Lady Emily's Exotic Journey

by Lillian Marek

  Still, they had been here in Mosul far longer than expected. Lord Penworth had apologized for the delay, but a delay it was. Supervising a clutch of peasants while they loaded crates of stones onto rafts was hardly work for soldiers. His men were getting bored and restless. Irmak was bored and restless himself.

  He frowned. Two women had appeared up ahead and were walking along the waterfront, where women had no business being. One of them, he was certain, was Lord Penworth’s daughter. He could tell by the way she walked—tall, not huddled, walking as if she owned the earth. The other looked like the daughter of that bad-tempered Frenchman. He stopped and looked after them for a moment. He shook his head to clear it. The effendi’s daughter here, down by the docks? She should not be here. Something was wrong.

  He signaled to his men and followed her.

  *

  Emily trailed along behind Mélisande, trying to pretend some interest in whatever it was that had the girl so excited. For her part, what mattered was that there had been no word, no message of any sort, from Lucien all day yesterday. No one had seen him. She knew that, because she had asked. No one knew where he was. He had simply vanished.

  Shouldn’t he have something to say after the way they had parted? Even if it was just, “Yes, you are right. We must part.” Or something. Something that would give her a chance to say, “Wait. Let us not be too hasty.” Maybe she should just say, “Samarkand. Yes, I would like to go to Samarkand.” Did it matter what came after that?

  Well, of course it mattered. But did it matter enough to mean she would never see him again? No. She had to see him again. She had to tell him that she would go with him anywhere he wanted. Nothing would matter if she could be with him.

  “Come along,” said Mélisande, tugging on her arm impatiently.

  Emily shook free and looked around. She had never been on this part of the waterfront before. In other places there were gardens running down to the water, some with vegetables, others with trees and flowers. Not here. They were walking along an unpaved street lined with buildings that looked decrepit even by Mosul standards. Admittedly all the buildings in this town looked gloomy, with their heavy doors and almost no windows, but here the walls were cracked and the alleys were too narrow to allow any light. And there were no people at all.

  Warehouses, she thought, since this seemed to be a businesslike stretch of the river. A number of heavily laden keleks bobbed in the water alongside the wharves. They were probably part of the flotilla her father and David had collected to carry M. Carnac’s finds down the river.

  Was that what Mélisande wanted to show her? Something from the excavation?

  She heard footsteps behind her and turned in time to see two men converging on her, one holding a cloth that he tried to drop over her. She twisted aside enough to escape most of its bulk, but not fast enough to escape the grasp of the other man. She screamed and struggled, trying to pull away, but he caught hold and pulled her back against him.

  Trying not to panic, she slowed down, trying to think, and dropped her chin down to her chest. Then she flung her head back, hearing a satisfactory cry as she hit something boney and her captor released his hold enough for her to pull a hand free and reach back to claw at his face while she kicked out at cloth man coming toward her from the front.

  They were shouting, whether at her or each other she had no idea since she didn’t understand a word they were saying. All she could do was keep struggling. She did manage one satisfying kick on cloth man’s shin, and she saw him stumble. And she was pretty sure her nails had made some inroads into the other fellow’s face. But, good lord, they stank. How could they bear it?

  Then all of a sudden, it was over. Her captor threw her to the ground, and when she lifted her head, she saw them running away, pursued by men in tan uniforms with red hats. Irmak’s Turkish troopers. One of the troopers stopped to help her up, smiled when he saw she was not injured, and ran off to join the pursuit.

  She stood, or at least leaned, against the building while she caught her breath and waited for her heart to slow to a reasonable pace. Moving gingerly, she checked her limbs. Nothing seemed to be broken, though she was bruised in a number of places. Then she realized that Mélisande was standing there looking distraught. The poor child must have been terrified.

  “It’s all right, Mélisande. They are gone, and I am not seriously hurt.” She wasn’t really finished being frightened herself, but she tried to sound confident for the girl’s sake and managed a weak smile.

  Mélisande turned on her in a fury. “Those stupid Turks. They have ruined everything.”

  Emily wondered if she had hit her head. She felt decidedly confused and couldn’t even manage a question. All she could do was look at Mélisande blankly. Then she asked, “The Turks? They were Turks who tried to grab me?”

  “No, of course not. The Turkish soldiers are to blame.”

  “To blame? But they rescued me from those two men.” Emily was growing more, not less, confused as Mélisande spoke.

  “They were supposed to make you disappear, those two, and now the Turks have frightened them and they have run away. Where will I find another pair? And it will not matter if I do, because now everyone will know about it, so you cannot just disappear.” Mélisande was swinging about, waving her hands rather the way an angry cat swishes her tail.

  “They were supposed…? You wanted them to…?” Emily shook her head. Was it her French that was at fault? Was she misunderstanding what Mélisande was saying? “I don’t understand. What are you talking about?”

  Mélisande spun about to face her. “Lucien is mine! You don’t need him, and I do. He must marry me so he can take me away from here, back to France. You cannot take him away from me.”

  Emily backed up a step, away from the building and the alley. “Really, this is absurd. What are you talking about? I am not taking Lucien away from you.”

  “Do not deny it. I saw you kiss him, there on the rooftop. You want him for yourself, but he is mine! He has to be mine!”

  As Mélisande kept coming toward her, Emily kept backing away. She was getting nervous. What on earth had possessed the girl? She was talking like a lunatic. “This is ridiculous. Lucien does not belong to you. You are just a child.”

  That was obviously the wrong thing to say, because Mélisande shrieked in fury and flew at Emily, who held up her arms to fend off the girl’s claws. Suddenly she was falling through the air. She screamed in fear. A stab of pain went through her head.

  Then there was nothing.

  Sixteen

  Perhaps it was the clarity of the desert air that did it. Or perhaps it was the sheer discomfort of trying to sleep on stony ground, wrapped only in a blanket in the cold desert night.

  Whatever it was, it had cleared his head. Lucien rode through the early morning toward the city of Mosul feeling far happier than he had felt in…in years, it seemed. To tell the truth, he could not remember ever feeling this happy. He threw back his head and laughed out loud.

  Everything had been backwards in his mind. He saw it now. The only mystery was how it had taken him so long to come to his senses. How could he have been so blind for so long?

  It was not the chains of La Boulaye that had turned his grandfather into a bitter and miserable man. It was the memories of a lost world, a world he was powerless to resurrect. The more he had struggled to return to that lost past, the more angry he became at his failure, and the more he took out his anger and frustration on those around him.

  It was not the chains of marriage that had made his parents miserable. It was marriage to the wrong person. They had been trapped together in a house—never a home—as strangers to each other, strangers who had no desire to become better acquainted.

  Marriage to Emily would be nothing like that. She was not a burden or obligation, not at all. Instead, she was liberation. She had set him free of the chains of the past and shown him the infinite possibilities for happiness—happiness with her.

  It
was love that made the difference, he had finally realized. Love did not chain you. It set you free. It opened the cage that set you apart from all others. Love opened the door to happiness.

  And he loved Emily.

  He pulled up his horse so he could concentrate on that thought. He turned the word over in his mind and smiled again. Love. Why had he never thought of that? It was so simple. Such a little word and it explained so much.

  He nudged the horse into a brisk walk and continued toward Mosul.

  As for La Boulaye, it was simply a place. Those who lived there might be happy or miserable. It was not the place itself that determined their feelings. Nor did he have to live at La Boulaye, under his grandfather’s thumb. What had even made him think that was his only choice? His father had returned there for whatever reason, but that did not mean that Lucien had to.

  The estate of Varennes was his own, his inheritance from his mother, the gift she had given him. It was a modest estate, nothing like La Boulaye, but it could support a family in more than decent comfort. It was probably nothing like the estates of the wealthy Marquess of Penworth either, but he did not think that would weigh too heavily with Emily. Varennes was a good estate. It had its own beauties. She would be able to see them.

  He wanted to run straight to Emily, tell her of his realizations, and beg her to marry him. A grin took over his face. That was not precisely true. What he really wanted was to toss her over his shoulder, take her someplace private, and do all the things he had been fantasizing about. However, he was determined to do this properly.

  First there must be permission from her father, and before he could ask permission to court the marquess’s daughter, he must show himself to be respectable. He could not present himself in all his dirt, dusty and unshaven. He might not be a man of great wealth, but he was a man of property and of family with a noble heritage, and he knew very well what was proper. A nobody could not aspire to court Lady Emily Tremaine, but the grandson and heir of the Comte de la Boulaye could so aspire. Now he needed to transform himself into that man.

  As he rode, he considered what he would need to do. A trip to the baths, certainly. He rubbed a hand over his the rough bristles on his chin. He must look like a vagabond. That would hardly do. And while he was getting clean, he must have Hamiz brush and press his frock coat. It had been stuffed back into his baggage somewhere.

  *

  Irmak scowled at the empty space by the waterfront. The two pieces of scum had escaped into the alleys, and now when he and his men returned to the place of the attack, Lady Emily and her friend had also disappeared. Where could she have gone? She had not appeared to be seriously injured, but surely she had enough sense to wait for an escort before she made her way home. He had never thought her a particularly stupid creature, and she had just seen for herself how dangerous the streets could be for a woman.

  Where could she have gone?

  His men prodded a few beggars and questioned a pair of workmen heading for the docks, but no one had seen anything. Or so they said. Irmak barked an order and his men fell in behind him as they marched to the house of Lord Penworth.

  Their hammering on the door caused considerable confusion. The servants were up and about, of course, but the effendi—Lord Penworth—and his ladies were another matter. It was early, the bread had not been baked yet, and the coffee beans were still unground. Should they be disturbed when the household was not yet ready to serve them?

  At first, it was only the doorkeeper who expressed his uncertainty, but then the woman bringing fruit from the market joined in, and soon everyone in the house had gathered in the courtyard. Everyone had an opinion, and all opinions were voiced repeatedly. The boys who served the lord and his aide, the women who served the lady and her daughters, all had something to say. The cook and those who cared for the house and those who ran errands were equally vociferous.

  No one, however, had anything to say about the whereabouts of Lady Emily.

  Finally, in exasperation, Irmak roared for silence. He received it. All eyes turned to him as a hush settled over the courtyard. He looked around, glaring at each one in turn, and then pointed at a man who was neither the youngest nor the oldest of the servants. “You. Go to Lord Penworth. Wake him if need be. Inform him that I am here to inquire about the safety of his daughter.”

  A collective gasp was heard. All turned to look at their neighbors, but when no explanation was seen there, they turned back to Irmak. The servant he had chosen bobbed his head in obedience and scurried off to do as he was bid. The rest watched Irmak, and Irmak in turn examined them. He noted which ones looked worried, which ones looked curious, which ones were storing up an item to be discussed in the bazaar, and which ones were enjoying a drama that caused them no pain.

  He also noted one boy, a thin boy, the sort who raced all over the city carrying messages for a coin or just a bit of bread. The boy looked frightened. A look at one of his men ensured that the boy had no clear path to the door should he choose to run.

  Lord Penworth descended the stairs rapidly, with Oliphant on his heels. Irmak approved the English lord’s intent look, the look of a soldier, prepared and not about to descend into emotion. He gave his report as a good soldier should, terse but leaving out nothing. Oliphant translated quickly, and both of them obviously understood the seriousness of the situation at once.

  By now the English lady had come down as well, along with the one who was not her daughter. The voices had risen, and a hum of interest rose from the servants, but they were not losing their heads. Oliphant turned to him to report that Lady Emily was not in her room and did not appear to be in the house at all. Had she been alone on the street?

  No, he told them. She had been with the French girl.

  The women were sounding confused and uncertain, the men as well. He had thought it odd himself, but they were foreigners and their customs were odd. He waved at his man to bring over the frightened boy, who turned out to be the one charged with opening the door.

  Between Irmak’s questioning and Oliphant’s reassurances, the story came out. The French girl had appeared this morning, very early. The bread had not even been baked yet. It was much earlier than visitors would come, but they were foreigners, after all, and their ways were strange. When he peered out the door, she gave him a note to take to the young lady, the effendi’s daughter. He was not sure he should disturb her, it was so early after all, but the French girl had often come to the house. It was not as if she was a stranger.

  The door boy looked around for assurances and while all were looking very serious, no one seemed about to beat him or even blame him.

  Then, the boy said, the young lady came down. Yes, she was dressed, though simply. Not in the great dresses the English ladies wear. He gestured with his arms to show the impressive size of the English hoop skirts and the comparative narrowness of the hoopless skirt. The young lady spoke to the French girl, and they went out together. It was odd, yes, but it was not his place to stop her. And besides, the ways of foreigners are strange.

  The English spoke hurriedly among themselves and then gathered more clothing about themselves. They were going to the house of the Frenchman. Perhaps Lady Emily was there. If not, they needed to find out what the French girl could tell them. Would Irmak accompany them, in case they needed his help in searching for Lady Emily?

  Of course. It was his duty to protect them.

  *

  When Lucien arrived at Carnac’s house, it was a scene of chaos. Lord Penworth’s entire household appeared to have invaded. Irmak and his men were attempting to intervene between the servants of the two households, who seemed intent on starting a small war. Carnac himself was absent, off at the excavation as usual, but Mélisande was most definitely present, screeching and sobbing. Lord and Lady Penworth were trying to get at her, shouting to make themselves heard above the hubbub.

  He had to force his way into the center, pushing aside servants and strangers who seemed to have come in off the street
along with everyone else.

  When he got to the center of the commotion, Lady Penworth seized his arm. “Lucien, you must make her tell us what has happened to Emily.”

  “Emily?” His heart stopped. “Something has happened to Emily?”

  Lord Penworth, his voice tight with anger, said, “A pair of villains attempted to kidnap Emily. Irmak and his men drove them off, but now Emily is nowhere to be found. Mélisande was with her when this happened but has gone off into hysterics rather than tell us what happened.”

  Lucien grabbed Mélisande by the shoulders, giving her a hard shake. “Stop this nonsense and tell us what happened. Where is Emily?”

  “Oh, Lucien, thank goodness you are here.” Mélisande hiccuped a sob. “Make them stop shouting at me. Protect me.”

  “Protect you from what? All anyone wants to know is what happened to Emily. Tell us, for God’s sake.” He shook her again.

  All that produced was more wailing at an even higher pitch. He wanted to strangle the girl. Why wouldn’t she speak?

  Lady Penworth pushed him aside, seized hold of Mélisande with one hand and gave her a resounding smack with the other. Its echo reverberated in the sudden silence, and Mélisande’s wailing ceased abruptly. Lady Penworth tightened her fingers on the girl’s shoulders, pulled her close, and spoke in a low, furious tone. “Now you listen to me, you stupid child. We are talking about my daughter’s life. Her life. Do you understand? You will tell me right now what happened to her or I will pluck your eyes out. I will carve your pretty face into mincemeat. Do you understand?”

  No one doubted that she meant every syllable.

  Mélisande tried to pull back. “It was not my fault. It was all an accident.”

  “What was an accident?” Lady Penworth demanded, not loosening her grip in the slightest, but giving the girl a brief shake.

  “Those men, they were supposed to take her…” Her eyes widened as her words produced a gasp in her listeners, and she realized what she had said. “I mean, they tried to take her. Only they failed, and we quarreled. She fell. That is all I know.”