Except that she wasn’t peaceful.
She couldn’t concentrate. She wasn’t at all easy in her mind about Miles, but that wasn’t the whole trouble.
She knew she’d crossed a line on the day they left Minya. The outburst itself wasn’t unreasonable in the circumstances, but what she’d said wasn’t half of what she’d felt.
She’d become attached to him, which was the stupidest mistake, because he was not the sort of man who could become attached to anybody, and most especially not to a dull bookworm nearly thirty years old.
She was glaring with helpless incomprehension at a set of cartouches in her notebook when she heard footsteps in the passage, then a tap at her door.
She flung the notebook aside, went to the door, and opened it. And her heart opened up, too, and had a little party, with dancing.
Udail/Tom stood in the passage bearing the coffee tray. Behind him stood Mr. Carsington, in one of his Arabian Nights costumes. Deeply tanned, his black hair wind-blown, he looked more untamable than ever.
“Leena says you’re cross,” he said.
“I am not,” Daphne lied. “I was working.”
“No, you weren’t,” he said. “You haven’t got ink all over you.” He looked over her shoulder into the cabin. “Your papers and notebooks are not scattered about the divan.”
“Arranged,” she said. “My materials are carefully arranged. I told you, there must be order.”
“Your idea of order looks like a muddle of books and papers to me,” he said. “But then, I’m an idiot.”
“Mr. Carsington.”
“You need coffee and sweets to stimulate that immense brain of yours,” he said. He patted Udail on the shoulder, and the boy carried the coffee tray into her cabin and set it down on the low stool near the divan.
Having completed his assignment, the boy departed.
The aroma of freshly brewed Turkish coffee filled the small cabin. Daphne settled onto the divan once more. Mr. Carsington set one broad shoulder against the doorframe and lounged there.
“Oh, come in,” she said. “You know I cannot eat all this fateerah by myself. Not to mention how ridiculous it is to pretend you meant to go away directly when the tray is set for two.”
“You’re so clever,” he said. “I did have an ulterior motive.” From the folds of his shirt he withdrew a roll of heavy paper. “We need to look at the map and decide how many stops we ought to make before we come to Asyut, where we’re obliged to stop.”
While he spoke he came in and sat on the divan, folding up his long legs as easily and naturally as though he were the Arabian prince he so closely resembled.
“Asyut,” she repeated, blank for a moment, then, “Oh, yes. The crew bakes bread there.”
“We must give them the whole day,” he said. He poured coffee for them both.
She would not let herself think about how intimate the gesture seemed, even with the door properly open. She would not let herself be stupid anymore.
“I can think of no reason to stop before then, except for the night,” she said. “It’s most unlikely anyone will give us information. One of the two warring sides will have bribed or terrified the locals to hold their tongues, and you cannot go into every single village and knock people about to encourage them to talk.”
She took the map and turned a little away from him to unroll it and look for the place. “Ah, yes. Asyut will do very well. It is an important town. The caravans stop there. We can send the servants into the marketplace to collect gossip.” She studied the map. “We have passed Beni Hasan, I don’t doubt, at this rate.”
“Long past,” he said. “Reis Rashad expects to stop for the night at someplace unpronounceable. Some famous ruins nearby.”
“West or east bank? Antinopolis is to the east.”
“West.”
“El-Ashmunein, then,” she said. “The ruins of ancient Hermopolis are nearby. It was dedicated to Thoth, the Egyptian god of learning. He is the equivalent of the Greeks’ Hermes and the Romans’ Mercury. According to Plutarch, Thoth was represented by the ibis, and had one arm shorter than the other.”
“I read Plutarch,” Mr. Carsington said. “That’s all we read. Greeks and Romans, Romans and Greeks.”
She looked away from the map toward him. He was reaching for another piece of fateerah, the supply of which had noticeably dwindled in the last few minutes.
“You had a sound classical education, in other words,” she said.
He ate his pastry, his black brows knit, as though she’d said something vastly puzzling.
She set aside the map and sipped her coffee, wondering what on earth could cause him to deliberate…about anything.
After a rather long time, he spoke. “I daresay my schooling was sound enough,” he said, “but it was ghastly dull. The same authors and subjects are much more entertaining when you talk about them. I thought at first that was because you are so agreeable to look at.”
It was nothing, a mere handful of words uttered in the most offhand way. He drank his coffee and scarcely looked at her.
She didn’t know where to look. The idiotish dancing had recommenced in her heart.
She knew men liked her figure very well. Even Virgil. That, apparently, was all he’d liked.
She was aware that her face, while not pretty, was not repellent to men, either.
All the same, she was moved. Everything inside her seemed to open up, like fresh blossoms. “Oh,” she said, aware of the blush simmering in her cheeks. “A compliment.”
“It’s a simple enough fact.” His voice dropped lower, to a rumble that vibrated deep within her. “When I don’t understand what you’re talking about, I pretend I’m in a picture gallery and you are all the pictures.”
She thought she must burst with pleasure. No one, no one had ever said anything like that to her before. It was more than a compliment. It was…it was…poetry, almost.
“But it isn’t simply your looks,” he went on, his gaze elsewhere, reflective. “It’s the enthusiasm. The love of what you do. You make it interesting because you love it. You may talk of the driest stuff, yet I feel like Whatshis-name, listening to Scheherazade.”
His face changed then, darkened. If it had been any other man she would have thought he blushed.
But his dark gaze came back to her, and he shook his head, and laughed in his usual carefree way. “I am like a child, you see, easily entertained. Why do you think the fellow — the god, I mean — was misshapen?”
20 April
IT WAS NEAR daybreak.
Lord Noxley’s dahabeeya, which had stopped at Girga overnight, set out well before the sun had cleared the horizon. A mile or two upriver, the Memnon approached a sandbank where half a dozen crocodiles slept. They were the first to be seen on the journey thus far, for the creatures had, over time, retreated from their haunts farther south.
Moments later, his lordship watched as the two men who’d run away from the “ghost” were bound and tossed into the water. At the first splash and scream, the reptiles woke and had breakfast.
Most of the company, accustomed to the Golden Devil’s methods, watched as he did, with no evident emotion.
A few of the company, who were not accustomed, turned away.
One of these was Akmed.
Until now, he’d thought Lord Noxley a good man. Like Akmed’s beloved master, this Englishman paid well, never shouted or abused those who served him, and did not permit beatings.
Now Akmed saw why the shouting and abuse were unnecessary and why everyone aboard worked diligently.
Now it dawned on him that he might have made a terrible mistake.
But it dawned on him, too, that his master needed him now more than ever.
Running away was out of the question.
Chapter 14
Asyut, 21 April
THE ISIS SAILED ON, THE WIND CONTINUING true and strong, dying away at sunset only to return, fresh, at dawn.
On the fourth day after
leaving Minya, they reached Asyut.
The bustling market town was the site of ancient Lycopolis, whose people worshiped the jackal or wolf. The Description de l’Egypte contained cross sections and other detailed illustrations of some of the more elaborate tombs carved into the nearby hills.
It was nearly an hour’s journey, over one of the Nile’s wider stretches of fertile land, then over a bridge, to the mountain necropolis. The openings to the tombs and caves were plainly visible from a distance. A modern cemetery lay below.
The famous rock tombs were not Rupert and Mrs. Pembroke’s destination, however. They’d decided to venture into the hills and desert beyond, where people might feel freer to answer their questions.
Accordingly, dressed in Arab style garments that would not attract attention, Rupert and Mrs. Pembroke set out on donkeys with Tom, Yusef, and a pair of guards from the town.
Rupert noticed the change in the wind as they reached the hillside. It had come up less fierce this morning, though still favorable, and he’d regretted the loss of time almost as much as Mrs. Pembroke had. But in the course of this morning’s journey it had died away altogether.
Now, as they reached the edge of the desert plain, it was reviving. It had changed direction, though.
After a few miles, he was getting a bad feeling. The guards were dawdling far behind, and the lads looked uneasy.
Rupert met Tom’s gaze. “Simoom,” the boy said. “Simoom comes, I think.”
Yusef beside him nodded and went into a long spate of Arabic.
The wind was picking up, whirling sand.
Mrs. Pembroke said, “I think we’d better —”
Tom gave a shout and pointed southward. Rupert turned that way. A great yellow fog bank welled up from the horizon.
Another shout made him look behind him. The guards were galloping away.
Yusef cried, “Hadeed ya mashoom!”
“Allahu akbar!” Tom shouted.
Rupert knew that last one. God is most great. It was a charm to ward off evil. In Minya he’d found out that the Egyptians believed the jinn rode in the sandstorms.
Running for cover was definitely the best idea.
“Go!” he told the boys. “Follow the guards.”
“Mrs. Pembroke,” he called. He could hear the wind’s roar, drawing closer.
“Yes, I —” The words slid into a shriek as her donkey reared and galloped away in the wrong direction.
Rupert spurred his animal after her. The fog swelled into a wave of sand, billowing toward them. An instant before Rupert reached them, her donkey came to a sudden halt, turned abruptly, and fell. Rupert dismounted and hurried to the fallen rider and mount.
But her donkey was already struggling up onto its feet. Before he could grab it, the beast, freed of its burdens, fled. Rupert grabbed the bridle of his mount before it could follow.
Mrs. Pembroke struggled to rise, too, but fell down again. “Just my foot,” she gasped as Rupert knelt beside her. “Silly ass fell on it.”
The billowing sand was welling up, like a whirlpool upside down. It grew into a great swirling pillar of sand, and it was racing straight at them.
He caught her round the waist with one arm and lifted her up from the ground, his other hand still holding his anxious donkey’s bridle. He dragged them both toward the jagged, stony slopes of the mountain necropolis.
The sand beat at his face, stung his eyes, filled his nose. The swirling pillar was nearly upon them.
He hauled woman and beast into the nearest crevice. He pulled off his cloak and sank down to the ground, taking Mrs. Pembroke with him. He pulled her between his bent legs and wrapped the cloak about them both. The donkey pressed close to the humans.
The sandstorm, shrieking and roaring, bore down on them.
THE MEN WHO were following the party abruptly reversed direction and raced back to Asyut. They waited out the simoom in a coffee shop near the southwest gate at the back of the town, facing the tombs. At this shop, one could obtain “white” or “black” coffee, the former laced with forbidden brandy. The men drank white coffee. They were all mercenaries who worked for a Frenchman named Duval. They had orders to capture the redheaded Englishwoman they’d been following recently. Today offered the prime opportunity. The woman had left most of her people behind. She traveled to the tombs with only a few servants and a pair of guards who could be counted on to run at the first sign of trouble. The large Englishman who accompanied her didn’t worry them. One man stood no chance against ten experienced killers.
After several cups of white coffee, though, they began arguing about the Englishman. They’d all heard he was the son of a great lord whose wealth far surpassed that of Muhammad Ali. Now some of them said he would be worth more alive than dead. With each succeeding cup of coffee, the debate grew louder. They woke from his nap the gatekeeper nearby, who left his post to demand silence. One of the men, Khareef, apologized and escorted him out of the shop. The instant they were out of onlookers’ view, Khareef thrust a knife between the gatekeeper’s ribs. He propped up the corpse in its usual place, where it remained undisturbed until the watch changed next morning, everyone who passed assuming the gatekeeper was sleeping as usual. Khareef found this highly amusing, and laughed from time to time, thinking about it.
RUPERT COULDN’T GUESS how long the sandstorm went on. It seemed an eternity.
The wind howled, and the sand lashed at them like an enraged monster. Small wonder the Arabs thought the jinn rode in the sandstorms.
In the cloak’s shelter it was hot and dark. It smelled of donkey, too. But the rocks sheltered them from the worst of the storm’s brutality, and the tightly woven cloth blocked the worst of the biting sand.
Mrs. Pembroke clung to him, mute and motionless, oh, and soft. He felt her breath, the quick inhale-exhale of fear, against his collarbone, where his shirt had fallen open. He was acutely aware of the hurried rise and fall of her bosom against his chest and of the soft pressure of her bottom against his thigh and groin.
He bent and pressed a reassuring kiss to the top of her head. Her hair was so soft, and fell in waves, like the rippling desert sand.
She’d lost her veil, he realized: the obnoxious veil he resented while aware of the protection if afforded against the Egyptian sun as well as prying male eyes. It wasn’t black, he remembered, but he couldn’t recall what color it was. She hadn’t worn black in days, he realized. Since Minya?
“We’ll be all right,” he said. He could barely hear his own words over the whistle and wail of the sandstorm. He didn’t know if she answered or not. He knew, though, that she held him tightly, her arms wrapped about his waist, as though she feared the storm would bear him away otherwise.
At moments he thought it might. The wind was unlike anything he’d ever experienced on dry land. It was more like an ocean storm, like being caught in a tearing sea of sand. Twice he thought it would rip them out from their crevice to throw them miles into the air, then drop them in so many broken pieces upon the Libyan hills.
But if so, it must take them both or none. He would not give her up to man or to force of nature, however great. He wrapped his arms more tightly about her, his fingers clutching at the robe to keep it closed while he prayed the storm would end soon, before they suffocated.
He didn’t waste any more breath on reassurances she couldn’t hear over the storm. He only pressed his lips to her head, again and again, hoping she’d understand: he’d take care of her. She would not come to harm so long as he was alive.
Some lifetimes later, the world began to quiet. The wind still blew strong, and the sand beat against them still, but not so ferociously. The juggernaut of whirling sand had moved on to sow destruction elsewhere.
He lifted his head. Gingerly he loosened his hold on the robe and peered out.
“I think it’s safe to breathe,” he said.
She let out a whoosh of breath, then coughed.
“Sorry,” he said. He kissed her temple. “Sorry. I
didn’t mean to crush your ribs.”
Her arms slid from his waist. She lifted her head. She eased her rump a few inches away from his crotch.
He wanted her back. He wanted her tucked into his arms, her soft hair tickling his chin. He wanted to feel her breathing against his collarbone, and the soft pressure of her breasts and her backside.
After a moment, she crawled farther away and spat out sand. “Good grief,” she said. “Good grief.”
“Are you all right?” he said. “Your foot?”
She turned her foot experimentally. “It seems to be functioning,” she said. “My boots are filled with sand. My trousers are filled with sand. I am a walking sandbag. No, not walking. Not yet. Let me just…catch my breath.”
She drew up her knees and folded her arms upon them and bowed her head upon her arms.
He looked about them. The wind had heaped a large mound of sand into the opening they’d entered.
He rose cautiously and looked to the southeast.
A fresh yellow tidal wave was building.
“Um,” he said.
“Yes, I’ll be up in a minute.”
“I’m not sure we have a minute,” he said. “And I don’t fancy being buried here.” He hauled her up and started pulling her and the donkey up the mountain.
BEING ABRUPTLY DRAGGED to her feet and yanked up a mountainside knocked out of Daphne the half a breath she’d managed to collect. She’d none to spare for commentary. Not that he would have listened — or needed to. He’d summed up their situation accurately, she soon saw.
A glance back showed her why he was so impatient to be moving. Sand had partly filled their shelter, and another sand funnel was hurtling toward them.
Fortunately, paths had been worn or cut into the hillside for access to the tombs. With Mr. Carsington to lean on, Daphne could get along well enough. She was thankful for her Turkish trousers, which allowed for easier movement than the usual layers of petticoats under not-very-wide skirts. The donkey experienced no difficulty at all, and came along agreeably enough.