The Other Guy's Bride

by Connie Brockway

  “I’m fine,” she said. She could not recall ever feeling so safe…

  “Bloody, bloody hell! What the devil is wrong with you?”

  She was stunned.

  Until that moment, Mr. Owens had never raised his voice. Even when provoked by the drunkenness of the captain or the indolence of the crew, he’d remained soft-spoken and utterly self-possessed. Even when swearing in Arabic he’d done so in a quiet, businesslike manner.

  She pulled away from him, and he let her go. “I don’t know what you mean.”

  “Are you just flat-out determined to jinx this trip?” he shouted even louder.

  The hideous word that had haunted her childhood ignited a flame in Ginesse’s belly. Valiantly, she struggled to keep her anger in check. Even if he was not a gentleman, she should remain a lady. She’d worked hard to gain that distinction, to master her quick-fire temper and tendency toward precipitous words and actions.

  “I am sure I don’t know what you mean,” she managed. He loomed over her. She straightened her back and tried to loom back.

  “Today,” he shouted, “you nearly caused us to ram another ship; yesterday, you ran our boat aground; and the day before that, I had to dive into a filthy river after you!”

  It proved too much.

  “Well, at least you finally got a bath!” she shouted back. “Likely the first one you’ve had this year!”

  And while they were shouting at each other another dahabiya appeared out of nowhere and clipped the bowsprit clean off their felucca. The impact pitched her into the stacked crates. She folded like an accordion, stunned and horrified. It wasn’t possible. What was the likelihood of a boat hitting them twice in one day? Maybe she was a jinx.

  The spirit in her fled. Tears welled up in her eyes. She curled into a ball, hid her head in her arms, and cried.

  “Are you all right?” she heard Mr. Owens say, as large hands clasped her shoulders and pulled her upright. “Mildred, are you all right?”

  She snuffled miserably again, wondering who Mildred was until she realized he meant her. She peeked up. He was on his knees, his brow furrowed with concern.

  It was her undoing. She didn’t deserve his concern. She’d lied to him, used him, made him dive into a river and risk his life for her, shouted at him, and now he was taking care of her.

  She turned around, flung her arms around his neck, buried her face against his throat, and sobbed. She bawled in a way she hadn’t since she’d been banished from Egypt: loud, heartrending sobs of undiluted wretchedness. And he let her. He just put his arms around her and let her cry.

  “Now, now,” he said finally, his voice awkward and self-conscious. “There now. You’re all right. You’re fine.” He patted her head with one hand while his other arm tightened around her.

  “No, I’m not,” she wailed. “I’m not fine. I’m a disaster.”

  “No, you’re not,” he said. He didn’t sound very convincing.

  “I’m a disaster and you despise me!” she wailed. “You wish we had never met. You…you rue the day!”

  “No, I don’t,” he said, using the hem of his shirt to dab at her eyes. “No ruing. I promise.”

  “You do,” she said, sniffling. “And I don’t blame you. I should, too, if I were you.”

  “No, I don’t. Really,” he said.

  “You’re just saying that to be kind. Everything I do turns out badly.”

  “It does seem that way, doesn’t it?” he said, again with that odd, lost tone to his voice, still dabbing assiduously away at her tears. “It’s not your fault.”

  She blinked away her remaining tears. “It’s not?”

  “No. You’re…I don’t know.” It wasn’t exactly a vindication, but it was enough. She smiled at him, suddenly happy, and thought she heard him catch his breath.

  “And you really don’t rue the day we met?” she asked.

  “I really don’t.”

  “That’s awfully decent of you.”

  “Is it?”

  “Yes. And I promise, I will not cause a moment’s more trouble.”

  “That’s nice.” He sounded like he didn’t have the least hope she’d keep her promise. She wasn’t too sure herself, if it came down to it, but she was going to try her hardest.

  She pushed herself to an upright position, and he rose to his feet, effortlessly pulling her up. She smiled sunnily up at him. He stared down into her face, looking a little strange. Then he turned around and without a word headed toward the back of the felucca. She watched him go, befuddled.

  “Where are you going?” she asked.

  “To my kit,” he said.

  “Why?”

  He stopped, turned around, and looked at her. “Because I need a drink.”

  “Now, Mr. Owens,” she said worriedly. “I know these last few minutes have been harrowing, but spirits, as we all know, only provide false courage.”

  “That’s good enough for me.”

  She frowned. “You must try to resist.”

  He turned back around. “That’s what I keep telling myself,” she heard him mutter.

  But he kept on walking.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  “Look, Miss Whimpelhall. I’m going to talk to the police officer over there and find out the whereabouts of Pomfrey’s soldiers.”

  Ginesse looked dubiously at the old man in an Egyptian uniform sitting outside a very small whitewashed building at the end of the wharf. He seemed to be asleep.

  “I want you to just sit right there on that crate. Right where you are. Don’t move, don’t talk to anyone, and don’t touch anything.”

  She frowned at his inference.

  “Do you think you can do that?”

  “What a ridiculous question.”

  “Yes,” he said evenly. “It’s a ridiculous question. But, do you think you can do that? For five minutes?”

  She gave a haughty sniff, turned her head away, and nodded.

  “Good.”

  She looked back around, but he’d already started down the pier. He glanced back at her. Thinking he’d changed his mind, she started to rise, but he shook his head, staring sternly at her until she sank dolefully back down on one of crates the crew had unloaded before dispersing.

  She watched him appreciatively as he greeted the old man and the two of them fell into conversation. He looked wonderfully fit and virile. He’d bathed in the river the night before while they’d been moored offshore and she’d been trying to sleep in the improvised tent he had the sailors erect each night in the felucca’s bow.

  She knew she shouldn’t have gazed out in the direction of the splashes. But she’d never been very good at resisting temptation, and in all honesty she hadn’t tried very hard. She was really quite content to deal with the resultant guilt and shame because he really was spectacular. He’d been standing waist deep in the inky water, soaping up a broad chest and long, smoothly muscled arms. He’d plunged beneath the surface and then stood up, raking his wet hair back from his face as water ran in sparkling rivulets down his big body.

  He was sleeker than she’d imagined—and yes, it shamed her to admit she’d wondered what he would look like unclad, but she was dealing in shame today—broad shoulders tapering to a flat waist and trim hips that disappeared into the water. The moonlight had glinted in the light dusting of golden hairs covering his chest and forearms, catching and releasing the shifting sinews in his arms and the corrugated muscles of his belly as he twisted, soaping up again, the rich lather gliding off his slick body…

  Abruptly, Ginesse straightened, hunting for something with which to fan her cheeks. It was hot out here in the sun. She was still looking when Mr. Owens returned.

  “My word, Miss Whimpelhall, I’m impressed. You’ve managed to stay put without getting into trouble for a whole five minutes. That has to be some sort of record.”

  “Not at all,” she said haughtily. “Last year I went an entire fourteen minutes.”

  He hadn’t expected that. His dark b
rows rose in surprise, and he laughed. It was the first time she’d heard him laugh outright. It made him look younger and far less severe, his teeth flashing in a broad smile, his eyes crinkling up at the corners, long dimples appearing in each lean cheek. She’d thought he was well in his thirties, but now she reconsidered. He might not be all that much older than herself.

  She smiled back sunnily. She liked that she’d made him laugh. He should do so more often.

  “The officer has sent a boy to find Pomfrey’s men. It’s a small town. It shouldn’t take too long.”

  “And then what?” she asked.

  “Then?” he echoed. “Then I hand you over to them. All I am to do from here on out is guide.” She was certain she read relief in his expression. Had he found the task of escorting her that onerous? There’d only been three incidents. At least, major incidents. That wasn’t so great a number.

  “Do you have my money?”

  At the sound of the captain’s voice, she and Mr. Owens turned. The squat man was stomping toward them, a bulldog look of determination on his face. He stopped ten feet away, eying her warily as he addressed Mr. Owens. “You owe me my fee.”

  “Yup,” Mr. Owens said, reaching into his shirt pocket and withdrawing a sheath of bills. He peeled off a number and offered them to the captain.

  The captain swiped the money from his hand, counting them quickly and looking up. “This will not buy the repairs to my boat caused by this…this…” He looked straight at her.

  “I would be real careful of what I said next,” Mr. Owens advised softly.

  “This person,” the captain finished between clenched teeth. “You owe me another hundred piasters.”

  “You’re lucky to get what we agreed on. You don’t have a crew; you have a burlesque show.”

  The captain might not have known what a burlesque show was, but he understood the implication well enough. He flushed angrily. “Who is going to pay for a new spar? You are. Because she is to blame.”

  Mr. Owens smiled. It didn’t look anything like the smile he’d given her. It did not reach his eyes. Ginesse felt suddenly sure she would tread softly were she the captain. “I looked at the broken end of that spar,” he said. “It was rotting long before we boarded your boat.”

  “It does not matter. She pulled the boat into the dahabiya’s path and broke it!” croaked the captain, pointing at her.

  “It’s not really possible to pull…” Ginesse started to say, then reconsidered offering her insights as Mr. Owens shot her a quick, hard glance.

  “Your boat isn’t worth the nails holding it together,” Mr. Owens said. “You know it; I know it.” He peeled off one more bill and shoved it into the captain’s chest. “Consider this charity. Now we’re done. If I find anything missing from my cargo, I’ll be paying you a visit.”

  The captain gasped with indignation, snatching the bill from Mr. Owens’s hand and tucking it away. “I am no thief, Mr. Owens. I may be a drunk. I may own a humble—and now far humbler—boat,” he shot a malevolent glare at her, “and at times I may be forced to employ undesirables and thieves, but I am not one. Your things are all here.” As he turned and stalked away, Ginesse heard him mutter in Nubian, “I hope.”

  “May I get up now?” she asked as soon as he’d gone.

  “No.”

  She rose to her feet anyway. “I would like to change into one of the gowns Colonel Lord Pomfrey sent. You have been putting me off for days.”

  At first there’d been no time or place to change on the felucca. The captain had offered her the use of the only cabin, a small, cramped area beneath the mainsail, but after a quick tour of the rat’s nest, she’d decided she’d rather sleep on deck. After Mr. Owens had the crew construct a sort of shelter in the bow, she’d asked for the clothing. They couldn’t be found.

  After a cursory look, Mr. Owens had concluded that they were probably somewhere amongst the provisions he’d also been charged with bringing to the fort, but he didn’t know where and trying to find them by unpacking everything would be a chaotic undertaking. She wasn’t an unreasonable woman, so she’d agreed to wait. As such, she’d spent the last three days in Mildred Whimpelhall’s traveling suit, which now sported several tears and was coming apart at the seams.

  Looking at Mr. Owens in his fresh—relatively fresh—shirt and trousers, the leather suspenders hitched over each broad shoulder, a simple khafiya loosely knotted around his throat, she felt grubby. And hot. Incredibly hot.

  It hadn’t been so bad while they were on the water, but sitting on the dock under the blazing sun, she could feel the sweat trickling down her back and soaking into the close-fitting jacket. She’d rid herself of her petticoat, but that had only made the skirt grab her damp legs when she walked. She could not wait to rid herself of the malodorous, wretched rags.

  Self-consciously she touched her hair. It hadn’t been washed since Cairo, and it was a little, well, stiff. She feared there were still bits of the river entangled in it from her misadventure.

  “Could you perhaps find the package with my dresses?”

  In answer, he started unstacking boxes and crates, spreading them along the entire dock until he finally found one particular bundle and handed it to her.

  “Thank you.” She stood up and started down the dock. He fell into step beside her. “Would you ask the officer if I could use his office to change?”

  At the end of the dock, Jim spoke to the officer, who graciously complied with her request. She slipped past the men into the tiny, one-room office and closed the door, putting the bundle on the table and pulling open the oilcloth wrapping. She frowned, poked her finger at the clothing, and lifted up the top layer. Her frown deepened. She peeled back another layer. Then she ripped the rest of the clothing from the bundle, searching for something, anything, she could reasonably be expected to wear.

  There was nothing.

  “I don’t think I should come out,” Mildred Whimpelhall called through the building’s small shuttered window.

  “Why?”

  “Someone sent the wrong package of clothing. It’s entirely inappropriate,” she said in an odd voice. “I have no idea what sort of woman would wear these things. If it was a woman.”

  What was wrong? Maybe Haji’s girlfriend hadn’t owned any European clothing and had only packed a caftan. Quite possibly Miss Whimpelhall didn’t like the idea of appearing in public in Egyptian clothing.

  He was disappointed. But then, why should he presume to feel anything about Miss Whimpelhall’s actions or attitudes?

  Because when she cried and put her arms around your neck so tightly, you knew you should have untangled them because it wasn’t your place to comfort or to hold or to touch or anything…and you knew you could no more have let her go than you could have wrested the sun from the sky.

  “I’m sure it’s fine,” he said, angry with himself. “You’re going to have to come out sooner or later, so it might as well be now. We don’t have all day, Miss Whimpelhall. Especially if we want to leave come dusk.”

  “All right,” she said in a tone clearly designed to act as a warning.

  She emerged from the officer’s building, and Jim’s mouth went dry. He blamed the trousers.

  Where had Haji’s lady friend gotten a pair of boy’s trousers such as might have been worn by a military cadet? They left nothing to imagination, hugging her well-rounded buttocks and delineating the juncture at the apex of her thighs with peace-stealing effect. Half of him hoped she’d never put on skirts again and half of him wanted to rip the turban off the Egyptian officer’s head and cover her up before anyone else saw her.

  The farasia she wore over it was no better, the tantalizingly filmy cotton shirt revealing as much as covering her golden skin. Beneath that, she wore an antaree, a short, tightly molded silk vest that pushed the tops of her soft bosom above its low décolletage.

  “See?” she asked irritably, making a sweeping gesture at her attire.

  He swallowed hard.
/>   “Cover her before she is seen!” The elderly police officer had bolted up from his chair and was standing in front of her, trying to shield her from the street view. “She is indecent!”

  Jim looked around for something with which to cover her.

  “I’m not putting on that skirt and jacket again,” she warned him, looking a little frayed, a little frantic. “If you or him wants to find some native clothing for me, I am more than willing to wear it, but I am not putting on that wretched costume again. Ever.”

  She meant it.

  Jim turned to the poor officer who was looking around as anxiously as a Christmas goose for an axe blade. “Where can I find some suitable clothing?”

  “Make her go inside. Do something!”

  Dammit. She was going to cause an incident. Jim took up a place next to the officer, adding his bulk to the human shield he was trying to make. “Look,” he told her, “you can’t be seen here like that. You have to go back inside and wait while I find something to cover your…your…” He gestured toward her legs.

  “I told you I didn’t want to come out.”

  “And you were right,” he said. “Get inside. Please.”

  Without another word of argument, she turned and marched back into the building, leaving him staring at a trim backside whose pert jounce had the blood thundering through his body.

  With a silent groan, he went in search of something, anything to cover her up. If she didn’t get him killed outright during this trip, the sight of her in those damned trousers just might do the job.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  SIR ROBERT CARLISLE’S RESIDENCE, CAIRO

  FIVE DAYS LATER

  The boy knelt beneath the mashrabiya, the projected window’s intricately carved screen, making a desultory show of hawking his sister’s rice cakes to the infrequent foot traffic on the narrow, residential road. It didn’t matter if he sold any. He’d come here with another purpose in mind. His sharp ears were tuned to what was happening in the room above.

  “Her name does not appear on any of the passenger lists for those trains leaving Rome,” Haji’s aunt Magi said. Her gaze burned a hole in him where he stood fidgeting in front of Sir Robert’s cluttered desk.