The Other Guy's Bride

by Connie Brockway

  No one had questioned whether the woman in Miss Whimpelhall’s room was, in fact, Miss Whimpelhall. The poor woman had been sequestered in her room with seasickness from the very first day of their voyage. Even the attendants who’d brought Miss Whimpelhall’s food and emptied the chamber pot hadn’t had more than a glimpse of a prostrate figure with red hair lying on a bed behind a half-drawn curtain.

  The red hair had been a matter of concern, of course. Ginesse hadn’t been sure the powdered henna she’d liberated from Miss Whimpelhall was up to the task of convincingly dying her own hair, but four days and eight applications of henna had indeed turned it an exuberant shade. The first thing she’d done in Alexandria was buy some darkened glasses, just in case Colonel Lord Pomfrey had mentioned Miss Whimpelhall’s eye color to Mr. Owens. There was no possibility of anyone describing her eyes as light blue.

  With that thought, she drew the glasses she’d purchased out of her jacket pocket and put them on. At once she felt more confident. Her impersonation was going to succeed, and once she got to Fort Gordon…? Well, something would occur to her. The Fates had led her this far, and she could not believe they would abandon her at the last minute.

  The train squealed to a halt, releasing a cloud of hissing vapor. She stood up, hauled her valise from the rack, and peered out the window, searching for a rough-looking American. A handsome young Egyptian man in a European suit sauntered by below her window. She started, checked, and stared.

  It couldn’t be.

  It was.

  Haji Elkamal.

  Haji had been the chief tormentor of her childhood. As a teenager, he had occasionally lived with his aunt Magi in Ginesse’s great-grandfather’s house. As Sir Robert’s pet, he’d styled himself as a translator on a few of her great-grandfather’s digs. Arrogant, dismissive, and maddeningly superior, he’d made light of her every effort to win approval. When she tried to speak the patois of the workers, he laughed hysterically; when she’d found a mummified cat, he’d disparaged it as common.

  Her eyes narrowed. Haji had also been instrumental in her banishment from Egypt. It had been Haji who’d told everyone she’d set fire to that cache of ancient papyrus (which hadn’t actually been all that old as far as ancient papyri went).

  She tapped her fingers on the sill, thinking. This was no coincidence. Her great-grandfather must have sent Haji to collect her. Drat. Though she’d sent a telegram from Italy saying she’d be arriving in Cairo a few weeks late, she still should have foreseen this. Her great-grandfather had doubtless misplaced her message or, even more likely, never read it. Sir Robert Carlisle had no interest in forms of communication more modern than papyri. He decried the invention called “postcards” as the end of civilized interaction.

  She would simply have to avoid Haji, she decided, plopping her hat atop her head. And if he did see her, he probably wouldn’t recognize her. They hadn’t met in six years, and she was no longer a little girl. She was at least three inches taller than him now, not to mention the fact that her once blonde hair was now very, very red.

  Poor Haji. He would undoubtedly waste the rest of the day meeting every train, waiting for her to appear.

  It served him right.

  She leaned out of the window, watching with a smile as he wended his way through the crowds fruitlessly looking for her. So far, he didn’t realize just how fruitlessly. She frowned as he stopped wending and hailed a tall, bare-headed, and disreputable-looking man with dark gold hair and three days’ growth of beard.

  Oh, no.

  She peered more closely. The man certainly looked like a desperado: tall, whipcord lean, with broad shoulders and overlong, sun-streaked hair. His face was hard and still, his light colored eyes narrowed beneath dark brows. He looked stern and uncompromising.

  And dirty.

  Beneath a rumpled jacket, he wore a sweat-stained cotton shirt, his worn trousers held up by heavy leather suspenders and tucked into scarred, scuffed, knee-high leather boots. A black and white khafiya, the traditional desert scarf, was looped around his strong, tanned throat.

  Desperately, she scanned the platform, searching for another “ruffian of the highest order.” She didn’t find any. He could only be James Owens.

  As she watched, he pushed off the wall and went to meet Haji, moving with the easy, soft-footed grace of a large cat. A large dangerous cat.

  Drat and blast. Why did all the scoundrels in Egypt have to know one another?

  CHAPTER THREE

  “Bernie, is that you? It is! Are you mad?”

  Only one person in all of Egypt called him Bernie, a curse Jim Owens called down upon himself when he’d instructed Haji Elkamal to send word of his death to a firm of London solicitors. Until that moment no one in Africa had known his real name; he’d enlisted in the Legion under a false one. He’d only given Haji the task because there hadn’t been anyone else around when a viper had made a passing stab in his arm. He’d figured someone ought to give Jock confirmation of his death. It was too bad it would have also provided Althea with so much pleasure.

  But despite Haji’s knowledgeable—and gleefully fatalistic—assurances to the contrary, Jim had survived the viper’s bite. Unfortunately, so had Haji’s memory.

  He turned around. “Don’t call me Bernie again. Next time you do, it’ll hurt.”

  “Fine. James, are you mad? The chief of police has sworn to have you arrested if you set foot inside the city.”

  “I’ve heard.”

  “LeBouef is looking for you, too, and his intentions are not pleasant. But you already knew that. Why would you risk coming here?”

  Jim appreciated Haji’s concern, though it was unnecessary. Somewhere during the course of the seven years since they’d met, Haji had turned from Jim’s sometime accomplice into one of his few friends.

  “Repayment of a debt.”

  Haji’s eyes narrowed then widened. “Tell me it is not so! The repellent Colonel Pomfrey has finally called in his markers?”

  “Colonel Lord Pomfrey, and yes,” Jim said.

  “This debt has chaffed you.”

  Jim didn’t bother answering. Of all the people in world who might have stumbled across his half-dead carcass in the desert seven years ago it had to have been then Captain Lord Hilliard Pomfrey, as sanctimonious as he was sartorial and as conscientious as he was condescending. They’d loathed one another on sight, and all future contacts had only deepened their mutual antipathy. Even so, keeping Jim alive must have been some sort of spiritual test that Pomfrey would not allow himself to fail because even though they were deep in the desert, he had turned around and hauled Jim’s carcass back to civilization.

  He suspected Pomfrey spent every night on his knees annoying heaven with a tally of all the unreciprocated good deeds he’d done in his campaign for sainthood. Jim figured his name was near the top of the list. Over the years that idea had gone from irritating Jim to flaying him like sands whipped up by a wind-storm.

  “I have never understood why you feel so strongly about paying off this one particular debt,” Haji said.

  “A gentleman always pays his debts. No matter what the coin. No matter how long it takes.” It was a lesson learned long ago, one of the few recalled from the life he’d abandoned.

  “Gentleman,” Haji scoffed lightly. “What the devil do you care if Pomfrey thinks you’re a gentleman?”

  “I don’t,” Jim said. “I care what I think.”

  “Aha! The iconic Wild West code of honor?” Haji brightened.

  Jim didn’t bother arguing. It wouldn’t have done any good. Haji was a sucker for pulp fiction set in the American West.

  “How is this debt of honor to be repaid? Are you to transport opium? Kill his rival?” Haji asked.

  Jim raised an eyebrow. Either his reputation was a lot more interesting than he’d realized or Haji’s concept of debt repayment was a lot more far-reaching. “Pomfrey? Ask me to do something illegal? Immoral?”

  “Of course. A man could only be
so ardently concerned about his immortal soul if there is cause.”

  Jim entertained the idea of Pomfrey as a secret vice lord for a few pleasant seconds before giving it up. “Sorry to disappoint you, but nothing as exciting as mummy stealing or drug running.”

  “But you are a mercenary,” Haji pointed out.

  “I prefer soldier of fortune,” Jim said.

  The Legion had listed him as dead along with the rest of his patrol. He decided to let the record stand. Since then he’d lived an eventful life in Egypt and North Africa, often crossing the line of what he knew to be ethical. Hell, he hadn’t only crossed it; he’d left it so far behind he couldn’t make it out anymore.

  But no matter what he had done, he’d always remained grimly determined to repay his debt. He figured every man was entitled to a few illusions about himself, and one of his was that he still had some honor left. In a matter of two months, that is all he would have left of his former life. In two months Althea would appear before the courts and have him declared legally dead. Two months.

  “So, what has Pomfrey demanded that you do to settle the account?”

  “I’m to collect his fiancée off that train,” Jim said. “Miss Mildred Whimpelhall.”

  “What? You? You are to play terrassieur to a lady?” Haji asked, choking on laughter at the thought of Jim in the role of paid male companion. “Where will you go first? The pyramids? The museum? Perhaps you can visit—”

  “Shut up, Haji.”

  “I can’t! It is too wonderful. Who would have thought Pomfrey capable of such subtle and adroit malice?” Haji asked. “I swear I am forced to reconsider my opinion of him. I wouldn’t have credited him with so much imagination. To demand repayment for having saved your life in so banal a currency! There could be no more supreme declaration of how utterly inconsequential he considers you. It is sublime.”

  “I’m not her tour guide,” Jim said. “I’m taking her to Pomfrey at Fort Gordon.”

  The hilarity faded from Haji’s face. Fort Gordon was deep in the Sahara, near the Sudan border, a dangerous and hostile place.

  “I thought Pomfrey was in Luxor? When was he given the command of Fort Gordon?”

  “Eight months ago. Really, Haji. You gotta keep up with the times. How are you going to know whether to duck or run if you don’t know who’s standing behind the gun?”

  Haji ignored him. “Why didn’t Pomfrey send soldiers to escort her?”

  “He has. Half a dozen men. They’re waiting for us upriver at Suhag. All I have to do is get her there. After that, I’m just the guide.”

  “Half a dozen men seems inadequate. Why not more?”

  “Because what with his winning ways, Pomfrey has already managed to make enemies of all the local tribes. He’s afraid that sending a slew of soldiers to fetch his fiancée would be advertising a hostage for the taking. I tend to agree. He thinks I’m his best chance of getting her to Fort Gordon without incident. I tend to agree with that, too.”

  Haji looked skeptical. “Really?”

  “I might not speak the local dialect, but I haven’t pissed anyone off, either. I figure two weeks or so and Pomfrey and I are quits.”

  Haji rubbed his cheek thoughtfully. “Whimpelhall. An interesting name. Is she pretty? I bet she is not. Pomfrey would never take a wife prettier than himself.”

  Jim disagreed. “Pomfrey would never take a wife other men didn’t covet.”

  Haji considered this a second and then shook his head. “No. She will be ugly. I will bet you an English pound.”

  “Done.”

  “What else do you know about her?”

  “She’s a spinster, a redhead, and Pomfrey says I’m not to ‘offend her delicate sensibilities’ by attempting to converse with her, as she is a shy and genteel lady.”

  Haji grinned. “Oh, you’ll offend her, all right. What are you thinking, James? Meeting an English lady in such squalid attire? You look like a drunk after a night on the docks.”

  Jim shrugged. “I didn’t have a choice. I only arrived in Cairo last night. I woke up this morning to find my kit stolen.” His kit held the few things he owned—a bedroll, a couple books, a hair-brush, and the deed of sale for his one extravagance, his Arabian mare and her foal. They were stabled in Luxor at the facility of a man who loved the breed as much as Jim did. “It took me until an hour ago to chase down the bloody bugger.”

  “Bloody bugger,” Haji repeated thoughtfully, testing the words. “An odd choice of words for a cowboy.”

  Jim wasn’t going to satisfy his curiosity. “What are you doing here, anyway?”

  Haji sighed dramatically. “I have been sent here by my aunt, a terrifying woman who occasionally ferrets me out for some task or another.”

  “What’s the task?”

  “I, too, am to acquire a female passenger from the train.”

  “‘Acquire a passenger’? It sounds as if you’re taking custody of a wild animal.”

  “This is not far from wrong. I am here to meet Ginesse Braxton.”

  “Braxton?” Jim repeated. “Any relation to Harry Braxton?”

  Though he’d never met Braxton himself—they hardly ran in the same circles—he’d had a few run-ins with Braxton’s men in the Antiquities Service. None of them had been pleasant, and all of them had cost Jim in some coin or other. Usually gold coins.

  Braxton made it his business to interfere with the sale of questionably obtained artifacts. Which was sometimes Jim’s business.

  “His daughter.”

  “Why didn’t Braxton come for her?”

  “The whole family is in London awaiting the addition of yet another little Braxton before returning to Egypt. Apparently, Ginesse Braxton is being interviewed by Monsieur Maspero for a position cataloguing Roman artifacts and had to come forthwith.” He snorted derisively. “Why would one not go to Rome if one were interested in Romans?”

  “Because there was an era when—”

  “No. Because,” Haji cut in severely, “she is a contrary, spoiled demon of perversity. As a child she was a constant thorn in everyone’s side, popping up at dig sites where she had no business, stealing off with bits of pottery and scraps of papyrus, always where she was least wanted and most likely to cause trouble. A scrubby, scrawny, yellow-haired imp. In fact, many were convinced Braxton hadn’t named his daughter as much as identified her.” At Jim’s querying look he elaborated. “Not Ginny, but djinn.”

  Jim grinned. According to legend, the djinni were minor spirits bent on mayhem and mischief.

  “It was a happy day when she was sent off to England. But now she is back, and I am to play nursemaid,” Haji said, adding under his breath, “Again.”

  “Maybe she’s changed,” Jim suggested, scanning the platform. Where was the blasted woman?

  “A djinn may change her appearance, but its nature stays the same: meddlesome, disruptive, and dangerous. You will see. Look for someone with a broken arm or in bloodstained clothing. Ginesse Braxton is sure to be trailing right behind.”

  “You haven’t seen her for years,” Jim said. “You said she went to school, probably boarding school. They press out dutiful young ladies by the ream.”

  Haji grunted. “What do you know of English ladies, a desert rat like you?”

  “Nothing,” Jim said amiably, his eyes on the train. The doors were finally open, and the porters had unloaded the steps. Men, children, and women were emerging into the hot, dimly lit station to stand blinking uncertainly before the sudden onrush of beggars and vendors, pickpockets and porters.

  He found Mildred Whimpelhall the moment she emerged. It would have been impossible to miss that magenta-colored head of hair, even half hidden under a hat.

  Haji followed his gaze. “You owe me a pound,” he said.

  “Why?”

  “Why?” Haji repeated incredulously. “Look at her. Too tall. Too thin. Her nose is too large, and her jawline is too strong. And that hair!”

  Jim’s gaze sharpened. The yo
ung lady’s eyes were hidden behind a pair of lens-darkened spectacles, but the rest of her features, though decidedly bold, were symmetrical and faintly exotic…Ugly? Haji must be mad.

  “She might be slender, but if you think she’s too tall, that’s pure unadulterated jealousy speaking.”

  Haji, who stood two inches below five and a half feet, huffed.

  Jim wasn’t paying him any attention. The girl turned to look over her shoulder, and for a second her face was silhouetted against the light coming from the tunnel opening behind her. Jim’s breath caught in his chest. For a moment the ghost of the lad he’d been, ardent and receptive and easily moved by unexpected beauty, sprang into keen life once more.

  “That profile, my friend,” he murmured, “has graced many an ancient tomb.”

  “What?” Haji asked incredulously.

  “Ankt and Isis, Diana and Artemis.”

  But those lips, he added silently, are pure English. Not the anemic, tight lips of an English matron, but the lush, come-hither lips of a mischievous English lass. Something tightened in his chest.

  “But what about her nose?”

  He cocked his head. “I’d call it…Florentine.”

  CHAPTER FOUR

  “You’d say an elephant was dainty in order to win a bet,” Haji protested.

  “I’m gonna give you the hair,” Jim admitted. Mildred Whimpelhall’s hair was more than simply ugly; it was astonishingly ugly, a hideous broiled color that existed nowhere in the natural world.

  But the rest of her…The rest of her, though dusty, sweaty, rumpled, and travel-stained, was definitely not ugly. And also not demure. While the other female passengers were milling around awaiting masculine companions to escort them, Mildred Whimpelhall had waded into the sea of pressing bodies, her dark skirts swishing, the carpetbag she carried bouncing against her leg, her dispirited-looking hat bobbing atop her incredible hair.

  Sweat beaded above her crisply chiseled upper lip and her nose, requiring her to constantly push her darkened spectacles back up with a shove of her forefinger. Dust lay on her shoulders and dragged at the hem of the heavy, navy blue jacket and skirt that seemed to be the uniform of traveling females. Despite it all, she managed to convey a freshness that belied her bedraggled appearance.