“You should be a guide,” she said softly.
“I’m a woman,” she murmured. “The hotel is good work. Thank you, Lady MacDonald.” She bowed, ready to leave again.
“Wait, I’m so sorry, but…are you Egyptian?”
“My father was French,” she said simply, “but I am Egyptian, yes.”
“My father would love to paint you!” Kat said, smiling, shaking her head. “You truly have one of the most beautiful faces I have ever seen.”
The girl blushed, then obviously uncomfortable with the compliment, gestured out the window. “The pyramid is something that came about because of the platform, or mastaba, that covered tombs before. The Step Pyramid of King Djoser at Saqqara shows how the steps were achieved, mastaba over mastaba. Of course, the Pyramid of Cheops is the crowning glory of such building. And yet, they say, our desert is riddled with treasures yet to be found. And so…that is why you’re here.”
“Yes, I am on expedition,” Kat said.
The girl offered her a smile then. “You and your husband are with the Earl of Carlyle. Your husband has come many times before, and there is always speculation about what he will find. You will not be so far away. When the desert sands threaten to swallow you, the hotel will be within reach. I pray that you like my country.”
“I already love your country,” Kat assured her, and let the girl go at last.
Later, when she had finished dressing and still awaited Hunter, she found herself standing at the window again.
Looking below, she saw two figures in the shadows between walls of the building. They seemed to be meeting furtively. One looked anxiously around.
It was Françoise, Kat realized.
She tried to make out the other figure. It was that of a man. The two came very close, whispering. The man was obviously angry.
Kat gasped when she saw him strike the girl.
She couldn’t possibly have been heard, but it seemed that the two looked up. She stepped back from the window.
When she looked down again, they were both gone.
She wanted to find a way to talk to the girl again. Her heart bled for the young woman who appeared to be so cruelly abused.
FROM THEIR TABLE, they could see the pyramids rising from the sand, and Arthur Conan Doyle was quick to point out to Kat that tourists were climbing them.
“I cannot wait to do so!” Kat breathed.
“Well, we shall have to wait a bit; there’s a lot to be done,” Hunter said. He saw Kat’s face fall.
Louisa, Arthur’s wife, laughed softly. “Hunter! You have seen the pyramids too many times. You surely remember how magnificent they were at first sight, how overwhelming in size and shape and simple existence!”
The woman looked well enough, Hunter thought, but she was dying. He knew that Arthur had taken her to more than one doctor. The diagnosis was always the same. Tuberculosis. But Arthur was not one to accept any such diagnosis without fighting back. He and Louisa, and the children, at times—daughter Mary, son Kingsley—had moved about, seeking the best climates, and she had already outlived the doctors’ predictions. She was a wonderful, sweet-natured woman, and she and Arthur suited each other very well. Arthur had once told Hunter that he had been fortunate in his family life, and even fortunate to have suffered the illness himself, for it had taught him he did not need to maintain both a medical career and a writing career. He was bitter now, however, because the public was actually hounding him to bring Sherlock Holmes back to life.
That, when he was facing a real life tragedy.
But tonight, Louisa looked well. And Kat’s pleasure in everything about her was so contagious that everyone felt merry.
In fact, he had almost forgotten that he needed to be worried.
“Tell me, are you as great a detective as your creation?” Kat said teasingly to Arthur.
Hunter winced slightly, knowing how Arthur felt now about his famous character. Holmes was driving him mad.
But to his surprise, Arthur had an answer for Kat.
“My dear, all the credit goes to an old professor, Dr. Joseph Bell. He was amazing. A patient would walk in, and he would know by the fellow’s clothing and shoes what he did for a living and where he had been. He could look at a man’s hands and know immediately a great deal about him. Thus, he could diagnose his patients more readily. He was a brilliant fellow. I, in turn, am often tempted to write Watson when I am to sign my name! At any rate, like Dr. Bell, I have learned to look at the world and those around me in a different way.” He glanced at Hunter. “Have you been experiencing some mysterious happenings of late?”
“Yes, I would say so,” Hunter replied.
“Do tell!” Louisa encouraged.
“Shall I start at the beginning?” he asked, glancing at Kat.
She looked back at him uncertainly.
“We’re not at all really sure if we’ve had mysterious happenings,” he said, “or a series of truly remarkable coincidences.”
“Very curious, Hunter. We’ve had a few around here, too. You tell me yours, then I shall share what I fear is rather common knowledge.”
Hunter glanced at Kat again, then began speaking. “You see, I met my wife because a young fellow—a son of Lord Turnberry—tumbled into the Thames. Kat, who was on her father’s vessel, dove in to save him. I dove in, as well. Later, the young fellow confided to Kat that he believed he’d been pushed. Then after that, let’s see… A map has disappeared, Kat was possibly given something to make her deathly ill the night of our engagement party, a huge stone fell from the Colosseum where Kat and David happened to be, and last but surely not least, their was a cobra in Kat’s room in Rome.”
“Goodness!” Louisa exclaimed. “I see your dilemma. Accident…or coincidence?”
“At first,” Hunter said, “I didn’t believe that there could be a reason for anyone to harm David Turnberry. I can’t even begin to think of a reason anyone would want to harm my wife.”
Arthur was looking at him, frowning gravely. “I believe you do have quite a mystery on your hands. Who was with the lad on the boat the day he was sailing? Anyone with you now?”
“His friends, school chums,” Hunter said. “Robert Stewart, Allan Beckensdale and Alfred, Lord Daws. His stepmother, by the way, happens to be a friend of Kat’s father.”
“Mmm,” Arthur murmured.
“It’s ridiculous to think that any of those men, college companions, would be dangerous to one another!” Kat said.
“My dear,” Arthur said. “You claim to be my ardent reader. What you must do, always, is eliminate the impossible. What is left, no matter how improbable, is true.”
Kat looked at Hunter. “I’m afraid we’re still at a loss.”
“Then you need more clues. And you will have to find them. And, most important, you must be observant of all things at all times.” He looked at Hunter. “Keep me posted, eh?”
“Naturally. Of course, some of what I’ve told you is well known, but…”
“We shall keep your confidence, of course,” Arthur assured him.
“So! What gossip and mystery goes on here this season?” Hunter asked.
“Well, sadly, some of the usual. But it seems that many treasures have gone missing from digs in the general area of the Giza Plateau. There are rumors that the digs are cursed. A few workers have actually disappeared, and a few have returned to Cairo, anxious to beg, borrow or steal, rather than go back out on the sands. One poor fellow, seemingly half mad, claimed that chanting rises from the sand.” He smiled ruefully at Kat. “It was during the Old Kingdom era, the time of Khufu, that the kings started to emphasize their godliness, or their associations with the gods. Afterward, pharaohs were also claimed to be the sons of the great sun god, Re. At his death, a pharaoh became one with Osiris, the father of Horus, and the great god of the underworld. Priests became powerful by seeing to it that common people were duly awed by the godlike men who ruled them. So, it’s easy to see how today’s people might believe th
at somehow, there are those about still chanting, still worshipping their mighty ruler-gods.”
“It’s just desert winds,” Louisa said softly, then squeezed her husband’s hand. He cast her a bittersweet smile.
Louisa cleared her throat and winked at Kat. “Mesmerists are all the rage in London now, aren’t they?”
Arthur stiffened. “All hoaxes—yet quite fascinating.”
“He has taken an interest,” Louisa said with a good-humored sigh. She looked at her husband again. Please, don’t miss me too much. Don’t seek me when I am gone! she might have said aloud.
“Well,” Hunter murmured, “you are both welcome at the site at any time.”
“And if I can do anything…” Kat began, looking at Louisa.
“You are here and it’s a lovely dinner,” Louisa said. “A beautiful night. So, dear Lady Katherine, how do you find the hotel?”
“Fascinating!” Kat said, then she grew troubled. “I talked with one of the hotel maids this afternoon. She was quite fascinating, as well. A beautiful woman, Egyptian, but she said that her father was French. She was so well spoken.”
“Ah, yes, I’ve seen the girl,” Arthur said.
“Yes,” his wife agreed. “And she is quite lovely. Impossible to miss.”
Kat hesitated. Hunter was looking at her curiously.
“I saw her later, too, when I happened to look out my window. She was down in a shadowy area between the buildings talking with a man. He struck her. I…I wish there was something that I could do.”
There was silence for a second. “Sadly, my dear, there are men in England who think nothing of striking their wives. There is little you can do here.”
She flushed, because Hunter was still looking at her. “It’s just…wrong,” she murmured. She looked up and met his eyes. “It is wrong for anyone to strike another person.”
A touch of amusement lit the deep blue of his eyes. “Indeed. But then again, we can be cruel in many ways, such is the nature of the human beast,” he said.
She thought that it might be the closest they would ever come to apologizing to each other.
And still, the thought of the girl troubled her. But it was true. There was little she could do.
IT WAS LATE WHEN THEY finally returned to the hotel. Still, Hunter had a few notes to go over, and as he was anxious to get to the site, they could not be forgotten. He was at the desk in the parlor when Kat came out. She was in a robe, her hair freshly brushed and burning radiantly down her back.
He arched a brow at her.
He was startled when she moved before him, hesitated, then took the pencil from him, sat on his lap and threaded her fingers through his hair.
He was so startled, in fact, that he nearly dropped her.
She pressed her lips to his. Teased and played, running the tip of her tongue over his mouth in seductive circles. His desire came like a bolt of lightning.
“What is this for?” he whispered.
“I am so grateful!” she said. “You…Mr. Arthur Conan Doyle…”
He might have been mad, but he felt stricken to the core. Angered. He stood, setting her on her feet.
“Madam, I do not want your gratitude!”
“I…I…” she stuttered, then stared at him with fury. “Trust me! You shall never receive it again!”
She left him, hair flying behind her as she strode to the dividing door.
It slammed in her wake. Loudly.
He stared back at the paper. Then he rose, walking to the door, opening it, closing it. She was on the bed, as far to the one side as it was humanly possible to be without sliding onto the floor.
He doused the light and disrobed in the dark. He crawled in beside her and reached for her. She was as stiff as a two-by-four, but nonetheless he climbed on top of her. “Never come to me,” he said, unable to read her face in the dark, “for anything other than the reason that you want me. Ah, but I am not the man you love and desire, you would say? Still…come to me because you want me, not because you want to thank me or you want something from me, do you understand?”
“Is that all?” she queried.
“No.”
He leaned down, seeking her lips. She tried to twist from his hold.
“Sir, I am not interested, and this is not convenient.”
“You do not forget or forgive, do you, my love?”
“It’s extremely rude for you to come to me now!”
“No, it’s not. I’m here because I do want you,” he said very softly.
She let out a soft breath. And when he wrapped her in his arms again, she braced against him at first, then relaxed.
When he made love to her, she began to make love in return. Her fingers, so delicate, over his back. Her lips, utter nirvana on his flesh.
And each moment, a little bolder…
Later, he lay by her side, holding her against him. In silence.
Good Lord, how he loved his wife!
Chapter 15
THE MORNING WAS FILLED with chaos. The Egyptian guides and workers were there, a dozen of them. The camels were letting out long braying noises, obviously distressed at the commotion.
“Eh! Watch the big one!” Allan cried out in warning as Kat walked by. “He keeps trying to bite me.”
“Allan, talk nicely to it, and you’ll get along,” Camille advised. She was dressed in a white shirt and a khaki-colored garment that looked like a skirt but was, in fact, wide, flaring pants. Kat’s own outfit was similar; her blouse, however, was cream, and her legs were clad in a shade of brown. She had on men’s socks and very ugly boots, but they were perfect for the desert, so she had been told. She also had a hat, another must, Hunter had assured her.
“Kat!” David called.
He was with the horses, and she walked over to him. “Hunter has said that she is to be yours,” he told her, indicating a bay mare. “She’s a beauty!” he said, and offered her a smile.
She smiled in return. Not even David could bother her today. “She is lovely. And nicely small.”
“Arabian horses do not tend to be as large as our English breeds,” David informed her.
“That one is fairly large,” she said, pointing out another of the horses, a beautiful animal with a dish-shaped nose, taut muscles and a dark coat that glistened in the sun.
“Yes, of course. Hunter’s mount,” he murmured. He stared at her. “Hunter always gets the best, doesn’t he?”
She didn’t like the innuendo in his words. It was sexual, somehow. “It appears that every horse here is exceptionally fine. It also seems to me that you have to choose one horse and not be looking for a different animal every other minute. What is the mare’s name?”
“Alya,” he said, seeming annoyed. He looked away. “There is Abdul. He is leading the caravan.”
A handsome Arab was atop a camel, calling instructions to his turbaned workers. Camels were loaded heavily with all manner of boxes and trunks. They seemed well equipped, however, to withstand the weight.
Her attention was suddenly drawn to an argument going on between a local man and Lord Avery. Lord Avery appeared perplexed; the local man kept bowing and apologizing, but he was insistent on something, as well.
As she watched, Lord Avery produced a wad of bills and gave them to the man. He in turn began bowing again, thanking Lord Avery.
One of the guides was mounted near Kat. He was young, with a quite beautiful face and almond eyes. He saw Kat glancing his way.
“Do you know what that was about?” she queried.
He only inclined his head toward her, and she knew that either he hadn’t understood her or didn’t intend to answer her, since it would not be his place.
“I’m Kat,” she said, nudging her horse closer.
He stared at her uneasily for a moment, but then accepted her introduction. “Lady MacDonald, I know who you are. I am Ali. At your service.”
“Please…I’m very new at this!”
He sighed. “Just a misunderstanding.
Young men sometimes forget to pay the bills for their entertainment,” he told her. “Some of your party were out last night at Rashid’s…restaurant. Rashid asked Lord Avery for payment. There was nothing wrong. Everything here is a negotiation, you see.”
“Thank you,” Kat told him.
He nodded, smiling slightly. She liked him immediately.
“Mount up!” Hunter called suddenly.
“Wait!” came a cry from the front steps of the hotel. Margaret, in a pink dress, her blond hair almost white in the sun, was there, a picture of pure feminine beauty.
She hurried over and hugged Kat first. “I will come out in a few days’ time!” she promised. She wrinkled her nose. “Once you’re all set up!”
Lord Avery had followed, Lavinia on his arm, ready to wish them all luck and godspeed.
“If anything!” he warned Hunter and Brian.
“We are but a day’s ride,” Hunter assured him.
Lord Avery nodded. Kat saw that Margaret had given the others a brief kiss and hug. She remained with David. His head was lowered close to hers. She kissed his cheek, then hurried back.
Kat was proud to be able to swing unassisted onto her mare’s back. Hunter swung up onto the large Arabian stallion like one born to the saddle, which, of course, he had been. Then, with the camels still noisy and sand flying about, they were on their way.
The mare was wonderful, just the right size for Kat. Her gaits were as smooth as silk. The view! First, the city streets, people going about their business, so many of them, women balancing water jugs on their heads, children, goats, chickens.
They left the city behind and were out on the sand. It was golden, shimmering. The pyramids rose majestically, the Sphinx sat in royal splendor. It was impossibly magnificent. The sun played one way on the pyramids, then another. The colors changed subtly.
And for the first two hours, the journey was magical. Perhaps even the first three hours.
And then the heat began to seem oppressive. The sand seemed constantly in her eyes. It was no longer golden or shimmering.
Just…sandy.
The mare was perfect, but Kat’s legs were aching.
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