
"The man is clever." Moreton was addressing the Valley citizenry at a gathering at the Club the following evening. "And Georgie is with him. She knows some of the secret ways in and out of the Valley. And I shudder to think what that man has done to her to coerce that information from her. Olivia is distraught. And they've had a twelve-hour head start. They took two of the fastest ponies that Elliott brought in his stable, and enough dried staples and water to see them through the next few days.
"Now, they could have gone toward Capetown, but that seems too obvious a choice. So we won't waste time in consideration of that. They would not have gone east, because that would be the least likely way to get to England, which is where I think they will go.
"So all in all, west and then north is how I figure it. But that covers a lot of territory, making it virtually impossible to follow them. So we have a murderer on the loose who also has the wherewithal to destroy our paradise."
