Seven years ago he’d promised himself he’d never do anything stupid because of a woman again.
Taking Mildred Whimpelhall to her fiancée definitely fell under that category.
CHAPTER SEVEN
“Time to get up, Miss Whimpelhall.”
Ginesse struggled out from the depths of an uncomfortable dream featuring a tall, disreputable-looking outlaw and blinked, her eyes adjusting to the darkened hotel room. She shook her head. She must still be dreaming because there was no other explanation for why James Owens would be sitting on the side of her hotel bed.
“What are you doing here?” she mumbled, looking around. Her window stood wide open to the terrace.
“We have to go. Now.”
“What are you doing here?” she repeated. She gathered the bedsheets high under her chin, scrambling back on her heels until she banged into the bed’s elaborately carved headboard. She could barely make him out. Just enough to see that he’d changed his shirt for a zaboot, the native tunic of the lower classes. It was not much of an improvement.
The garment stank of tobacco. And liquor, too. She sniffed. Yes, he definitely smelled of liquor. She peered at him over the linen’s laced edge. She’d read that some men became capable of terrible things while under the influence of liquor.
“What are you doing here?” Her voice rose an octave.
“I’m taking you to your fiancé.”
His tone was definitely not lecherous. She relaxed slightly. “To my fiancé?”
“Yes,” he said. “We have to go. Now.”
“I’m not going anywhere with you,” she said. “Please remove yourself from my room at once, Mr. Owens.”
“Miss Whimpelhall, I’m not asking—”
“Good. Because I’m not going.” Good heavens. Did he really think she would go tromping off with him in the dead of night? She hoped she was made of sterner stuff than that.
“Listen, miss.” He set one large fist beside her thigh and leaned forward. The white zaboot fell open nearly to his waist revealing a chest heavy with muscle, hard and contoured, the dark hair covering it glinting in the chance light. Quickly, she looked away, heat flooding her face. This was ridiculous. She’d read some extremely provocative Egyptian love poems without a blush. Dry words about dead lovers, an inner voice mocked. Nothing at all like this. He was real, so close that if she lifted her hand she could touch that wide, sculpted chest—
“No,” she said. “I will not listen. Now, must I ring for an attendant or will you leave?”
“You’re not calling anyone. Not until you listen,” he said. He shifted, bringing his face into the light.
She forgot her apprehension and embarrassment. “Good heavens! What happened to you?”
He looked awful. His left eye was swollen, his lip was split, and a bruise darkened the already beard-stubbled angle of his jaw.
Enlightenment dawned on her. “You’ve been in a brawl! A saloon brawl,” she breathed, recalling countless vivid descriptions of similarly battered men from her Western dime novels. She leaned forward to get a better look, the sheet slipping unheeded from her shoulder. “You have, haven’t you?” A tantalizing, horrifying thought occurred to her. “Was it over a woman?”
“What?” He jerked back, a brief expression of bewilderment appearing on his stern countenance. She was having none of it.
“It was!” she declared. “You got into a barroom brawl over some…” she scrambled for the right word, “some floozy! Don’t deny it.”
Whatever had Colonel Lord Pomfrey been thinking to send such a man to escort as delicate and timid a lady as Miss Whimpelhall? It was unconscionable. James Owens would have terrified Miss Whimpelhall. Luckily, Ginesse was neither delicate nor timid.
With an impatient gesture, he reached out and flicked the sheet back over her shoulder. “There are no saloons in Cairo,” he said.
“You know perfectly well what I mean. Some squalid establishment that caters to men’s lowest impulses.”
“Lowest impulses?”
“You…you should be ashamed of yourself,” she said. Something deep within him would surely respond with innate decency to a gently bred lady. It always did in her novels. “You didn’t start out as a desperado. You should…try to be a better man. I am sure you have it in you.” She hoped she sounded more confident than she felt. “Somewhere.”
For a moment he just stared at her and then abruptly stood up, looming over her, his eyes glittering in the dim room.
“You seen through me, miss,” he growled, in a rich Western drawl.
It was delicious.
“I was in a saloon brawl,” he admitted. “I ain’t proud if it, but when demon liquor has his way with a feller, there’s no telling what he might do.”
“I knew it!” Ginesse breathed.
“You were right. And now that I’m coming clean, I reckon it’s only fair to warn you, miss. I ain’t one of your English lapdogs.”
No, she thought, twining the sheets more tightly around her shoulders, he most definitely was not. She blinked up at him, uncertain what he meant, her heart racing wildly in her throat.
“Comprende?”
She frowned. “Pardon me?”
“You understand?”
“Yes.”
“So, when I say we’re going, we’re going. I’m the ramrod, got it?”
Ramrod…ramrod…Oh! The boss! She nodded.
“And whatever else I tell you to do in regards to our trek, you’re gonna do it and you ain’t gonna argue.”
“I would never argue. It’s unladylike.”
“You’re arguing now.”
She opened her mouth to—She closed it, swallowing hard. He sounded quite ruthless, and she felt a little frightened.
“Don’t look at me like that,” he said. “You ain’t got nothin’ to fear from me as long as you do as you’re told. I got one aim, and that’s to get you safe to your sweetheart’s arms. He entrusted me with your care, and I,” he looked away, his lips trembling ever so slightly, obviously moved by some great emotion, “and I live by the Code of the West. I aim to get you to him even if I have to carry you kicking and screaming the whole way.”
Oh. My.
“Got that?”
“Yes.” She caught herself on the brink of telling him she wasn’t Mildred Whimpelhall and that she wasn’t going anywhere with him. James Owens was far more than she’d bargained for when she’d begun this impersonation. Miss Whimpelhall had been right to be apprehensive.
But then she reminded herself that Colonel Lord Pomfrey had entrusted Mildred to Mr. Owens’s care and Colonel Lord Pomfrey was a man whose opinion could be counted on. He would never risk Miss Whimpelhall’s virtue, not to mention her very life, to a man who couldn’t be trusted.
More importantly, Ginesse was growing ever nearer to her own goal, her future, her triumph. She must remember that. She must remember why she was here and what success would mean. She rallied her spirits, lifting her chin.
“You must promise me you’ll resist all future temptation to imbibe spirits.”
He regarded her bleakly. “I’ll do what I can.”
“Promise me.”
“I don’t make promises I can’t keep. But I’ll promise you I’ll give it my best effort.”
“I should not like to have to report your behavior to Colonel Lord Pomfrey,” she said, hoping the threat might carry some weight, but fearing it didn’t.
His mouth tensed, but he only said, “Neither would I. Which is why it’s important we leave now. Before I succumb once more to the lure of liquor and a fancy lady.”
“Now?”
He nodded.
“It is the dead of night.”
“You’re arguing again.”
“But it is the dead of night.”
“Miss Whimpelhall,” he finally said, “we’re set to cross a very hot, very big desert.” The slight English accent had returned. His Western drawl probably only appeared when he was intoxicated or und
er duress from great emotion. Which was rather a shame. Bettering himself or not, she much preferred the Western drawl. “Which means we’ll be doing most of our traveling before sunrise and after dusk,” he continued. “Which means we start now. Within the hour.”
She didn’t want to argue with him. Leaving sooner rather than later served her purposes except…“But I haven’t had time to refurbish my wardrobe.”
“I’ve taken care of it.”
“You?”
“I meant Pomfrey. I forgot that he’d made arrangements to have suitable clothing packed and waiting for you with the rest of our provisions.”
She studied him. The feeling that there was something he wasn’t telling her gnawed at her.
“You won’t be too uncomfortable for the present,” he went on when she remained mute. “We’ll be on the river for most of the first two days, and it’s cooler on the water.”
“I see.” She shifted to the side of the bed and stood up, drawing the sheets around her. As tall as she was, he was a good five inches taller. “Please leave.”
He moved closer to her, looking down at her, his face shadowed and still. “I am sorry, miss, but we’re leaving here now,” he said softly. Dangerously. “You can go over my shoulder or on your own two feet.”
This was not a callow younger brother or fond father, but a hard-faced stranger with a dubious reputation. She was out of her depth.
This is dangerous. He’s dangerous, she thought. But if she wanted to get to Fort Gordon, she didn’t have any choice but to go with him.
“I am not disagreeing,” she said. “I only meant for you to leave in order that I can get dressed and pack what few things I have.”
As abruptly as it had arrived, the tension evaporated. “Oh. Well, then you shoulda said something.”
He moved to the open window and paused, silhouetted against the subtly lightening sky outside. “We’ll meet in half an hour at the bottom of the garden rather than the lobby. There’s no need to excite comment.”
He didn’t wait for her to answer but put a booted foot over the sill and silently disappeared into the night, leaving Ginesse to wonder: She knew why she didn’t want to attract anyone’s attention, but why didn’t he?
CHAPTER EIGHT
“Clearly, you have not thought this through,” Haji said. He tossed Jim the package he’d brought and then leaped into the felucca’s bow to join him.
Jim ignored the comment, handing off the package to one of the sailors to stow. “Did you get everything?”
Haji made a sour face. “By everything do you mean did I get clothing for that red-haired she-cat? Yes. Will it meet with her approval? No. Unsurprisingly, there were not many establishments catering to European women open at four o’clock in the morning. I had to resort to visiting a lady friend of mine who was not pleased to be asked to share her garments with an unknown female. I have no idea what she packed in that bundle. It could be rags. By the way, you owe me ten pounds for that.” He looked around. “Where is Pomfrey’s bride-to-be?”
Jim nodded toward the stern of the small sailing vessel where Mildred Whimpelhall sat, her hands braced on the gunwale as she looked toward the sunrise. The first thin light of day outlined her profile in a rosy glow, following the straight, sculpted length of her regal nose to the clean angle of her jaw and down her long, slender neck.
“Why is she still wearing those dark glasses?” Haji asked in disgust. “It is barely first light.”
Jim didn’t have an answer. He’d wondered about that, too, and in particular what color her eyes were. It had been impossible to tell their exact color in her hotel room, but far from being pale and weak looking, they’d appeared dark and brilliant, framed by long, curling lashes.
He’d noticed a few other things last night, too, because when the sheets had fallen down around her waist he’d have to have been blind not to take note of the full thrust of her breasts beneath her sheer cotton nightdress. He wished he hadn’t. He didn’t want to think of her as anything but the means to repay a debt. But she’d looked…He shook his head, refusing to follow his imagination any further. She’d looked like trouble, plain and simple.
He would have expected Pomfrey’s bride to be a prim sanctimonious woman who lived her life along very narrow, very clearly defined lines. Someone with the imagination of a carp and about the same blood temperature. The last sort of woman Jim would have expected Pomfrey to marry would be a vivacious, feminine, full-blown romantic. And Mildred Whimpelhall was definitely that.
With no help from him, she’d cast him into the role of some sort of cowboy-outlaw. When he’d realized that nothing he could say was going to dissuade her of that opinion, he’d decided he might as well take advantage of it. He sure as hell hadn’t been getting anywhere asking for her cooperation. If she wanted to believe he was a bad man, then a bad man he’d be, reasoning that if she didn’t know what he was capable of doing, she might not risk finding out by flouting him. She looked like a world-class flouter to him.
His mouth curved into an involuntary smile. She’d looked like a new-fledged owl, staring up at him from her nest of bedclothes round-eyed with wonder, a little frightened, a little excited—
“I did the best I could.”
Jim looked up, jerked out of his reverie by Haji’s voice.
“The crew,” Haji explained, nodding toward the quartet of men moving back and forth along the dock loading provisions and readying the boat. “They’re Nubians. I know you don’t speak Nubian, but they were the best I could do on short notice. The captain speaks some English.”
Jim nodded. English may well have been the captain’s only asset. He’d arrived drunk half an hour ago and had been trying to sober up ever since. As he watched, the barrel-chested Nubian belched and shouted an order to a boy. The lad hurried to the stern and began hauling the mainsail up the mast, making a mess of the process and earning bellows of rage.
“Good Lord. If we make it across the river without drowning it will be a miracle,” Jim muttered. “Just how much am I paying them?”
“Twenty piasters a day each. Fifty extra for the captain.”
“By all that’s holy, Haji.”
“Come, James. It’s not as if you were paying them; Colonel Lord Pomfrey is. All you need to do is hand him a bill. Were I you, I should make certain it was considerably padded.” He glanced at Mildred Whimpelhall and grinned. “Battle wages, I believe it’s called.”
His smiled faded. “But no amount of money is worth risking your life. This is madness, habib. LeBouef might not come after you himself, but he will set a price on you. Every wretch within fifty miles will be looking for you.”
“Doubt anyone’s going to be sneaking up on me in the desert,” Jim said, though in truth Haji wasn’t saying anything Jim hadn’t already thought.
“You aren’t doing Miss Whimpelhall any favors, either, James. You’re setting her up as a target right alongside of you.”
He’d thought of that, too. “LeBouef would have Mrs. Walcott and the British army on his head if he caused her any harm and he knows it.”
“Bah!” Haji said, thwarted. “She is Pomfrey’s bride. Let Pomfrey find another to guide her. Better yet, let him come for her himself.”
Jim hesitated. Haji was right, and looking at the inexperienced crew and the drunken captain to whose dubious skills he was entrusting her made him reconsider. She was so young and vulnerable, and while he knew LeBouef was too savvy a businessman to waste money by sending men chasing across a vast, uncharted desert after him, that didn’t mean some ambitious self-starter might not have a go at it.
“Listen to me,” Haji pressed. “So, she is forced to stay in an elegant hotel for a week or so. Is this so great a burden?”
No. It wasn’t.
“Yes! Yes, it is!”
At the sound of the frantic female voice, both men swung around to find Mildred Whimpelhall clambering over the crates toward them. The girl must have ears like a bat.
“
Ah, Miss Whimpelhall,” Haji said, his face smoothing. “I am sure if you understood what was at stake here, you would be happy to free Mr. Owens from his obligation.”
“I do understand!” she protested, stopping atop a crate next to the boy still working industriously and unsuccessfully to haul the halyard to its topmost position. “I know exactly what is at stake, and I can assure you your problems are paltry next to my need.”
Haji’s gaze hardened. “Even if it’s a man’s li—”
Jim grabbed his arm, giving the smallest shake of his head. “Look, miss,” he said. “I’m real sorry, but something came up that I hadn’t anticipated. It seems like it would be best for everyone if someone else took you to Fort Gordon. Haji here’ll set you up with a real good guide.”
“I don’t want another guide,” she said, paling. “I want you.”
Her adamancy startled him. “That’s real flattering, but there’s bound to be someone nearly as—”
“Oh, for heaven’s sake,” she sputtered. “I don’t give a fig whether you’re a good scout or bad guide or an indifferent whatever it is you want to call yourself. All that matters to me is that you are here now. It could be days before another guide can be found. I don’t have days.”
He couldn’t imagine Pomfrey inspiring that sort of fervor, but he nonetheless said, “I understand your eagerness to join your fiancé, but there are matters involved that are out of my control.”
“They are not! You are here. I am here. The crew is here. You were prepared to embark before he showed up.” She stabbed Haji with a dagger-like glare.
“I am most sorry to have been the instrument of your disappointment, sitt,” Haji said with pronounced irony.
She stomped her foot, and the crate she stood upon wobbled precariously. She didn’t notice. She’d set her hand on her hips, her chest rising and falling in agitation. “Listen to me. I intend to leave for Fort Gordon today. At once. With or without you, Mr. Owens.”
The Other Guy's Bride Page 6
