Daughter of the God-King

by Anne Cleeland

  Their meal was surprisingly good, but on second thought, Hattie decided that Captain Clements was a man who did not stint on his pleasures. Bing’s restorative proved to be a dark, viscous liquid contained in a small glass, which her companion dutifully sipped as the meal progressed. It did appear to bring more color to her cheeks, and Hattie suspected that alcohol served as its base ingredient. I must ration my Madeira, she thought, else we will both be tipsy and there will be no one left to hold the captain at arm’s length. She asked him, “How long will you stay in Cairo before making your return trip?” Having no real expectation of finding her parents alive, Hattie was wondering how long she herself would stay; Berry would not have expressed his grave doubts to her unless he was certain her parents no longer lived. Mainly, she wanted to arrange for a proper burial—if she could find out what happened to them—and with any luck, set a course for her future that was devoid of annoying inquisitions and hair’s-breadth escapes.

  The captain considered his answer while he ran his fingers up the stem of his wine glass. “The turnaround depends on a variety of factors, but usually there are a plentitude of traders seeking passage so as to bring cargo back to France or England—copies of artifacts or even the genuine article, for sale to private collections or to a museum.”

  Hattie felt a pang of sadness on behalf of the Egyptians, whose treasures were being transported elsewhere whilst their political situation was in too much disarray to prevent it; she knew that graft and corruption—almost a given, in the Mid-East—encouraged the authorities to look the other way.

  The captain’s voice broke into her thoughts. “Perhaps my visit on this trip can be arranged to match the length of your own. How long do you stay, Miss Blackhouse?”

  Rather than equivocate on the subject for the entire journey, Hattie decided to reveal the true state of facts. “Unfortunately, I have not heard from my parents in quite some time; indeed, I make this journey to discover if they have met with calamity.”

  With a show of sympathy that also allowed him to take her hand, the gentleman offered, “Perhaps they are merely in an isolated area and must make their way to a post that allows for communication.”

  Hattie appreciated the theory, however far-fetched. “Let us hope so.”

  But Bing found this unlikely and shook her head with some determination. “No—the tomb’s site is near Al Karnak,” she corrected, carefully pronouncing the words. “Amenities are quite modern—there would be no impediment. Indeed, my dear brother wrote me every week.” Her companion was apparently unaware that the captain had been merely attempting to offer Hattie some encouragement.

  Hiding a smile at her companion’s altered state, Hattie could only agree, “Yes, I’m afraid the situation appears rather grave.”

  The captain attempted another tack to change the subject. “The god-king’s daughter,” he mused aloud. “An extraordinary find—and with startling implications; if your parents do not make a reappearance, I wonder what will happen to the site? Are you familiar with their arrangements, Miss Blackhouse?”

  “No,” Hattie replied in a tone to discourage further questions. If he asks me about a strongbox, she thought, I will put my knife to his throat.

  “You misunderstand; the Blackhouses do not own the site,” Bing reminded him in the ponderous tone of one educating a schoolboy. “I imagine the Ministry will simply assign another archeological team to soldier on—the world awaits further information.”

  “Undoubtedly,” agreed the captain. “The anonymous princess must be identified; there must be a compelling story behind her extraordinary burial. Who is believed to be her father—is it Ramesses?”

  Hattie reconciled herself to yet another tedious discussion about history’s giants while Bing corrected him. “Wrong dynasty—the pharaoh is believed to be Seti, instead. Or so I believe the translations indicate. Although…” She paused, her brow furrowed. “Although my dear brother found some contradictions, apparently.”

  “Oh?” asked the captain in an encouraging tone. It seemed to Hattie that his interest suddenly sharpened.

  Bing shook her head slightly, as though trying to clear it. “He was a little vague in his last letter, but apparently he was skeptical of the dateline hypothesis, for some reason.”

  “Well, we can be certain the matter will be thoroughly explored by his successor,” the gentleman assured her. “As long as no one is deterred by the supposed curse.”

  Hattie contemplated her wine glass, having noted that their host apparently knew who Bing’s brother was and that he had been killed—not something one would assume was common knowledge. Pushing the glass away, she resolved to keep her wits about her.

  “Did your brother recite the particulars of his work in his letters to you, Miss Bing?”

  Hattie could not quite like this inquisition and could see that Bing was fast becoming fuddled. In light of this, she offered, “Mr. Bing was a prodigious Egyptian scholar.”

  But Bing had forgotten their signal and merely nodded. “He was a brilliant man. Quite fond of the Blackhouses—truly enjoyed his work.” She paused. “I shall miss him acutely.”

  Hattie could see that the captain was winding up to further quiz Bing on this sad subject, and decided that enough was enough. Rising, she gently took Bing’s arm. “We should return to our cabin, Bing—it has been a tiring day.”

  The captain rose also, clearly worried he had offended. “Forgive me; I was clumsy—the subject is not an easy one for either of you.”

  Smiling, Hattie reassured him, “Not at all, although I must confess I have little interest in the god-king’s daughter. But I fear Bing does poorly and if she does not survive this night I will have to forfeit all future dinners.”

  They excused themselves and the captain escorted them to their cabin, Bing weaving a bit unsteadily. At their cabin door, he bowed low and expressed his pleasure in her company while Hattie assured him they would be pleased to accept all future invitations until she was forced to rather firmly bid him good night. Bing made straight for her bunk and lay with an arm across her eyes; in a matter of moments she was softly snoring.

  Well, thought Hattie; the restorative does work after a fashion—Bing cannot be sick if she is sleeping. After debating the issue, she decided she should pull off her companion’s half-boots but leave her in her dress clothes rather than wake her. Carefully pulling off the boots one at a time, she bent to open their storage drawer only to pause in alarm; someone had been through their things. It was nothing obvious, but she was certain, nonetheless. An inspection of the drawer only verified her suspicions—she was compelled to be tidy and knew that various items were slightly askew.

  Sitting back on her heels, she tried to decide what should be done. Whoever it was had waited until both she and Bing were out of the cabin, so their movements were being monitored. Not the captain—he had been with them during the whole. Someone else, then; but perhaps on the captain’s orders, she couldn’t rule it out—there had been something about the way he watched her reactions, about the way he knew about Bing’s brother… You are being fanciful, she reprimanded herself; pray do not start jumping at shadows.

  As if on cue, there was a soft knock on the door, that indeed made her jump. Hattie stared at the cabin door and knew a moment’s hesitation. Craven, she chided herself—no one would dare make an attack on a ship, you have only to scream.

  Rising, she opened the door a crack to see Berry, lurking in the passageway. “Yes?” she whispered.

  “If you please, you must stay inside with the door locked. As a precaution.”

  They regarded each other. She debated whether to ask him a few pointed questions but instead said only, “Thank you.”

  He didn’t move. “You should lock it, please.”

  She nodded, and then closed the door, turning the key in the lock with an audible click. She turned and went back to sit on her berth for a few minutes but she did not prepare for bed; if only the cabin weren’t so cramped—she co
uld not be comfortable. Restless, she stood and walked the few paces she was able, and then pulled a coverlet over Bing, wishing she knew what was afoot. Whilst she was thinking, she thought she heard a noise above her. She stilled and listened, but did not hear it again.

  Welcoming the distraction and the excuse to abandon the cabin, Hattie carefully unlocked the door, exited, and then locked it again behind her. Listening and holding her breath, she stood in the passageway. Again, a muffled sound from above. Walking softly down the passage, she ascended the companionway stairs and peered cautiously out on the deck. The immediate area was deserted and so she emerged into the cool night air.

  The scene before her was magical; the moonlight reflecting off the waves and the colors around her muted to grays and dull greens—as though she were in another world. Aside from the occasional groaning of wood rubbing against wood and the hissing of the water in the wake, it was quiet. She stepped toward the quarterdeck, in the general vicinity of the sounds she had heard, alert to discovery and prepared to give an excuse in the event she was spotted. As she rounded the mizzenmast she heard a low grunt, and stifled a gasp as she quickly crouched down and peered around the mast’s base. Before her she could make out the figures of two men, grappling in deadly earnest.

  Chapter 12

  The moonlight allowed for some illumination and after a startled moment, Hattie realized it was Berry, wrestling with another man she didn’t recognize. His opponent was a large man and well-muscled—a common seaman, perhaps.

  It was a strange scene; the men were locked together, each straining to gain an advantage in utter silence. With a soft grunt, Berry made a quick move to wrap an arm around his opponent’s neck so as to gain leverage, although he was outweighed by several stone. The other, however, stymied this attempt and instead groped to find his own chokehold. Both men trembled and grunted with exertion, neither able to subdue the other. Hattie watched from her hiding place and debated whether to sound the alarm; her only hesitation stemmed from the fact that if Berry had wished to call for assistance he would have done so—there were no doubt others within a shout’s distance. Before she could decide how to proceed, she observed the opponent’s hand creep up to Berry’s jaw and begin to push, forcing his head slowly backward despite the other’s best efforts to resist.

  Well—this won’t do, thought Hattie. Looking about her, she grasped the nearest weapon available: a spare wooden block stored near the pin rail. Hattie was small and the block was heavy, so she swung it to one side so as to gain enough momentum to lift it above her head, then leapt from behind the mast, timing her swing so as to bring the block down on the back of the opponent’s head. With a grunt, he dropped like a stone to the deck.

  Inordinately pleased with herself, Hattie admired her handiwork for a moment, still holding the heavy block in the event it may be needed again while Berry bent and gasped for breath, his hands on his knees. He managed to glance up at her sideways. “I thank you.”

  “Is he dead?” She wasn’t certain how she felt about this possibility.

  Bending down, he put his fingers on the throat of the unconscious man. “No, but his head will ache tomorrow.” He gestured to her. “Give me your sash.”

  Hattie placed the block on the deck and untied her pink ribbon sash, handing it over. Berry bent and bound the man’s hands with a few practiced movements.

  “Who is he?”

  “No one to concern you.”

  Berry was in his shirtsleeves, his hair dark with perspiration and his shirt collar torn at the neck so that his throat was revealed to her interested gaze. As he recovered his breath, he stood upright and dabbed at his lip with the back of a hand—she could see that it was cut and bleeding. “You are hurt. Shall I fetch the captain?”

  “No. You were asked to remain below, I believe.”

  “I am thankful I did not,” she retorted, thinking that a small show of gratitude would not be completely out of line. “And you are mixing your accents.” It was true—he was speaking with a decided accent that was quite different from his usual French one. Hattie, who had little experience in foreign accents—with the possible exception of their Yorkshire cook—did not recognize its origin.

  He nodded, as though she had told him something of mild interest, and dabbed at his lip again. When next he spoke, the French accent was back in place as though it had never been gone. “You had best go below. Be certain to lock your door and do not wander about.”

  “Then do you believe there are more?” she asked in alarm. “Promise me you will be careful.”

  “I am always careful—now go.”

  Annoyed that he was annoyed, she retorted, “Fine,” and turned to leave with a flounce, only to ruin the effect by stumbling over the wooden block.

  Grasping her arm so as to steady her, he did not relinquish his hold but instead propelled her against the mizzenmast, the wood hard against her back as he pinned her with an arm around her waist. Lifting her face with his other hand, he kissed her.

  Hattie had never kissed a man—indeed had never been held so, even by her father. She felt an almost paralyzing sense of exhilaration and wished she knew what she was supposed to do as it seemed clear he knew exactly what to do. As if reading her mind, he found her hands with his and pulled them up around his neck, then his arms went tightly around her waist and he was kissing her rather roughly, pressing against her in an intimate way that should have alarmed her but definitely did not.

  Clinging to his neck, she responded to the movement of his mouth against hers in a way she hoped was pleasing and that certainly seemed to provoke a heated reaction. He gently pulled at her jaw so that her mouth opened, and then his tongue was touching hers and she heard a moaning sound, which she realized, with some surprise, was emanating from herself. His hand moved over her, pressing a palm gently against a breast and then drawing down over her hip to pull her even closer. I have to stop this, she thought in a haze—but not just yet.

  Voices could be heard from the stern of the ship, and with some reluctance he released her. As her knees were now weak, she teetered a bit, and he steadied her with his hands at her waist for a moment, his gaze enigmatic in the moonlight while the vessel rocked in its progress through the boundless sea

  “Go—quickly.”

  Hattie obeyed without demur, hoping no one observed her retreat although she could always claim to have wanted a breath of fresh air—and truth to tell, she needed one just now. Filling her lungs, she quietly unlocked her cabin and slipped through the door, glancing to make certain Bing still slept on her berth. After turning down the lamp she quietly prepared for bed in the dim light, thanking heaven for the captain’s concoction—it seemed Bing would continue to slumber peacefully without any awareness that her charge first had been brawling and then committing improprieties on deck.

  After she settled into her berth, Hattie didn’t know what to think about first. Well, actually she did—but she needed to think about that later. Berry was not French. She decided she was not very surprised by this revelation; she already knew he was not whom he seemed and was only posing as her parents’ agent. There had been an enemy on board, presumably the one who had searched through her things as Berry had already taken a turn and had come up empty. Hattie fingered the golden disk on its chain around her neck. Was the captain also an enemy? She was not certain—he and Berry did not interact to any extent so it was difficult to judge. And although Berry could certainly kiss—and then some—she truly did not know whether he was, in fact, her enemy. It did seem as though he held a sincere affection for her, particularly because he had resisted it until now. Therefore, if he was bent on seduction as a means to discover her secrets, he was a very reluctant seducer. But in any event, it was clear he was not who he pretended to be, and she must have a care.

  The more important question, it seemed, was why everyone was so very interested. Berry—if that was indeed his name—had hinted at a reason; with her parents’ whereabouts unknown she suddenly and u
nexpectedly held authority over their effects, and those effects presumably were worth a fortune. But then why the interest in the disk, and in the elusive strongbox?

  Fingering the coverlet, she knit her brow and thought about it. Her parents had a secret, or something that was not readily discoverable. Something that was very valuable—so valuable that people were willing to kill for it. Hattie had little doubt that the deaths were all connected in some way—and Berry had admitted these were dangerous people, whoever they were. He knew, but he didn’t want to tell her. Indeed, Robbie had dropped hints to the same effect, but he didn’t want to tell her, either.

  And in a strange twist, no one ever had paid much attention to her but now every man jack she met was bent on beguiling her, although Berry’s approach just now was much more direct. She couldn’t suppress a delighted smile in the darkness, feeling a frisson run through her entire body at the blissful memory—she felt as though she had tasted a very potent drug and craved more of the same. For two pins, she thought, I would make an utter fool of myself and I mustn’t—I must find out what is at stake, and why the disk is so important to whatever is at stake. There seems little chance that Berry will tell me, and I have to fight my inclination to trust him completely.

  Unable to resist the desire to dwell on how it had felt when he kissed her, she allowed herself to do so at some length. It was intoxicating—it was wonderful—but she didn’t know how she could face him again as though nothing had happened. Because it seemed evident he had no desire to be perceived by anyone—least of all herself—as a suitor; instead he had kissed her because he couldn’t help himself.

  Which was odd in its own way, come to think of it; she was an eligible young woman and it was clear he was attracted to her, despite the fact he wrestled to resist that attraction. If she was an heiress—well, that was all to the good. She was vaguely aware that under normal circumstances, a man who took such liberties would be expected to make an offer forthwith. But she knew instinctively that no such offer would be forthcoming and indeed—she told herself firmly—she would not accept one as she did not know the first thing about him, other than he had admittedly lied to her and he was not who he said he was; hardly points to be toted up in his favor. There was only one thing she knew for certain; this was not the last time she would be held in such an embrace.