In the Eye of the Storm

  ‘I possess no accurate information on the matter.’

  ‘Oh my God… I’m going to see Alexandria with my own eyes! Alexandria!’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And the pyramids? Do you think we could visit the pyramids?’

  ‘I hardly think that the bandits we are looking for have their hideout in an ancient pharaonic tomb.’

  ‘Not to look for bandits, of course! Just to see the pyramids!’

  ‘What purpose would that serve?’

  ‘It’s sightseeing! It isn’t supposed to serve a purpose, you do it because you want to soak up the atmosphere of a long forgotten and mysterious ancient world!’

  ‘I am quite content with concentrating on the contemporary one.’

  Despairing of the discussion, I leaned over the railing to peer more closely into the distance. And yes, through the morning haze, I could see something there. Or at least I thought I could. Maybe I couldn’t. But then again, maybe…

  It didn’t take long for my indecision to become certainty. And then, it slowly morphed into awe.

  ‘The Port of Alexandria,’ I heard Mr Ambrose voice from my right. And I was so stunned by the sight before me that I wasn’t even astounded about him voluntary unclamping his lips to offer information. ‘One of the oldest ports in the world, maybe the oldest. The first facilities were probably built over four thousand years ago. There, do you see that stretch of land?’

  ‘Yes,’ I muttered, and indeed, I could see it. It was a faint golden line on the horizon. And behind it… No. That couldn’t be ships behind the land, could they? Unless the Egyptians had decided to take the expression ‘ship of the desert’ to a whole new level.

  ‘That’s a peninsula,’ Mr Ambrose explained as if having read my mind. ‘It stretches out into the ocean, and then in a T-shape to both sides, protecting the harbour against the elements.’

  I threw him a look. ‘You’re unusually chatty this morning, Sir.’

  He caught my look easily, and hurled it back with double force. ‘It’s always best to know as much as possible about your surroundings when you’re venturing into enemy territory. And make no mistake - this is enemy territory. Dalgliesh has a lot of influence here. We’re not on a sightseeing trip.’

  ‘Yes, Sir.’

  ‘Once we land, if you possibly can, try to deport yourself like a proper lady.’

  ‘I always do!’

  In answer from him, there came only silence. A very meaningful silence.

  ‘I do,’ I repeated in an agree-with-me-now-or-I’ll-bash-your-head-in tone. ‘Always!’

  ‘Hm. Well. Do your best. We don’t want to arouse suspicion.’

  ‘Yes, Sir.’

  I did the best I could. I really did. I walked like a proper lady. I smiled like a proper lady. I even held my parasol like a proper lady, quite voluntarily, to protect myself from the merciless sun. But I couldn’t keep my eyes from almost bugging out of their sockets. This was it! What I had been waiting for so many years! Adventure and excitement in a mysterious foreign country, far removed from the drab life of London, far away from balls and aunts and pesky suitors. As we sailed into the circular harbour, it seemed to welcome me with open arms. I took a deep breath of the sea air, filled with the smell of spices.

  ‘Let’s go!’

  The moment we touched land, I was rudely awakened from my dreams. Mr Ambrose grabbed my arm and dragged me down the gangway to a waiting carriage. To anyone else it must have been looking as though he was courteously guiding me - but I felt the tightness of his grip and knew better. He wouldn’t let go.

  ‘Get in!’ he hissed, under his breath. ‘And smile! Pretend we are two happy people on holiday!’

  ‘Is this really necessary?’

  ‘There are three men in kaftans[15] watching us from over there. And another one is watching from the fishing boat to your left. Smile!’

  I pulled my lips into a carnivorous grimace. ‘How about this?’

  ‘You’ll need to work on it.’

  ‘Why don’t you smile, too?’

  ‘I’m a man, in the company of a woman. Nobody expects me to.’

  ‘You arrogant, impertinent…!’

  ‘Smile, I said! And get into the coach.’

  Reluctantly, I did as he said. Mr Ambrose climbed in behind me and thumped his new cane-and-sword against the roof.

  ‘Drive!’

  The coach jerked forward, and I shot him a mutinous look.

  ‘I still don’t see why you wanted me to put all this on,’ I said, gesturing to my dress, made from the finest blue and red silk, with golden embroidery. The hands with which I was gesturing were bedecked with jewels. ‘I mean… it’s very flattering, but it’s not really convenient for bandit-hunting.’

  ‘I told you: it is more inconspicuous. A man with his secretary - that might arouse suspicion, particularly if agents of Dalgliesh are indeed watching, and they know of me. But a man and a girl…’

  ‘…will be even more conspicuous. Conspicuous? Ha, what am I saying, it will be the biggest scandal of the city within a few hours! People will think I’m your mistress, or even worse, and they’ll talk about it from sunup till sundown. It’s not exactly considered decent or normal for gentlemen to travel with strange girls!’

  ‘Not with strange ones, no.’

  I blinked at him, but he didn’t seem in the mood to explain his cryptic answer, so I let it rest. What did I care about my reputation in the city of Alexandria? I would leave this place again in a few weeks and probably never see it again.

  The drive to the hotel was long and hot. To judge from the noise, the streets were as crowded as could be. I heard conversations, yelling and cursing in what I assumed to be Arabic, but I couldn’t see a soul. Mr Ambrose had pulled the blinds down, and I was too apprehensive of the reasons to ask him to pull them up again.

  Spies? Sharp shooters? Something worse?

  Finally, the carriage came to a halt. Opening the door, Mr Ambrose revealed a staircase leading up to a… was it a royal palace?

  It certainly looked like one, towering above us almost as high as Empire House, with finely crafted statues of ancient Egyptian kings decorating the façade and blooming gardens all around. But the words ‘Luxor Hotel’ over the entrance, and the uniformed porter already waiting to take our cases, indicated something other than a royal residence.

  ‘You spent enough money to rent rooms in this place?’ I raised an eyebrow at Mr Ambrose. ‘Are you sure you’re feeling well?’

  Surprisingly, he didn’t try to bite my head off. No, he simply nodded and said: ‘It was necessary.’

  Suspicion rose in me like a firework rocket. When Mr Ambrose deemed luxury necessary, something was fishy. ‘Necessary? For what?’

  ‘For our disguise. We have to fool Dalgliesh’s agents, remember? We have to make them believe that I am not Mr Rikkard Ambrose, not the man they have been instructed to look for. Come.’

  ‘I don’t see what that has to do with-’

  ‘Come, I said.’ And taking me by the hand, he pulled me from the coach, steering me up the steps of the hotel. The driver was left looking after the luggage. We entered a luxurious lobby filled with marble columns and chandeliers, at the end of which stood a portly man behind a dark wood counter. He didn’t have the same sallow expression as Sallow-face back home, preferring instead to pester the world with an ingratiating smile, but I immediately recognized him as a colleague of the sour watchdog that guarded Mr Ambrose’s front hall. This was the head porter.

  ‘Welcome to the Luxor Hotel,’ he proclaimed, rubbing his smarmy little hands. ‘Where we fulfil your every fantasy of an exotic holiday while providing every comfort civilized society can offer. Might I enquire after your name, Sir?’

  ‘Richard Thompson,’ Mr Ambrose lied with a cool ease that I just had to admire. ‘There is a suite reserved in my name here.’

  ‘Only one suite? To share?’ The porter’s eyebrows rose. ‘Yes, there is a suite in your name reserv
ed here, Mr Thompson, but… I hope you will not find it impertinent of me to ask what your relationship with this young lady here is.’ He bowed to me, and his little pig eyes sparkled with curiosity for scandal.

  I sighed. It was just as I had told Mr Ambrose. A man travelling alone with a girl? Such a thing was beyond scandalous, it was unthinkable! Unless of course the two of them happened to be…

  I froze, horrified realization washing over me. My eyes flew down to the rings on my fingers - the rings Mr Ambrose had insisted I put on!

  ‘This,’ he said, taking me by the hand and planting a gentle kiss on my cheek, ‘is Lillian, my lovely wife.’

  The Art of Suggestive Name-calling

  I showed admirable self-restraint. I actually managed not to kill him right there in the hotel lobby.

  Be strong, I told myself, while a jabbering boy in hotel livery lead us through the hallways of the Luxor. Brutus planned and schemed for months before finally killing Julius Caesar. If some measly Roman general can wait that long, you can keep a grip on yourself until we reach the hotel room and the door is shut.

  We reached a door made from the same dark wood as the front desk. A large and ornate number 79 shone on the polished surface. With more jabbering, the nervous boy opened the door for us and showed us in. I hardly glanced at the magnificent hallway of the suite. My focus was all on the man who had entered before me and was now turning to face me.

  The boy said something else in Arabic. I didn’t listen, but instead kept my full focus on Mr Ambrose.

  ‘Send him away!’ I growled at him. Maybe it wasn’t the wisest thing to try and give Rikkard Ambrose orders, but right now I didn’t give a penny about wise.

  Mr Ambrose nodded to the boy and jerked his head, coolly. The youth didn’t need any more encouragement. He was out of the door without even trying to get a tip.

  For two or three seconds, there was a heavy silence in the room - at least ten tons and seven hundred and sixty-two pounds worth of silence. I stared at Mr Ambrose. Mr Ambrose stared at me.

  ‘Wife?’ I repeated.

  He cocked his head, and shrugged.

  Shrugged!

  ‘I,’ I repeated very slowly and clearly, ‘am your wife?’

  I do not believe I had ever managed to make my voice sound this deadly dangerous before. I was like a female tiger with fire in my belly! He didn’t seem to notice or care, but simply looked at me with those cool, dark eyes of his.

  ‘I told you, we have to be inconspicuous.’

  ‘Inconspi-!’ My voice failed me for just a moment. ‘If I murder you and hang your body from the balcony, will that be inconspicuous?’

  ‘You will do nothing of the kind. You are much too happy to murder anyone.’

  ‘Happy?’

  Was he delusional? Or on drugs?

  ‘Of course you are,’ he informed me in a tone as if he were explaining that one plus one made two. ‘Deliriously happy. After all, you are on your honeymoon with the man of your dreams, my dear.’

  ‘Honeymoon?’

  I didn’t seem able to do anything but incredulously repeat his last words. I should have thrown something at him, or slapped him, but all I could do was stare open-mouthed.

  On your honeymoon… you’re on your honeymoon with Rikkard Ambrose…

  ‘Yes,’ he told me, his face about as emotional as a slab of granite. ‘We had what I believe is commonly referred to as a “whirlwind romance”. Losing much of our sanity in the process, we fell passionately in love and got married in a small village near London not a week ago. We are a wasteful and completely irresponsible couple who actually went so far as to spend money on a frivolous pleasure trip called a “honeymoon”. Although our marriage has already lasted more than a week, we are somehow, miraculously, still filled with love, tenderness, passion and similar superfluous emotions.’

  ‘You’ve been planning this all along,’ I whispered. ‘If I decided to come along, you were going to use me like this from the very start!’

  ‘Oh yes.’

  ‘Why? Why this damn charade?’

  He fixed me with his ice-cold eyes. ‘Simple. You and I both know that the agents of Lord Dalgliesh are watching the port. They probably have been given my description, and yours, too. No matter how I disguise myself - as a tradesman, an army officer, a beggar - my disguise will be penetrated, and we will be hunted down. Even if I arrive as an oriental pasha with an elephant, ten peacocks and a horde of servants in tow, Dalgliesh will find out who I am sooner or later. He knows me too well. And precisely because he knows me well, there is only one thing he will never ever expect: me arriving in the company of a girl.’

  He took a step towards me, his eyes boring into me.

  ‘Especially,’ he continued, his voice dropping to a murmur, ‘a girl I am in love with.’ Raising his hand, he stroked a finger down my cheek, once.

  My heart stopped beating. Really, honestly, it did! Then it started up again, at twice its usual pace, doing its best to jump right out of my chest.

  Love?

  Suddenly, I realized how very, very close he was standing. His dark eyes were wide and stormy as the open sea. It felt as if I could fall right into them, and this time, I would not escape drowning. I would not want to.

  Dark eyes. Deep eyes. Loving eyes?

  Could it really be? My skin was suddenly tingling all over, the air crackling with expectation.

  A girl I am in love with…

  ‘So,’ he told me, stepping back, his tone suddenly businesslike again. ‘You see why we have to pretend to feel this ridiculous emotion towards each other, don’t you?’

  My heart screeched to an abrupt halt.

  Pretend?

  Of course, Lilly! This is all part of his scheme! Why the hell would you think that Rikkard Ambrose would ever be interested in marrying you? And, more to the point, why would you feel disappointed that he isn’t?

  Maybe because, as a wife, I would have prime murder opportunities? Yes, that had to be it! I could smother him with a pillow, or slip a little something into his nightcap, or… or… the possibilities were endless! If looks alone could kill, Mr Rikkard Ambrose would certainly have been nothing but a smouldering pile of ashes right now.

  ‘Tell me,’ I ground out between clenched teeth, ‘that you aren’t serious!’

  He cocked his head. ‘This continued insistence on your part that I am prone to jesting is getting out of hand. So far, have I displayed a tendency to pleasantry of any kind?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘There you are. I have explained my plan to you, and the reasons behind it. We have to hide from Dalgliesh’s agents. So for now, to anyone who asks, we are Mr and Mrs Thompson, a happy couple of newlyweds from Hazlemere.’

  ‘Hazlemere?’

  ‘A picturesque little village in Buckinghamshire. Just the sort of place newlyweds come from.’

  ‘But… but…’ I spluttered. ‘I can’t pretend to be your wife!’

  He seemed surprised by this. ‘Why not? All you need to do is wear a ring.’

  ‘That’s not what I meant, blast you! I meant I can’t pretend to be in love with you!’

  ‘Why?’

  I stared at him in disbelief. Was he serious? God, why was I asking myself that? He was Rikkard Ambrose! Of course he was serious! He was also completely and utterly nuts if he thought I was going along with this!

  ‘Apart from the fact that it was a dastardly trick of yours to force me into this without asking my permission first?’

  He nodded, clearly impatient. ‘Yes, apart from that, of course.’

  My hands twitched, itching to reach for his neck.

  Breathe, Lilly! Breathe deeply and slowly! Murder is probably against the law in Egypt!

  ‘Well?’ Mr Ambrose demanded, his gold gaze raking over me as if we were back in his office in London and I was taking too long with sorting through a couple of files. ‘Why can’t you pretend to be utterly and deliriously in love with me? It shouldn’t be hard. I am m
e, after all, and you are female.’

  My mouth dropped open. The arrogant son of a…! ‘Why? Simple! Because… because…’

  I hesitated.

  Bloody hell, it wasn’t so simple, after all. Why exactly couldn’t I pretend to be in love with him? It wouldn’t exactly be the first time I had pretended or acted a role. I had pretended to be a secretary in male costume for weeks now. After that, a bride on her honeymoon shouldn’t be that difficult, should it?

  There was only one problem.

  I wasn’t just going to be a bride. I was going to be his bride. The bride of Mr Rikkard Ambrose. Assumed name or not, he was still he. And I was I.

  His eyes narrowed a fraction. ‘Why?’ he demanded for the third and, I could tell from his tone, very last time. There was thunder threatening in his voice.

  ‘Because… because I can’t stand you!’

  He shrugged. ‘Irrelevant.’

  ‘Because I’m a feminist!’

  ‘Also irrelevant. I pay you to work for me, not to hold absurd political opinions.’ Taking a sudden step towards me, he forced me to retreat, his dark form towering above me. The aura of power radiating off his hard body was almost palpable. ‘You will be my wife, Miss Linton - for the next few months. After that, you can feminise and frolic wherever and whenever you want. But for the next few months, you are mine!’

  ‘No!’

  ‘Yes!’ I wasn’t fast enough. He was already close enough for me to feel his breath on my face, the force of his dark, sea-coloured eyes pulling at my soul. ‘You will.’

  ‘N-’

  Before I could finish my denial, his finger was at my lip, cool, hard, implacable.

  ‘Think very carefully before you speak, Miss Linton.’ There was a distinct note of threat in his voice. A shiver of mingled fear and excitement travelled down my spine. ‘Remember your agreement, when you took my money. Do whatever I say, go wherever I command… Do you remember?’

  Good God! Had he been planning all this even then?

  What a stupid question. Of course he had.

  I swallowed. ‘I remember.’

  ‘Well then?’ He bent down from his towering height, until I could feel the hard muscles of his chest against mine, and his mouth almost brushed my lips. I could barely breathe, so thick with delicious tension was the air around me. ‘What is your answer? Miss Linton, will you be my wife?’