by Marie Laval
The words died on her lips when she saw the sudden heat in his eyes.
He cleared his throat. ‘Please, don’t let me stop you.’
Her cheeks warm, she looked away. ‘That was a figure of speech, of course.’
He got up, held out his hand to help her up.
‘We have a long way to go. Enjoy what’s on offer when you can.’ He paused. ‘The thing is… I don’t know how to say this without sounding rude, but we could all do with a good, long soak in a bath, even you.’
His nostrils flared as if catching the whiff of an unpleasant smell.
‘You are saying that I smell bad? Really, you are the most….’ The words stuck in her throat.
Her eyes ablaze with fury, she left him standing there and marched off to the lakeside where she started kicking stones into the water as hard as she could. It didn’t calm her down one bit. It was Saintclair’s head, not stones, she wanted to kick.
‘Harriet, what on earth are you doing?’ Archie put a hand on her shoulder, bent down to look at her face. ‘I have never seen you so angry. It isn’t like you at all.’
Harriet breathed in, out, in again.
‘Saintclair just told me that we’re stopping in a hotel tonight, for my benefit, apparently. According to him, I smell like a goat and need a good long soak in the bath.’
Archie burst out laughing.
‘Is that what he said? What a boor! Well, I for one, welcome the news. I could do with a bath, a nice soft bed.’
He took her hand, lifted it to his lips. ‘I hope you aren’t taking his remarks too seriously, my dear.’
She sighed and linked arms with him to walk back to the horses.
‘Wait a minute. I forgot something.’ She dug her fingers into her leather purse and extracted a couple of coins, then ran to the shepherd and left the money in front of him.
The boy stopped playing and smiled.
‘SaHa’, he said. Thank you.
‘Y Selmek,’ she replied, before running back to Archie.
‘What did you do that for?’ he asked, an angry frown creasing his forehead. ‘Now we’ll have the whole tribe running after us.’
‘I don’t mind giving them a bit of money. They probably need it more than us.’
He shook his head. ‘You are too soft-hearted for your own good, my dear.’
They walked in the dust and heat for several hours, leaving the rocky mountain path at the end of the afternoon to enter a deep cedar forest. It was dark and cool, and eerily silent apart from the sounds of the horses’ hooves. There was no birdsong, no rustling of leaves in the breeze. When they came out, Harriet squinted against the bright sunshine.
Suddenly there were shouts and cheers at the front of the line.
‘What’s happening?’
Archie craned his neck to look ahead and relaxed into a smile.
‘Medea. Get ready for your bath, dear.’
Chapter Five
Safir’s wasn’t a hotel. It wasn’t even an inn. It was a dark, smelly backstreet tavern with a dozen rooms on the first floor and a stable block next to it.
Harriet had been given her own room at the bottom end of the corridor. However basic it was, it had a real bed, clean sheets, and a couple of reasonably soft blankets—and a door she could lock. She sat on the bed, took her turban off, and untied her hair. Maybe Saintclair was right, she thought, loosening her hair and combing it with her fingers. Maybe she should enjoy what little comfort she could tonight. She would probably sleep better at Safir’s than she had the past couple of nights.
She searched through her bag for fresh undergarments and the large bar of Damascus rose-scented soap and lotion she had taken from Lord Callaghan’s Algiers palace—her only concession to female vanity—grabbed a bath sheet and made her way to the washroom.
A dozen buckets of warm water had been brought up. She poured them all into the small, chipped enamel bath, stripped out of her dirty clothes and slipped into the water with a sigh of delight. Was it only three days since her last bath?
She lathered every inch of her body with rose-scented soap, scrubbed her skin with a sponge and washed her hair. And when she got out, she massaged a generous amount of lotion onto her skin. Tonight, Lucas Saintclair would find that she smelled heavenly.
She pouted, and closed the lid of the rose lotion pot with a sharp click. What did she care what Saintclair thought? He was a brute, rude enough to tell her she needed a bath! Then again, what else could she expect from a man who associated with gamblers and tavern girls, and who coursed this wild country for a living?
Now, Archie was totally different. He was a gentleman. Her father was very fond of Archie—so fond Harriet knew he considered him to be the son he never had, and the man who would succeed him one day in his position at the Museum.
She started buttoning her chemise, but stopped, uneasy.
How odd that her father had sent her, and not Archie, the Barbarossa map. How strange that he hadn’t even written to him about his discovery. The map was a major find. In itself a valuable historical document, it could also lead to the legendary pirate’s hoard. She shook her head. Her father must have written to Archie, but the letter had got lost between Algiers and London. This was the only possible explanation.
Loud banging on the door made her jump and cry out in shock.
‘Miss Montague, what are you doing in there? Get out now or I’ll join you in the bath. I’m sick of waiting,’ Saintclair’s grumpy voice called.
‘Just a moment, Monsieur Saintclair,’ she replied, striving to remain calm despite the rising panic the thought of Saintclair breaking down the door and finding her in her drawers and chemise awakened inside her.
Her heart racing, she put on trousers and a shirt, but in her hurry left the shirt hanging out and only partly buttoned. She was still barefoot when she opened the door.
‘About time,’ he grumbled.
He was leaning against the wall, arms crossed on his chest, leaving hardly any room for her to walk past.
‘I hope you left me some hot water.’
Her hand flew to her mouth. ‘Oh, no, I’m sorry. I thought it was all for me. I poured it all in. And now it’s…’
Her cheeks burning with embarrassment, she gestured towards the bath with its standing water topped with a frothy layer of rose-scented soap flakes.
‘Never mind, it’ll have to do,’ he said. ‘By the way, Drake doesn’t want you to come downstairs. He’s going to arrange for a tray to be brought up to your room.’
‘I beg your pardon?’ She lifted her head to stare into his eyes. ‘Why should I stay in my room?’
‘There’s going to be some…hum...entertainment for gentlemen later.’
‘I see.’ She pursed her lips. So there would be women, dancing girls, prostitutes even. ‘Thank you for your concern, but I will stay downstairs with Archie. Now if you’ll excuse me…’
She squeezed past him and started down the corridor.
He moved fast. Suddenly his hand was on her shoulder, spinning her around, pinning her against the wall.
‘What do you think you’re doing?’ Her voice had turned to ice, but inside she was shaking. Her back to the wall, there was nowhere for her to go.
He took her chin between his thumb and forefinger, tilted her face upward and glared at her.
‘You must stay in your room tonight. Things are going to become a little hot downstairs. You won’t like it.’
‘And how would you know what I like or not?’ she blurted out.
He sighed. ‘Do you really have to be so contrary?’
She didn’t answer, mesmerized by the look in his eyes.
His finger stroked the outline of her cheek in a caress that made her shiver.
‘Hmm…You smell nice tonight, Miss Montague,’ he said, his voice low and deep.
His finger followed the line of her throat, down to the hollow where her pulse beat frantically, a little further still, where her Fatima pendant sparkled agains
t her skin just above the groove between her breasts. She couldn’t move. His finger slowly traced the outline of the pendant, creating ripples of shivers on her skin. He was close, too close, and he came closer still. As he leaned down she breathed in his scent—heat, leather, horse, and the faintest trace of sandalwood.
Finally coming back to her senses, she balled her fists against his chest and pushed him away.
‘Go to hell Saintclair, and be damned!’
He made a tutting sound and crossed his arms on his chest, a wide grin on his face.
‘Where did a nice young lady pick up that kind of language?’
He turned and walked to the washroom, whistling a cheerful tune.
She let out a strangled cry before running to her room and slamming the door behind her. Then there was only the thunder of her heartbeat and the roar of blood pulsing through her veins as a riot of conflicting emotions raged inside her. Shock, defiance, shame, confusion. She could still feel Saintclair’s body close to her, breathe in his scent. She bit her lips hard and walked to the washing stand. Her hands shook when she cupped water to wash her face.
She mustn’t tell Archie what had just happened. He might get so angry he would fire Saintclair on the spot, which would leave them stranded here without a guide or an escort. Or he might send her straight back to Algiers…Either way it was a risk she didn’t want to take. She dried her hair with the towel, combed through it and plaited it.
When she was ready, she took a deep breath and opened her door.
Downstairs, the tavern was heaving. She pushed her way through the crowd, looked for Archie, and saw that he had secured a table close to the dance floor.
‘Harriet! What are you doing down here?’ He stood up. ‘Saintclair was supposed to tell you to stay in your room. I knew I could not trust him.’
‘He did tell me, but I wanted to come down. I’m hungry.’
‘I’ll have some food sent up to your room. This just isn’t a place for you.’ He was distracted by something over her shoulder.
Turning round, Harriet saw a young woman dancing to the sounds of lute, tambourine and flute. She was barefoot and wore sheer purple pantaloons with a gold and purple top which left her midriff exposed. Every time she moved, the bangles around her wrists and ankles jingled. Her hips rolled and undulated in fluid movements. When she lifted her bare arms above her head, a smile appeared on her painted red lips which seemed directly targeted at Archie.
‘I won’t stay long,’ Harriet promised.
Archie shrugged. ‘Oh well, please yourself.’
He pulled out a chair for her, sat down again, but his eyes wandered back to the woman.
‘What are the plans for tomorrow?’ Harriet asked.
When he didn’t reply, she slapped the back of his hand.
‘What?’ His eyes focused on her. ‘Tomorrow? I think we’re heading for Berrouaghia, but….’ He gestured towards Ahmoud and the others. ‘As usual, neither Saintclair nor his men are particularly forthcoming with information.’
He muttered something about getting a fresh pitcher of wine and walked to the counter as two young boys brought a pile of wooden platters and large dishes of meat and vegetable stew over to their table.
Saintclair walked in, his hair was damp, his face freshly shaven, and he had changed into a white shirt. He ruffled the boys’ hair, exchanged a few words in Arabic with them, and gave them a coin each before sitting down next to her.
She pressed her lips together and focused on her breathing even though her face was hot and her whole body prickled, as if covered in goose pimples.
To hide her confusion, she spooned a generous helping of stew onto her wooden platter and started eating. Safir’s might only be a backstreet tavern but the food it served was delicious. The lamb melted in the mouth, the semolina was light and fluffy, and the vegetables well done and tasty.
It took only minutes for her to finish the platter. She sponged the sauce with a piece of bread, reclined on her seat and licked her lips. This was the best meal she had eaten for weeks. If it wasn’t for the insistent, high-pitched music, she might fall asleep right here and now. It was probably time to go to her room and make the most of the bed.
Her good mood vanished when she saw Saintclair stare at her.
‘It looks like you enjoyed that.’
‘Yes, it was very nice,’ she said, straightening on her chair.
The dancer in the purple pantaloon had been replaced by another, older, but just as agile.
‘Did you see where Archie went?’ She glanced at the empty space and at the untouched plate next to her. ‘He said he was going for a pitcher of wine ages ago. He didn’t even have anything to eat.’
‘I’m sure food is the last thing on his mind right now.’
Why was he smiling that way?
‘Why do you say that?’
He shrugged, sipped some wine. ‘I don’t want to make things difficult between you two. After all, he is your fiancé.’
She narrowed her eyes. ‘I don’t understand. Where is he?’
He didn’t answer straight away.
‘I saw him go upstairs with one of the dancers. It seemed to me that he was enjoying her conversation rather a lot.’ He grinned.
‘Archie can’t speak Arabic.’
Then she understood. She put a hand in front of her mouth and gasped.
‘Surely you are not implying that he…he…’
It was impossible. Archie was a gentleman. He wouldn’t take a tavern dancer, a prostitute, to his room. That was what men like Saintclair did.
Saintclair stared over her shoulder and his smile froze. His fingers gripped his tumbler of wine so tightly the knuckles became white.
Surprised at the change in his expression, Harriet turned round. Behind her stood an officer in a French uniform.
‘Mortemer,’ Saintclair said between clenched teeth.
‘Saintclair.’ The man bowed stiffly. ‘What a surprise to see you here. I should fire my informers. According to their latest reports, you’re still in the mountains.’
‘I didn’t know I was under surveillance.’
‘You’re not, of course.’ The man’s smile stretched his thin lips. ‘I am sorry to intrude upon you in this way, Madame.’
He took off his hat, uncovering dark brown hair, the same colour as his neat beard and moustache, and bowed stiffly one again.
‘Lieutenant Guy de Mortemer, French colonial army, at your service.’
He had strange eyes, she thought, repressing a shiver of revulsion. They were very dark. There was no light, no life in them.
‘Lieutenant.’
She wasn’t tired any longer, but curious. Something was going on between Saintclair and the lieutenant, and she wanted to know what it was.
‘What do you want, Mortemer? I take it you’re not here for the girls.’ Saintclair reclined on his chair, stretched his legs in front of him. He drank some wine, his eyes never leaving the French officer for one second.
Mortemer smiled again.
‘I want information.’
‘About what?’ Saintclair pulled his knife out of his pocket, pricked his thumb at the tip of the blade, as if to test its sharpness.
‘Mind if I sit down?’
Saintclair gestured to an empty chair.
‘There was an attack on the ammunition depot in Blida last night,’ Mortemer started. ‘It was the Mouzaias.’
‘Who says?’
‘It bears their hallmark. Night job. Quick, efficient...deadly.’
Saintclair shrugged. ‘It could be anybody with a grudge against the French. Was there much damage?’
‘Five dead, all of them ours. The whole depot was destroyed. It will take weeks, months even, to restock.’ Mortemer’s face was grim.
‘I suppose that’s what happens when you bite off more than you can chew, stretch your resources over too wide a distance, and understaff your outposts. The weakest points give, eventually.’
‘They
didn’t give, Saintclair,’ Mortemer said coldly. ‘The Blida depot was deliberately targeted.’
He paused, smoothed the tip of his moustache.
‘You were in Blida yesterday, weren’t you? Did you happen to see, or hear, anything?’
Saintclair looked at him and smiled apologetically.
‘Nothing. But then again, I was rather busy with a very pretty, very demanding bayadere.’
Mortemer held his gaze.
‘As it happens, a mutual acquaintance recently sold me a map of Abd-el-Kader’s weapons and ammunitions caches. The man in question told me you tried to get the map from him in Algiers. Now, I wonder why you would do that.’
Harriet held her breath. He must be talking about the man she had saved from Saintclair’s clutches in Algiers. Rachid.
Saintclair took a cigar from his pocket. He lit it in the flame of a candle in the centre of the table, sucked on it a few times then relaxed in his seat.
‘Rachid sold you the map? I hope you didn’t pay a lot for it. It’s a fake. That’s why I wanted to destroy it. I didn’t want the French army to be sent on a wild goose chase.’
Mortemer arched his eyebrows.
‘That was very noble of you. Still, I think I’ll hang on to it a while longer. Interestingly, one of the caches is very close to Bou Saada.’ He paused, as if he wanted to study Saintclair’s reaction, but the scout’s face had disappeared behind a cloud of cigar smoke.
‘How are your family these days? Your delightful mother? And your even more delightful sister?’
‘Last I heard from them, they were fine. Why?’ There was a steely edge to Saintclair’s voice now.
‘I am hoping to pay them my respects very shortly. I am heading to Bou Saada in a few days to make sure there is no mishap with the new outpost we are establishing there, and to check out that rebel cache.’
‘Keep away from my mother, Mortemer,’ Saintclair said between his teeth. ‘You are not welcome in her house.’
Mortemer let out a joyless laugh.
‘It’s not for you to say, my friend.’ He leaned closer. ‘And between you and me, I don’t think you are welcome there either.’
