Lady Emily's Exotic Journey

by Lillian Marek

  “They like each other, your maman and papa,” he observed.

  “Of course,” she said. It seemed an odd comment.

  “Ah, do not say ‘of course’ so easily. It is not so ordinary, you know.”

  “Well, it’s hardly unusual.”

  He looked at her quizzically. “You think not? Consider the married people you know. Do they have this liking between them?”

  She laughed. “Well, my sister Elinor and her husband—Julia’s brother—certainly do. And my brother Pip and his wife.”

  “They learned, perhaps, from your parents. Me, I have known far more like Sir Henry and Lady Bulwer.”

  She made a face and he laughed.

  “What of your own parents?” It was an intrusive question, but she couldn’t help being curious.

  He gave that Gallic shrug again. “When I was small, yes, perhaps, but I do not know truly. I do not remember them together. If I was with one of them, the other was not there. After a while we went to live with my grandfather, but my father and grandfather were always fighting. My grandmother was there too, but she was of no importance to my grandfather. She always obeyed him and always worried about what he might want, and grandpère, he accepted. This was what he expected, you see, that his wishes were all that mattered. My grandmother wanted my mother to make my father obey grandpère too, but I do not think my mother could have made my father do anything, even if she desired to attempt it. I think perhaps maman died when I was young just to get some peace.”

  “How sad. For them and for you.” It was sad. More sad than she knew how to say.

  “Ah, no, not for me.” He grinned up at her. “Not sad at all. It means that I am free to explore the world, to go to all those places with the beautiful names.”

  “Samarkand. The Gates of Jade,” she said. But she still thought it terribly sad. He was free to be an adventurer, but freedom of that sort meant not caring about others and having no one who cared about you. It was not a freedom she would choose. But perhaps he did not really have a choice.

  For all that he sounded eager for adventure, she could hear a note of sorrow in his voice. Or was that only her imagination? Emily did not think so, and she longed to comfort him.

  *

  They stopped to camp each evening, since the rocks and wind made it impossible to travel on the river in the dark. The servants gathered wood for a fire and cooked a dinner in a large pot—rice, with bits of mutton and vegetables seasoned with aromatic spices.

  The Kurds were obviously startled when the English ladies not only ate with the men but were served first. Lucien heard the servants explaining that this was indeed the custom of the English pashas, and in their country the sultan was actually a woman with no one above her. The Kurds shook their heads in disbelief. He must remember to tell Emily about this. It would amuse her.

  The ladies themselves made an effort to conform to local customs, washing their hands in the running water of the river and eating with the fingers of their right hands only. And they did not turn up their noses at the simple fare they were offered. Lady Penworth even brought out her newly learned Arabic phrases to praise the cook for his efforts.

  “Can you imagine what Lady Bulwer would say to this?” Lucien asked Oliphant with a laugh.

  But Oliphant did not share his amusement. “Lady Bulwer feels it necessary to maintain her position,” he said, his voice holding more than a trace of bitterness. “These ladies are so assured of theirs that they have no need to assert it. They are so high up that the difference between a chimney sweep and a mere gentleman is indistinguishable.”

  “Oliphant…” Lucien shook his head in exasperation.

  “No, it is true. They know who they are and are comfortable with it. There is no uncertainty.” Oliphant paused and looked sharply at Lucien. “You too. You have that same assurance, that same comfort. Who are you, really?”

  That was an uncomfortable question. Lucien shrugged it off. “N’importe.”

  Oliphant’s mouth twisted in a sour smile. “That’s right. It isn’t important—for you. But for some of us…” He left the circle around the fire and strode off into the darkness.

  There was no point in following him. When he was in this black mood, wallowing in his unworthiness, there was no talking to him.

  It was foolishness as well. From what he could see, Lady Julia was quite as taken with Oliphant as he was with her. Everyone in the Penworth party seemed to be aware of this, and no one seemed to think there was any problem. If he was not mistaken, Lady Emily had taken it upon herself to arrange the order of the march so that Oliphant and Julia regularly rode together, with no objections from Lady Penworth.

  He smiled to himself. He had no objection to this arrangement either. Riding beside Emily had been nothing but pleasure.

  Back in Constantinople, he had considered himself fortunate to be able to attach himself to Lord Penworth’s party mainly as a matter of safety. He was willing to deal with danger when it presented itself—and it had presented itself often enough over the past few years—but he was not such a fool that he must seek it out. Traveling with an English nobleman would provide a measure of safety. Enough safety, he expected, to make the trip almost boring.

  When they set out, he had assumed that he would be riding with Oliphant, and he had looked forward to the trip. Oliphant was, perhaps, a bit stiff and cautious, always careful to be proper. But once he relaxed, he was an intelligent companion. Conversation with him was usually interesting, and he was grateful to have such an amiable companion for the journey.

  Lady Emily had been a surprise.

  Oh, he had been pleased to encounter her at the embassy. She was pretty enough and full of life. It was enjoyable to flirt with her. Even once he discovered that she would be one of the party going to Mosul, he had not expected anything beyond a mild flirtation. That was the most he had ever enjoyed with the ladies of his acquaintance in France, who were interested in no conversation more profound than the latest gossip. As for the women of the Ottoman Empire, they were no different from the ladies of France, too ignorant to converse on any topic. Were the English different, or only Emily?

  From where he stood at the edge of the camp, he could see the three ladies. They did not sit on the ground, but the troopers had fashioned seats for them from the saddles and bundles of something or other. The firelight was dancing over Emily’s face as she turned this way and that to make sure she did not miss anything. They all wore scarves over their heads, but he could see a few locks of Emily’s hair peeking out as if impatient to be free.

  He had never known someone like Emily. There were women with whom one could enjoy an interesting conversation in the salons of Paris, but these were artists or courtesans or married women of scandalous reputation. Emily was indubitably a lady, and an innocent young lady at that. She was something outside his experience. In France, someone like her would be so closely chaperoned that she would never be allowed to exchange more than a few platitudes with a man outside her family. They would try to turn her into Mlle. Fournier, and that would destroy her.

  Did Emily even know any platitudes? He had certainly never heard her converse about the weather other than to laugh about it when a storm tried to blow them off a mountainside. Nor had she fussed about the damage the dust was doing to her wardrobe. Come to think of it, he could not recall her ever making a fuss about her clothes.

  She had looked quite lovely in the gowns she wore in Constantinople, gowns that were assuredly in the height of fashion and without doubt the sort of thing she was accustomed to wearing. A trifle mussed, to be sure, with her hair trying to escape its pins, and never quite so elegant as her maman and Lady Julia. But attractive. Most attractive. Yet she had not hesitated to don Turkish garb, and in that she looked quite adorable. As she did now, sitting by the fire.

  He stared at her for a few minutes longer, watching her hands wave about as she recounted some tale to her mother. He turned away and walked off into the darkness along
the riverbank. He felt restless. It was doubtless the enforced inactivity on the raft. He walked quickly, or as quickly as it was possible to walk in the dark. Not really dark, not with the moon and stars providing their light. There were cliffs on one side, a wall of blackness, true, but on the other side was the river, wide here, and rippling with moonbeams.

  He stopped to watch the river. There was something fascinating about water. One could watch it forever. A river was always changing, always new, full of surprises.

  Emily was like that.

  When they first set out and he found himself riding beside her, he had thought that he had been assigned by her father to reassure her, help her over any difficult spots, and generally hold her hand. To his surprise, none of that had been necessary. What he needed to do was respond to a barrage of questions, some practical, some abstract, some about things that required thought, and some that he was unable to answer at all.

  She was interested in everything—the scenery, the villages, the people, the sights, the sounds, the smells. She noticed everything, and her comments were sharp and perceptive and amusing. He found himself seeing things he thought were familiar in a new way.

  In short, he enjoyed talking with her. He did not think he had ever enjoyed conversation with a woman before. They had become friends. It was a novel experience for him, being friends with a woman.

  It was not that he did not notice how attractive she was, how nicely formed. He was not a blind man, after all. Even in the loose Turkish garments, when she removed the enveloping cloak, the sash circled a small waist, and it was clear that she was nicely rounded both above and below. And when he lifted her from her horse, she felt just right in his hands.

  Yes, she was attractive, but he had found other women attractive, and he had found them often enough over the years. This was different. He liked Emily, and this liking was something new for him.

  Six

  On the fourth day, they were flying along on a swift current beneath a brilliantly clear sky. Cliffs of broken yellow stone rose a hundred feet or more on either side of the blue river. The colors were so vibrant that the scene looked as if it had been painted by a child.

  Emily had left the tent, and Lucien began to turn to her to share his thoughts on the scene when he saw a puff of smoke and a glint of metal by one of the boulders on the cliff. At that moment a bullet plowed into the deck beside him, and he heard the shot.

  He flew across the feet separating them to knock Emily to the ground, covering her with his body. “Keep down,” he ordered when she tried to raise her head. More bullets fell about them, most splashing into the river. He had his pistol in his hand, but he could not see a target on the cliff. The Turkish troopers on the next raft were firing away but not to any useful purpose that he could see.

  Meanwhile, the oarsmen on their raft, who had first dropped their oars in a panic, were now working madly to keep them from being dashed against the rocks as the current swept them around a curve. The skipper joined them, shouting encouragement, until a bend in the river had them out of sight of their attackers. As the wild rocking of their craft ceased and they resumed their placid drift, Lucien became aware of his more immediate surroundings.

  To be precise, he became aware of Emily lying beneath him. A warm, soft Emily lying beneath him, a situation his own body found most agreeable. Her breasts were pressed against his chest, and he was positioned between her thighs. She was so soft, such a perfect match for him. She did not appear to be distressed by their position, for she was making no effort to extricate herself. Did she understand what their position was? Could she tell just how agreeable his body found this position? Because his body was reacting most strongly to this juxtaposition.

  She was looking up at him with an expression of dazed surprise. He wondered if he was looking at her with the same expression. Her hands were sitting on his shoulders, not pushing him away but not drawing him down. Just touching him. Her lips were parted ever so slightly. In surprise? In invitation? He was close enough to feel the damp warmth of her breath. He was overcome with longing and began to lower his mouth to hers.

  An outburst of noise called him to himself. The captain of this fleet was roaring with laughter, and Oliphant was bellowing at him in fury. Lucien hastily pushed himself up and helped Emily to her feet.

  “You are all right?” he asked. “You are not hurt?” He wanted to check, to make sure she was not injured, but he hesitated to touch her. An hour ago, he would not have hesitated, but things were different now. Everything was different. He stood there, looking at her uncertainly.

  “I am fine. I must thank you for protecting me.” She was ignoring the shouting to the side of them and looking at him still with that dazed surprise.

  A remarkably unruffled Lord Penworth came up to calm the shouting. “Mr. Oliphant, would you be so good as to tell me what is going on? Are we to expect more attacks of that sort?”

  No, Lucien saw, his lordship was not unruffled. He was seething with cold fury.

  Oliphant looked thoroughly ruffled and glared at the captain. “This buffoon says that was not a serious attack and we have no need to worry.”

  The captain was grinning and looked decidedly unworried. Lucien wanted to hit him.

  Lord Penworth took a deep breath as if to control himself. “Not serious? You will forgive me if I find bullets flying inches from my family to be a matter of considerable seriousness.” It was a sentiment with which Lucien heartily agreed.

  There was another exchange in the Kurdish language between Oliphant and the captain. The captain’s remarks were punctuated by roars of laughter which seemed to provoke Oliphant to bursts of fury. When Oliphant seemed on the verge of throttling the captain, the Kurd softened his laughter and made placating gestures.

  Oliphant turned to Lord Penworth. “He claims that it was not a serious attack because no one was injured. They fired on us only as a sort of warning because the Turkish troopers are with us.”

  That was the first time Lucien had ever seen Lord Penworth lose control. The marquess turned a look of fury on the captain and appeared ready to strike the man. “You were aware that the troopers were part of our party but never mentioned that they might be a source of danger. You assured us that with you and your men conducting us, we would be safe.”

  There was another exchange of translations, and Oliphant, tight-lipped with fury, bit out the reply. “He says that if he had not been here, if they had not seen that you were protected by Kurds, they would not have missed.”

  Lord Penworth spun about and stood motionless, his hands clenched, before stalking into the tent to join his wife. Lucien realized that he himself was trembling, whether with anger or relief he was not certain. It took a moment before he brought himself under control enough to lead Emily in her father’s wake. He held out his arm, and she laid her hand on it, very lightly, very formally. They did not speak.

  Within the tent, Lady Penworth was sitting composedly and greeted them with a brilliant smile. “Mr. Oliphant,” she said, “I believe I owe you an apology.”

  “An apology? Whatever for?”

  “When you said this trip would be difficult, I thought you were one of those tiresome gentlemen who think a woman exhausts herself on a stroll in the park. I had no idea it would be so exciting.”

  He flushed. “It is I who should apologize. I should have made clear to Lord Penworth how difficult it would be. And how dangerous.”

  “I am to blame,” said Penworth, taking his wife’s hand. “I dismissed the warnings, relying on the assurances of the vizier, who said the mere presence of the troopers would ensure our safety. Had I listened to Mr. Oliphant, I would have made arrangements for you to return to England or at least remain safely in Constantinople.”

  “Nonsense, my dear,” said Lady Penworth, patting her husband’s hand. “I wouldn’t have missed this for the world!”

  “No more would I,” said Emily, leaving Lucien’s side to join her mother.

  Lady Juli
a, whose cheeks were flushed becomingly, said, “Indeed, it is the most exciting thing I have ever experienced.”

  These women were mad.

  Lucien turned away and went outside to seethe. Did they not realize what danger they had been in? Emily had been walking toward him. Had she been a step closer, that bullet would have plowed into her, not into the deck. And they were calling this exciting?

  He walked to the front of the raft, where the wind might blow away some of the turmoil inside his head.

  He did not understand what had happened to him. It was some sort of temporary madness—that had to be it. He never acted impulsively. Always he thought before he acted, even in danger. No, especially in danger. It was a cool head that had gotten him out of ticklish situations from Morocco to Persia.

  If he had thought about it, even for a second, he would have gone to the protection of the ladies. Naturally. There was no doubt about it. He was not a scoundrel, after all. He would have behaved just as the others—Oliphant and Lord Penworth—had. At least he assumed that was how they had behaved. He had not actually seen them.

  No. He had not seen anyone. That was because the moment that bullet struck the raft, his only thought had been to protect Emily. It had not even been a thought. It had been pure instinct.

  This was not permissible. He could not allow himself to be ensnared. He would not be tied down, chained by obligations and responsibilities.

  No, that was unjust. She had made no effort to ensnare him. She had used no wiles. That was what was so dangerous. She was a pretty girl, yes, with that dark honey hair and that soft, luscious body… No. He had known pretty women before, beautiful women. None of them had caused him to stop thinking.

  It was that she used no wiles. She did not even try to tempt. There were no little wiggles, no pouting lips, no sidelong glances or fluttering lids. She did not even tilt her body to display her lovely bosom. It was her directness and her honesty that were the danger.