She swallowed down the panic. Panic was not going to help.
She could hear soft voices chanting one of those sad Arab melodies. At least that didn’t sound intimidating. A few steps brought her to the end of the boxes. She winced as the bright sun hit her eyes, but she could see two men lazily plying the oars while a third, the captain, held the steering pole. They did not notice her, so she coughed gently.
The result was electrifying. The oarsmen stared at her wide-eyed and openmouthed while the captain dropped his pole and began a high, piercing cry.
She winced as the sound sent stabs of pain through her head.
“Please,” she said, holding on to the crate to remain upright, “please, I need to go ashore.” She gestured toward the river bank.
The captain raised his hands and looked at the sky as he uttered wailing sounds. She thought she heard the word “Allah” a number of times. Was he praying? She reached a hand out toward him and said, “Please…”
That didn’t seem to help. The man closest to her leaped to his feet and began shouting and waving his arms as if trying to drive her away. She gestured at him to stop, but he only shrieked more loudly and the others joined in.
She took a step toward them and tried to make herself heard over their shrieks. That was obviously the wrong thing to do, because all three of them turned and dove into the water, leaving her alone on the raft.
She sank to her knees. What on earth was she supposed to do now?
*
Lucien tried to work out the time, but he couldn’t be certain. It had been past noon when he rode out of the city, close to one o’clock, he thought. And Mélisande had lured Emily down to the waterfront early, but that could not have been before sunrise. That was early, around five at this time of year, but it was unlikely to be earlier than six when they went to the waterfront. Time had to be allowed for the kidnapping attempt, time for Irmak’s intervention, then Mélisande’s attack. Who would have thought the child was such a vicious little beast? If anything had happened to Emily, he would…
No. He would not consider such thoughts. He must work out the time. The attack on Emily would have taken place at seven o’clock perhaps. That would put him six hours behind her.
No, not that long. The crews for the rafts had not arrived when Emily was attacked. So the rafts would probably not have set off until close to eight. That would put him five hours behind them. Perhaps only four. And then the rafts were heavy and unwieldy under their loads of stone. They would have to travel slowly to navigate the curves in the river, and all the islands—that would slow them down even more. On horseback he could go much faster.
Surely he could catch up to them.
He had to catch up to them, and it had to be soon.
His stallion thundered over the plateau above the river. The river curved out of sight from time to time, but never for long. Certainly not long enough for the entire fleet of rafts to be out of sight. Frustratingly, the only crafts to be seen were a few fishing boats.
Lucien forced himself to slow the horse to a trot. He would accomplish nothing by killing the beast, and his route was much shorter than the twists and turns of the river. At the worst, even if he missed them on the river, even if he rode past while they were hidden behind a bend, he would reach the place where they would stop for the night before the rafts reached it. That would be the sensible goal. At that point he could rescue Emily from whatever raft she was on easily and safely.
If she was still safe.
If she was not too badly injured.
If she had not already been discovered and…
No. He was not going to think about those possibilities. He would find her, and she would be safe and well. She would never be in danger again. He would make sure of that. He swore it.
The horse eased into a canter.
Time passed, but he had no sense of it. Nor could he say how far he had come. There was only the sound of the horse’s hooves—a trot, then a canter, a trot, then a canter, the rhythm repeating over and over. And every now and then a halt when the river came into view and he paused to scan it, longing for a glimpse of the rafts.
His rounded an outcropping of rocks and discovered that his route was near the river once more, and this time—Yes!
Looking down the slope, he could see rafts, a dozen of them, maybe more, all transporting cargoes of crates covered with tarpaulins. One of the numerous islands in the river—a long one, this time—was forcing them into a narrow column. He started to urge the horse into a downhill race to intercept them before they could spread out again, but pulled up abruptly.
He saw her. It had to be her. He was much too far off to be able to discern features, but a figure in what looked like European skirts had emerged from behind the crates on one of the last rafts. Someone in a lavender dress. Someone who was standing and moving. It had to be Emily, Emily alive and well.
He gave a shout. She could not hear him, not at this distance, but he could not hold in his joy and relief.
He had just started to alter his course when he saw the crew of her raft stand up and jump overboard. What the devil was going on? He kicked the horse into a gallop and they flew down the incline and across the fields to the river’s edge.
Emily’s raft was drifting rather than traveling. The other rafts were leaving it behind. She was standing up and seemed to be trying to guide her raft to the bank with the steering pole, but with no one to man the oars, it was frequently spun about by eddies in the river. By some miracle, it had not crashed into any rocks, but it was traveling in circles. He was close enough to see her clearly now, having arrived at the bank downstream from the raft, but she did not seem to hear his shouts.
Muttering curses, he flung himself off the horse and had the presence of mind to tie it to a tree before he kicked off his boots and dove into the water. With powerful strokes that made nothing of the current, he headed directly for the raft, adjusting to its erratic course with barely conscious effort. Once he reached it, he hoisted himself aboard, only noticing the effort his swim had required when he had to lie still to catch his breath. He stood to see Emily, her face shadowed, her eyes wide with astonishment.
“Lucien,” she breathed. “Lucien, it is really you. Thank God!”
He reached out a hand to her, and she flew into his arms.
Unable to speak, he held her so tightly she seemed a part of him. She was a part of him, though he did not know how to tell her this. He dropped kisses on her hair and face between murmured endearments. She clung to him in turn, whispering his name over and over.
A sudden jolt as the raft bounced off a rock almost knocked them from their feet, and they came apart enough to look at each other. His first clear sight of her stopped his breath. Those shadows on her face were streaks of blood. He reached out trembling fingers to touch her face.
“Ah, chérie, what happened?” He could barely get the words out.
“I don’t know. I don’t even know where I am, except that this seems to be a raft like the ones we came on. All I know is that I woke up with a terrible headache, feeling sick, and I was all tangled up in a piece of cloth. Filthy cloth,” she said, with a bit of resentment creeping into her voice.
Although he was glad to see irritation begin to replace the fear that had been in her eyes when he first reached the raft, his own fears remained. “You are ill?”
“The nausea is better, but my head still hurts a bit.”
He smiled slightly. “I do not doubt it. You must have been unconscious for hours. You’ve been traveling down the river for quite a while.”
“Hours?” She looked around in bewilderment. “But what is this raft? And how did I get here?”
He did not want to deal with the second question, not yet, but the first was easy enough. “This is one of the rafts your papa hired to carry the carvings from Nineveh down to Baghdad. There are many of them.” He pointed up ahead, where a dozen other rafts were nearing the end of the island that had narrowed their pas
sage. “But what happened to the crew of this raft? I saw men leaping into the river.”
“I don’t know that either. I don’t understand it. It took me an age to untangle myself from that horrid cloth. When I finally worked myself free of it, I managed to drag myself up, holding onto those boxes, crates, whatever they are. I could hear voices, and I thought they could tell me where I was and how to get home. I tried to ask, but they didn’t seem to understand. At first they just stared at me, but then one of them pointed at me and shrieked something that sounded like afraid. Then they were all shrieking, and they dived off the raft, leaving me here by myself. Why on earth should they be afraid of me?”
He frowned, puzzled, and then laughed aloud when he suddenly realized what had happened. “Not afraid,” he said. “Afreet. An evil spirit. They thought you were an afreet.”
“Well that’s hardly flattering.” She sounded affronted. “All I did was ask for help. I realize they probably didn’t understand, but I did try waving at the shore.”
He kept smiling, whether from amusement or relief he was not sure. “Many of the workmen are convinced that these carvings are haunted by the spirits of the ancients. Well, not haunted, precisely, but they fear the spirits are angry at being disturbed. I know it was most difficult for Oliphant to find men willing to ferry the crates down to Baghdad. There was much fear. Once men believe in the presence of evil spirits, it is impossible to convince them otherwise. And then you appear like, well, to tell the truth, like a ghost with your face pale and streaked with blood, and your hair also.”
“Oh! Blood? On my face?” Her hands flew up and she looked appalled as she felt the matted tangle of her hair and the streaks on her face. “Blood all over me. Oh dear, I must look dreadful. Horrible. Why didn’t you say something?”
Ah, but she looked adorable, so worried about her appearance. He pulled her to him. “All that matters is that you are alive and well. You are the most beautiful sight I ever saw.” He cupped her head with one hand, tilting it so that he could kiss her properly. And he did.
He sipped at her lips, tasted, drank deeply. He molded her to him—she fit so perfectly against him—and caressed her. Holding her felt so right. It was as if chains that had bound him, chains he had not realized were there, suddenly melted away, and at last he was free.
“You are mine,” he whispered to her. “Mine. We belong together. I will never let you go.”
“Yes,” she whispered back, her arms wrapped around his neck. “Together, wherever you wish to go—Samarkand, the Gate of Jade, wherever.”
He smiled against her cheek. “No, not to Samarkand. We…”
She sighed and pushed away. “But first we have to get ashore. I hope you know how to steer this thing, because I was not managing very well.”
His practical Emily had reasserted herself. Much as he regretted having to loosen his hold on her, he had to admit that she had a point. Unfortunately, although her hope was sensible, the truth was that he had no idea how to guide the kelek to shore. But before he could admit his ignorance, the sound of gunfire interrupted.
Their kelek, which had been turning erratically, was now trailing well behind the others, but those others were under attack. Dozens of small boats were pouring into the narrow passage, swarming around the rafts, and in between the gunshots came cries and shouts, cries that were too often cut off abruptly. Lucien cursed and threw Emily into the river before any stray bullets headed in their direction.
She came up sputtering. “Oh, that’s cold! What…?” A bullet splashed in the water near them. “The noise—gunfire? We’re being shot at?” She sounded quite outraged. “For goodness’ sake, not again!”
He would laugh at her annoyance if this were not so dangerous. “Yes, again. But unfortunately, this is not Kurds playing their games with us.” He looked around quickly. They were not too far from the shore. “Over there. We need to get out of sight and into those reeds. Can you swim?” Another bullet whizzed past them. This was not amusing. “Keep down!”
She nodded and disappeared beneath the surface.
“Emily!” What the devil was she doing? He hadn’t meant that far down. Was she drowning? Before he could dive after her, she resurfaced. “What the devil are you doing?”
She tossed her head to shake off the water. “I can swim, but not wrapped in yards of fabric. I had to get rid of my petticoats. They would drown me.”
He opened his mouth to speak, but no words came out. She had terrified him, but what she had done, it was not just sensible but necessary. He should have thought of it himself, but he just wanted to get her down, off the raft, so she would not be a target. There was nothing rational for him to say, so he waved her toward the shore.
Nineteen
The water was freezing, and she had not been swimming since she was a child, swimming in the shallow coves of Dorset near Penworth Castle. The shore had not looked terribly far away from the raft, but the current was far stronger than she had expected. That had been stupid of her. It was the current, after all, that was carrying the rafts downstream. Of course it was strong.
She concentrated on swimming. Lucien was beside her, guiding her, helping her. Finally they were within reach of the shore. She kicked down and felt solid earth—well, semi-solid mud—under her. She gave a strangled laugh of relief and started to stand, only to have Lucien pull her down.
“Keep yourself down,” he said in a low voice. “We do not wish to be seen.”
He ushered her through the marshy edge of the shore, always keeping low, beneath the waving tops of the reeds. She dragged herself along the path he made through the tangle. The reeds seemed malevolent, the way they kept snatching at her. She had to pull herself free with every step, if you could call it a step when she was on her knees more often than on her feet. Even when she was on her feet, she had to keep bent over.
At least the water here wasn’t as cold here as it had been deeper in the river. That didn’t mean it was warm. She kept shivering, which did not help her balance.
It may not have been only the cold that made her shiver. Lucien had a grim look on his face. She had never seen him look that way. More than the gunshots exploding behind them, his expression convinced her that there was danger.
They finally reached solid ground, of a sort. There was a bank, only a foot or two high, but there was grass growing on it, not reeds. It was scrabbly and scratchy, not like soft English grass, but it was dry. She collapsed on it with a sigh of relief and rolled over, letting the sun warm her.
Lucien gave her a quick smile, probably meant to be reassuring, and then turned back to peer through the reeds. The gunfire had slowed a bit, but there were shouts and shrieks, along with splashes. She crawled up beside him and tried to see what was happening. There seemed to be a great many people in the water. Many of them were not swimming, just floating. Face down.
She shivered. “This is not Kurds trying to frighten people as a joke, is it?”
He shook his head without turning to her. “No, not Kurds.”
“What, then?”
He pushed her head down abruptly. “Do not look.”
But she had already seen. “They are shooting the people in the water,” she said in a small voice.
“I am very much afraid it is pirates. And they are not very pleasant people.”
She sat up. “Pirates? That’s ridiculous.”
He pushed her down again. “Do not let yourself be seen! Yes, pirates.”
“That’s ridiculous. There are no pirates in this day and age. Besides, this is a river, not an ocean.” She was frightened. Even with Lucien beside her, she was frightened, and she did not like it. If only things would make sense, but this was not making sense.
At least her idiotic remark won a lopsided grin from him. “You will be more happy if I call them brigands on boats? That is what pirates are, no?”
“But why would pirates want to steal crates of ancient carvings? It’s not as if they are valuable except to scholars.�
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“Ah well, it is the stories, you see.” He stretched out beside her, keeping an arm over her. It was probably just to keep her from popping up and being seen, but it felt comforting. He gently brushed a lock of her hair off her face. That felt even more comforting. His voice was as gentle as his hand when he spoke. “I told you that many of the workmen thought that there were evil spirits haunting the carvings?”
She nodded.
“That was one of the stories being told in the bazaar. The other was that all those carvings and clay tablets were only a ruse. Hidden in those crates was a fortune in gold and jewels, the treasure of the ancients. That is obviously the story that the pirates believed.”
“How ridiculous.”
He shrugged. “They would call it ridiculous to make a fuss over a little bit of clay with marks like hen scratchings on them, things of no use to anyone.”
The gunfire had subsided to nothing more than an occasional shot and had been replaced by thuds and cracks and loud splashes. Motioning her to keep down, Lucien peered through the reeds again. “It seems they have discovered their mistake. They are taking out their frustrations on the crates.”
“On the crates?”
“That noise they are making—they are breaking open the crates and then, I fear, when they find no gold or jewels, they are throwing the contents into the river.”
That halted her. “Oh dear. All those lovely carvings. M. Carnac will be so upset.”
“Yes, he will. But I am out of sympathy with the Carnacs just now, and me, I prefer that the pirates take out their anger on the carvings and not on us. It is best that we keep out of sight here, no?”
A sudden burst of gunfire, with a few bullets reaching the reeds, had them both ducking their heads. A few shore birds flew up in noisy panic, drawing additional gunfire. When Lucien raised himself up to look, he muttered in disgust. “Idiots. They discover they have been foolish, so they fire their guns at anything. We had best keep still a while longer.”
Lady Emily's Exotic Journey Page 17
