The Other Guy's Bride

by Connie Brockway

  Dear Mr. Owens—

  Jim, standing just outside the stable, swore under his breath. Mr. Owens? By God, if she thought she could get away with calling him “Mr. Owens” after all they’d been to each other, she was sadly deluded. He went back to reading the letter some kid had handed him as he’d been leading the gray into the stables.

  He’d spent two nights in the freezing desert trying to decide what his next move should be. He’d returned when it had become glaringly obvious he didn’t have any idea. How do you court a woman who answered your last proposal by giving you a black eye?

  Marshaling his composure, he started the letter again.

  Dear Mr. Owens,

  I am writing you this letter in the off chance that when we meet again—or perhaps I ought to say ‘should’ we meet again because if I had my druthers we wouldn’t—you have the gall to resubmit your marriage proposal. I advise you not to waste your time or mine.

  He had to look up at this point and take a few deep, calming breaths before he could read on. The witch! If he was known for anything it was his self-possession, his coolness under fire, but then he had never been so embattled before. And it was all her fault. Her. The girl. The inimitable she. The authoress of all his misery. The thief who’d stolen his peace of mind.

  His heart.

  Dammit!

  I do not care a fig (she’d underlined this so heavily that the pencil lead had broken through the paper) how many horses you have, and I have no desire whatsoever (again the thick underscore) to marry a duke. I would not marry you now if the future of humankind depended on it.

  I trust I have made my position clear.

  Sincerely,

  Ginesse Roberta Braxton

  “Then what the hell does the woman want?” he shouted out loud, drawing the startled glances of the soldiers sitting outside the barracks cleaning their guns before drill practice. He looked at them, waving the piece of paper in the air.

  “Can someone please tell me what the woman wants? First, she won’t marry me because I don’t have anything to offer her,” he told the alarmed-looking men. “Fine. So be it. Did I wish she’d have said yes, she’d marry me in spite of the fact that I couldn’t offer her a bloody thing? Well, yes. I did. But I understood. I even applauded the decision. It made sense.”

  The alarm was fading from the enlisted men’s faces. A few even nodded in sober agreement.

  “This makes no sense.” He stabbed the paper with his finger. “Because now that I have something to offer her, now that I can guarantee her a life of comfort, now that I have a name worth wearing, now that I’m a bleeding duke, I’ve ask her again and she still won’t marry me.

  “Can someone explain this to me? Does anyone have an answer? And if you do, would you please tell me?” He looked up at the sky. “Would You please tell me? Send me a sign. Set a bush on fire. Just give me some bloody clue about what I’m supposed to do to get this woman to say yes.”

  “Well, son,” said an old-timer, resting his rifle across his knees, “the way I sees it, you musta done something wrong.”

  “Yes. Yes. I admit it. I did something wrong,” Jim shouted. “But I’m trying my damnedest to make it right.”

  The old-timer squinted up at him. “You, ah, you didn’t put it to her that way, did you?”

  “What way?” Jim said.

  “You did, didn’t you, you damn fool?”

  “Did what?” Jim demanded frantically.

  The grizzled veteran rose stiffly and shouldered his rifle. He looked at Jim a moment, shook his head sadly, then disappeared inside the barracks.

  “What did he mean?” Jim demanded of the rest of the men. “What was that about?”

  “I believe old Pyke there thinks the lady might love you,” another man ventured from where he sat.

  Jim strode over, leaned down, and pointed at his eye. “Does that look like love to you?” he asked. “Because it sure as hell doesn’t feel like it.”

  “Love can hurt,” said another man, calmly polishing his barrel. “If I were you, I’d find the lady and ask her, not us,” said a youngster so wet behind the ears he’d yet to be introduced to a razor.

  Jim stared at him. Ginesse had told him in no uncertain terms she didn’t want to see or talk to him, wanted nothing to do with him whatsoever. Seven years ago Charlotte had written him a similar letter, though she hadn’t said she never wanted to lay eyes on him again, and in fact, the whole letter had been couched in much gentler words. Jim had never seen her again. He hadn’t ever tried.

  He could have gone to Charlotte or written her and rectified her misconception, exposed Althea as the lying conniver she’d been. But his pride wouldn’t let him. Where was his pride now?

  Vanished without a trace. That’s what Ginesse Braxton did to him.

  “You know,” he said grimly, “I think I might just do that.”

  He strode across the parade grounds, heading for Pomfrey’s house and where he assumed Ginesse would be. When he reached the house, he pounded on the door, girding himself for a confrontation, half prepared to throw her over his shoulder and carry her off.

  Colonel Pomfrey opened the door. “Oh, Owens. It’s you,” he said. “I was just heading for my office. I can see you have something to say. Say it while we’re walking.”

  “Where’s Miss Braxton?” he asked.

  Pomfrey brushed by Jim. “She’s not here.”

  “Fine,” Jim said, falling into step beside him. “Where is she?”

  Impatiently, Pomfrey swept a hand out in a general westerly direction. “Out there somewhere, I should imagine.”

  “What?”

  Pomfrey didn’t slow his pace. “She left two days ago, the day after she did,” he glanced sharply at Jim’s eye, “that. Went looking for that infernal lost city of hers.”

  “What?”

  Pomfrey shot him an unfriendly look. “Good heavens, man, are you hard of hearing? I said she’s out hunting for Zaboza, or Zerbata, or whatever it’s called.”

  “You let her go off in the desert alone?”

  At this, Pomfrey drew to a halt. “Of course not. I know you have little respect for me, Owens, but at least credit me with being responsible. I would never have let her go off by herself. She took Sir Robert’s porters and attendants and is accompanied by Professor Tynesborough.”

  Jim tensed. Jock? Jock wouldn’t have any idea what sort of dangers awaited her, what sort of disasters lurked. He wouldn’t stand a chance of keeping her safe. And they’d already been out there together for two days?

  “Where exactly did they go?”

  Pomfrey started walking again. “How should I know?”

  Jim seized his arm, stopping him. Pomfrey glared down at the hand holding his forearm and coldly back up into Jim’s eyes. “You must have really liked the accommodations in the stockade.”

  Jim bit back his frustration. He wouldn’t do Ginesse any good sitting in a cell. “I need to know, Pomfrey,” he said. “You don’t understand. She’s like a lodestone for natural catastrophe. I have to find her.”

  For a moment, he thought Pomfrey was going to refuse to say more. Then, he shook off Jim’s hand. “Sir Robert said they were thirty-five miles west on the twenty-fourth degree, somewhere between twenty and thirty minutes.”

  “I’ll need to borrow another horse to pack water.”

  “Blast you, Owens, you better bring it back healthy,” Pomfrey said.

  “I will. Thank you.”

  Jim headed back to the stable, tucking the letter inside his shirt.

  Against his heart.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  Haji and his men searched three miles of the south-facing ridgeline. They climbed up and down, investigating every cave and crevasse and looking beneath every ledge before he decided to turn back and go over the same area again. He’d learned the necessity of being thorough from Sir Robert, and he had no intention of being the man who walked past Zerzura. Besides, he owed Ginesse Braxton his best effort
.

  The workmen were happy to oblige. Compared to their usual workloads, this was a stroll. Even the cook, Timon, made a surprisingly scrupulous searcher, especially for someone so seemingly sedentary. Haji felt a little sheepish about insisting the fat Copt join the search. He worked hard enough as the camp cook.

  They were about a quarter mile from the camp when Timon’s strength began to flag. He’d disappeared beneath a ledge of rock for long minutes before reemerging, breathing heavily, his face above his thick beard slick with sweat. He moved slowly, bent over slightly at the waist as he waddled tiredly down the steep side of the wadi, his hands pressed to his belly.

  Haji studied him curiously. Somehow the fat Copt had managed to gain weight on their trip.

  “You look ill, Copt,” one of the other workers said. “Perhaps you are too old or too fat for this sort of work.”

  Timon grunted and flashed a tired smile. “I am afraid you are right, my friend,” he said. “It is my back.”

  Haji’s head had snapped around. He stared at the cook, studying him closely, only now seeing hands that were a shade lighter than the skin on his face, a beard too black for his brows, cheekbones too pronounced for the weight he carried on his body. Until this moment, Haji realized, he’d never heard Timon speak Arabic; he’d always spoken in English to Sir Robert and the rest of the party. And now he knew why: this man spoke Arabic with a French accent.

  LeBouef.

  Why hadn’t he seen it before? But then, who would ever imagine one of Cairo’s most notorious criminals being so exceptional a cook? Added to which, Haji knew the man only by reputation and vague descriptions. He had probably come to kill Jim but, ever the opportunist, had been sidetracked by the promise of treasure.

  And now another inspiration occurred to Haji which made sense of the increased size of Timon’s belly.

  Haji thought quickly. LeBouef had a reputation for being as amoral as a jackal and just as vicious, especially when cornered. Haji couldn’t risk putting one of the fellahin into his hands as a hostage.

  “You do look in considerable discomfort, Timon,” he said, contriving to sound worried. He turned to the rest of the workers. “You men continue on here. I’ll see that the cook gets back to camp, and then I’ll return.”

  “You are most kind,” Timon said in English, “but I can go back myself.”

  “Nonsense. You are too important to risk your health. Who would cook if you cannot? Lord Tynesborough? No, no. I have medicines in my tent for every occasion.” It was a patent lie, but LeBouef couldn’t know that. “I will find one for what ails you.”

  LeBouef could hardly refuse, nor did he. It didn’t take more than twenty minutes for them to reach the camp. There, Haji bade LeBouef sit by the cold fire pit and, after a quick inquiry about LeBouef’s “symptoms,” hurried to his tent. He found a length of rope and his pistol and returned to where he’d left LeBouef.

  He was still sitting, but as Haji watched, he shifted his “belly,” muttering as he did so.

  “Why don’t you just take it off?”

  LeBouef looked around, smiling. “Take what off?”

  “The stomach. I imagine it’s hot. Or is that where you’ve hidden whatever it is you found?”

  “I don’t know what you mean. I found nothing.” His eyes were wide with feigned fear, but there was nothing fearful in their depths. They were cold and assessing.

  “You disappeared into a hole; when you reappeared your belly was bigger than when you went in. Now, hold out your hands. If you do not, I will shoot you.”

  LeBouef hesitated a second and then held out his hands straight in front of him.

  “Thank you, Monsieur LeBouef.”

  The dark man’s eyes flickered with appreciation. “Bravo, Mr. Elkamal. Now what?”

  “I am trying to decide whether to shoot you or not. You’re far too dangerous for me to try to search you for weapons. However, if I shoot you in your hand, I think that might level the playing field.”

  “That won’t be necessary,” LeBouef said. “I don’t have a gun, but there’s a knife in my belt.”

  “Keep your right hand out in front of you and with your left, remove it. Put it down by your side. Good. Now, lie down and roll over on your stomach and then hold your hands behind your back.”

  “Mr. Elkamal—”

  “Do it.”

  With a sound of annoyance, LeBouef did as he was told. Haji kicked the knife away then, shoving the barrel of the gun into the back of LeBouef’s head and putting his knee in the middle of his back. Using his free hand, Haji lashed LeBouef’s wrists together. Then, trusting neither his rope-tying skills nor LeBouef’s seeming passivity, he leapt back.

  “Roll over and get up on your knees.”

  With a venomous glare, LeBouef complied.

  Quickly and from behind his captive, Haji bound LeBouef’s knees tightly together so that even if he managed to work his hands free, he would be unable to get to his feet. Then, and only then, did he tear open the front of LeBouef’s robes and withdraw a small pillow from within. A very heavy pillow, one end tied shut. Keeping his eyes on LeBouef, he opened it and turned it over. A pair of sandals tumbled out.

  Solid gold sandals.

  They were clearly for funerary purposes only; no one would have been able to walk in such heavy devices. The edges of the soles were lined with carnelian and malachite in cloisonné fashion. On each sandal a huge cabochon ruby was mounted at the terminus of twin straps lined with pearls the size of chickpeas. But what was most intriguing, most exciting for a historian of ancient Egypt, were the figures worked into the inner soles.

  Haji had seen pharaonic sandals twice before, and each time the figures depicted on the inner soles had been of Negro and Asiatic captives bound with stems of lotus and papyrus and four arrows. They represented the nine traditional enemies of Egypt whom the pharaoh symbolically trod underfoot. It was a conceit with a history dating back thousands of years. But these figures were neither Negro nor Asiatic, and the arrows were missing. Instead, there were a number of smaller figures in elaborate dress that Haji could not identify.

  His heart started to beat faster. Though worth a fortune for the gold they contained alone, these sandals’ value as archaeological specimens was incalculable. On the insoles of these sandals might be the undocumented history of central African states.

  “Pretty, aren’t it?” LeBouef said in the same voice he might have used to admire a simple poppy.

  “Magnificent,” Haji breathed.

  “And now they’re yours,” LeBouef said.

  Haji tore his gaze from the sandals.

  “So you might as well let me go,” LeBouef continued conversationally. “We both know you aren’t going to kill me in cold blood. You just aren’t that sort. I can see it in your eyes.”

  He was right, damn him. Haji loathed violence. “Maybe I’ll just take you back to Fort Gordon and let Jim Owens deal with you,” he suggested grimly.

  “Jim Owens,” LeBouef mused thoughtfully. “Yes,” he conceded, “given the proper set of circumstance, he is that sort.” His eyes grew cold as a desert night. “As am I. I owe that boy. He stole from me, broke one of my ribs, and worst of all, he made a fool out of me. Which is not good for business.

  “But we weren’t talking about Jim, were we? We were talking about you taking me to the garrison. Speaking subjectively, I don’t think that’s a good idea. Mostly for you.”

  “Oh?” Haji asked. No doubt about it, the man made him nervous. There was something reptilian about his lack of fear, his blank eyes.

  “Ask yourself this: Do you really want to take me all the way to the fort by yourself as your prisoner?” LeBouef asked. “Do you do well without sleep? I do. Of course, you could always ask Miss Braxton to give up her quest and go back. Twenty men should be plenty to ensure your safety. Should be. But, well, frankly, do you think she’d go?”

  He was right, damn him.

  “Just let me go,” LeBouef said. “I’m
not a fool, Mr. Elkamal. Nothing is worth dying for. Not even solid gold sandals. I won’t come back.”

  Haji didn’t believe him. If he let him go, he’d bide his time for a likely opportunity to retrieve the sandals. He’d sneak in at night or wait until they were spread out and then possibly take one of the men hostage, or even Ginesse herself. The damnable thing was that Haji couldn’t even send the sandals back to the garrison. LeBouef would pick off a courier as easily as shooting a bird in a tree.

  “What of Jim?” Haji asked.

  LeBouef’s smiled thinned. “What of dear James?”

  “If I let you go, will you leave him alone?”

  “No,” he said flatly. “He sold something that was mine to another. If that gets around—and things like that always get around—well, who knows who else might take it into his head to become an independent contractor? No, I’m afraid unless Jim comes up with the pectoral he will become a cautionary tale.”

  Haji thought, and he hated the course of his thoughts. His stomach roiled at them. His head hurt. But he had no choice.

  “What if give you the sandals?”

  He’d finally caught the Frenchman by surprise. He frowned, studying Haji closely.

  “What if I gave you the sandals and let you go?” Haji repeated.

  “Why would you do that?”

  “I don’t want to die. And I don’t want Jim to die, either.”

  “I’m listening.”

  “If I give you the sandals, you can tell everyone they came from Jim, that he offered you a choice between the pectoral and the sandals. You know the sandals are more valuable. Those rubies alone are worth a fortune.”

  LeBouef’s eyes narrowed thoughtfully. It was amazing how a man tied and on his knees could still manage to project such an aura of danger. “How do I know that Jim will not contradict me?”

  “Jim’s a duke now.”

  LeBouef’s eyes narrowed. “I’d heard that rumor from the fellahin. I didn’t give it much stock.”

  “It’s true. He inherited his father’s title. He’s the Duke of Avandale. If you don’t believe me, look into it when you get back to Cairo,” he said dryly. “Jim isn’t going to want his association with you to come out any more than you want it broadcast that he didn’t deliver the pectoral to you. I’d be surprised if you ever crossed paths with him again.”