Chapter Nineteen
Aleppo, Haleb province of Syria, July 1, 1811
A city continuously inhabited going back at least three thousand years before the birth of Jesus Christ, and presently under the putative control of the Turks. The very earth itself seemed to feel the regime could not last much longer, but no one knew who would take over once the Turks were gone. Nazim Pasha had his own opinion about that. As did Ibrahim Pasha, who had so resoundingly slaughtered his Egyptian competition earlier in the year. The French, the British, the Italians, and the Russians had their separate ideas as well.
“There’s no help for it,” Foye said to her when they were alone in a second-floor room. He unslung the heavier of his saddlebags and let it fall to the floor. The ceiling was high and painted in creams, blue, and gold in intricate patterns centered around flowing Arabic script. The wood-paneled walls were just as intricately carved.
“I understand that, Foye,” she said.
There was no furniture but for a low octagonal table and a narghile at the edge of the divan. At each end of the room, a lamp hung from a hook in the wall. Foye crossed the room and dropped his other saddlebag on the floor, near the divan.
“We aren’t married yet,” he said. He opened the cupboards built into the walls until he found the rolled-up mattresses. With both mattresses in hand he turned. “You have nothing to fear from me,” he said.
“I know.” Sabine put down her things, too, and helped him lay out the bedding. That done, she stood hands on her hips, longing to take a deep breath but unable to because of the cloth so tightly wrapped around her rib cage. Anxiety curled in her belly. She was excessively aware of Foye.
He frowned as he removed his pistols from his coat pockets and placed them beside his mattress. To them he added two knives and a dagger. She took another uncomfortable breath. “Why are you breathing like that?” he asked with a glance in her direction.
She gazed at him, knowing her cheeks were flaming red Could he tell under the artificial color of her skin? Here she stood, alone with a man she’d kissed until her knees were weak, and she still felt shy. Worse than shy. They were alone, and he was not the polite and controlled marquess she’d known in Buyukdere. As for why she was breathing as she was, she wasn’t sure she could bring herself to tell him the problem, which was that her bosom was too tightly bound.
“Sabine.”
For a man so temperamentally even, he had a talent for skewering one with a single glance. “I am not comfortable, Foye.” He arched an eyebrow. She gestured at her upper body. “Here.”
“Nor am I—” He scowled at her, but understanding had dawned. His gaze lowered to the vicinity of her bosom. “Ah. Yes. Our solution to the problems of anatomy.”
“As you said, there’s nothing for it,” she said. She avoided looking at him by kneeling to unroll her rug and spread it over her mattress. She brushed away as much dust as she could. The room, beautiful as it was, was not very large. They would be close here. Very close. But nothing would happen. Would it? She kept her head down. Was that what she wanted?
“Sabine,” Foye said.
She did not want to hear anything from him about her constricted bosom. She wished to God she’d never even alluded to the reason for her discomfort. All she’d done was destroy the illusion that she was Pathros and bring back all the discomfort from before. They were now both too aware of each other. Well, she was too aware of him.
“It would be best…” He coughed. “If we left our solution in place. Unless it’s unbearable for you.”
“No,” she said. Lied. “It’s not.” She sat down, cross-legged, and was reminded that she too was armed when the weapons in her sash poked into her ribs. She took out both the pistols and the knife tucked into her sash. The purse he’d given her was there, too, but she left that for now. What had her life come to that she was pulling such deadly instruments from her clothing and thinking that perhaps she ought to have more?
“They make a rather impressive pile, don’t you agree?” she said.
Foye looked over. “Formidable.” He fetched his other saddlebag and moved both to one side. He, too, unrolled his rug and stretched out on the mattress. His feet hung off the end. “God willing, you will never use them,” he said, tucking his hands under his head. “And, God willing, you will if necessary.”
“Yes.” She touched the larger pistol Foye had given her. Sabine would never have touched such a weapon. No one would ever think she could. But Pathros? He must be familiar and ruthless with such an instrument. “Do you think Nazim Pasha knows I’m gone?”
“Assuredly.”
“He’ll come after you.”
“Yes. With luck. Barton has delayed him. We’ll keep you out of sight if he catches up with me. I intend to play the innocent for as long as it lasts. With more luck we’ll be on our way to Iskenderun before he finds us.”
She removed her headband, scarf, and cap and ran her fingers through what was left of her hair. It felt sticky and damp with sweat and was uneven; longer in some places, primarily the front, and horribly short in the back. She did not care to imagine what she must look like. A fright. An absolute fright. She was glad there was no mirror to confirm her suspicions.
Foye gave her a regretful look. Lord, it must be even worse than she imagined. “I’m sure it’s not much consolation at the moment, but your hair will grow out and the dye will fade.”
“Better to look a disaster than to be identified because someone saw the color of my hair,” she said.
He grunted.
“It’s the first time I’ve ever wished I’d been born a brunette.” She ran her fingers through her hair once more, trying to work out the tangles. “If someone were to see it now, they’d know something was wrong.”
He didn’t smile, but Sabine’s heart beat a little harder anyway. They were alone, and even though he said nothing would happen and even though she was relieved by his assurance, she was still nervous. Her awareness of him as a man was too sharp. “You’re right, of course,” he said. “I’ve a pair of shears in my kit. I ought to cut it properly. Just in case.” He pushed himself to his feet. “That’s if you trust me not to butcher you even worse this time.”
“Thank you.” She made sure she sounded as if she didn’t feel she would fall off that cliff any minute. Nothing would happen. “I think that would be wise.”
“Anything for you, my love,” he said in his familiar light tone.
“Anything?” She returned his teasing lilt. She had her head bowed away from him while she used her fingers to work out a snarl on one side and so could not see his face. “I shall begin a list. A bath, I think.” She worked through the last tangle and looked up to see him watching her. Her stomach dropped again. “The moon and the stars? Can you give me those?” she asked softly.
Foye didn’t answer her right away, and she was lost in the blue of his eyes. When he did reply, the humor was gone from his voice. “Anything,” he said. He had the shears in his hand and now went onto his knees beside her.
“The universe?” he said. “Say the word and it’s yours.” His fingers brushed her shoulder. His gaze held hers. “You are magnificent.”
Sabine’s breath hitched. The giddy, shivery feeling was back, centered in her stomach and lower, and she wasn’t at all sure what to make of it, except that she was both frightened of her feelings and wishing that whatever restraint kept Foye from embracing her would vanish.
He reached into his satchel, dug around, and came out with a comb he held out to her. She took the comb and worked the teeth through her tangled hair while he held up the shears and scissored them with a madman’s grin that made her laugh and broke the mood.
Everything would be all right, after all. Nothing would happen. She was safe from the emotions that rushed through her. She no longer felt like the naive young woman who had kissed the Marquess of Foye and fancied herself in love with a man she didn’t really know. Now, her feelings were far, far more complex and dangerous. He could hurt her, devastate her with a word or look.
He wrapped her blanket around her shoulders and went to work. “My God, I made a hash of this,” he said. He took the comb from her. “I’ve no future as a valet or lady’s maid. Don’t move your head, Sabine.” He shifted closer to her so that she could not help but feel the size of his body. He felt warm, and he made her feel safe. Beyond that just now, she refused to speculate.
She sat cross-legged with her back straight and her hands underneath the blanket around her, holding it closed. “I suppose you think me vain to regret the loss of my hair.”
“No,” he said. The sound of the scissors snipping her hair echoed in her ears. “Even I prefer to be presentable, insofar as that is possible.”
Without thinking, she turned her head. “You really mustn’t—”
He pulled away the scissors. “Have a care, or I’ll lop off a piece of your ear.”
“—talk about yourself as if you’re hideous to behold.”
Honestly, though, she remembered all too well that her first impression of his looks had not been charitable. She had once wanted to draw his face for the novelty of capturing the irregular line of his cheeks and jaw. Now she wanted to know if she could capture the way his eyes and smile transformed him utterly.
“You’re not.” She was insulted for him, since he would not be for himself. “Not at all.”
Foye took her chin between thumb and forefinger and turned her head so that he had her profile. “Hold still, woman.”
“Woman?” She snorted. “I am Pathros, effendi, and I spit on your calling me a woman. I spit on it!” He laughed, a low chuckle. “Don’t change the subject, Foye. You’re a far more attractive man than you give yourself credit for. Will you force me to speak to you sternly about this?”
He went back to cutting her hair. “As to your sex, Sabine, that you are female is rarely far from my mind, you may trust me on that.” He moved behind her and resumed his work with the shears. “As to my appearance, thank you. I am flattered by your opinion. And I do not think you vain, by the way. You are so far from that, I think I ought to give you lessons in vanity. I will have you know I spend hours before the mirror achieving an absolutely precise fold of a cravat. It is an art to which every gentleman ought to aspire. So few succeed.” He snipped more of her hair. “I’ll turn you into a valet yet. Just wait until morning, Pathros, when I require you to tie my cravat to my exacting specifications.”
“I endeavor to please, effendi.”
Snip, snip, snip. He touched the back of her head, pushing slightly as he cut.
“When we’re back in England, and your hair has grown out,” he said, “I’ll have your portrait painted.” More hair fell onto her lap. “I said hold still. Do you want to keep your ear?”
“Yes, my lord, I do. Forgive me.”
Presently, he reached around her to her forehead and brought her head upright. “Almost done,” he said. He studied her, squinting at her before he went to work again. “I’ve made you as masculine as I can.” He tipped his head this way and that. “You’ll have to tell me if you think I’ve ruined you.”
She laughed. “If you have, I don’t mind, Foye.”
Too late, she realized how much could be read into what she’d said and how he must be taking it. Once again, the silence between them felt too large. “I didn’t mean precisely that,” she said. But was that true? What if she had? What if she wanted him that way? Now? “Not the way it came out.”
“No,” he said. He drew a finger along the line of her jaw. “You gave my heart a turn nonetheless.” He put down the shears, but Sabine didn’t move. She kept her head straight. He moved again, this time to kneel in front of her. “I think this may be the best that can be done with you. It’s shorter than mine, now.”
She slid her blanket off her shoulders and reached up to touch her hair. “Goodness,” she said as she felt just how short her hair was. Foye scooped up a handful of the hair he’d trimmed and took it to the window. He opened one of louvers and threw it out. “There’s almost nothing left.”
When he returned, she’d brushed most of the hair off her blanket and was scrubbing the back of her neck, trying to dislodge the stray hairs. Foye sat in front of her again. Sabine pretended to be busy brushing more hair from her blanket. The truth was, the loss of her hair bothered her more than she wanted to let on.
He put his hand under her chin and lifted her head, holding her chin and turning her head from side to side. “You make a tolerable boy,” he said.
She raised her eyes and found him studying her. Her stomach filled with butterflies. “Do I?”
“Yes.”
She studied his face, too, trying to bring back the way she’d first seen him, with such awkward features and a hooked nose, all parts uneven and awkward, but all she saw was the light in his eyes and the gentleness of his mouth.
His was a face of character and intelligence. To her, he was beautiful. A man who tried to see the world as it was rather than what it was said to be, and still retained his hope.
“Let this be a lesson to you,” he said.
“What?”
He grinned. “Never let an ugly man cut your hair.”
She pushed him in the chest, and he pretended to be injured. “Stop, Foye. You’re not ugly. You’re not at all.” He let go of her chin and fell to the floor, clutching his chest.
“I’m injured. Injured I tell you. Brought low by some snip of a boy.”
“Oh, stop that, too.” She planted her hands on the floor on either side of his face and bent over him. He was laughing, and she was trying to hold back her own mirth. She couldn’t get a deep enough breath to laugh anyway. I’m going to sketch you. I will. And you’ll see I’m right. You are not ugly.” Briefly, she lifted a hand and brushed a fingertip along his cheek. “Repeat after me. I, the Marquess of Foye, am not an ugly man.”
“I, the monster of Foye—” The words didn’t make it past his laughter.
“Come now.” She bent closer. What was left of her once waist-length hair fell over her forehead and no farther. There were no waist-length curls to fall over her shoulders. She touched her forehead and found only a few lank curls to sweep back. She looked down again and said, “Say it, my lord, or I shall be forced to deal harshly with you.”
But Foye had stopped laughing, and he was looking at her with such heat her breath caught in her throat. He reached out and cupped his hand over the back of her neck. She didn’t move. If she moved, this moment, whatever it was, wherever it might lead, would end, and she didn’t want that to happen. “You are so very young, Sabine.”
“Twenty-three isn’t so young.”
His fingers tightened on her nape but not enough to bring them closer. She wanted him to. She wanted to be closer to him. She wanted this to happen between them, whatever he intended, she wanted that and more.
“It is compared to thirty-eight.”
“If only you were thirty-seven or I twenty-four,” she said, rolling her eyes. “Then everything would be all right.”
“Are you mocking me?” he asked. One corner of his mouth twitched, and Sabine’s heart gave a clench at the sight.
“Never.”
Foye slid his hand off her neck, and Sabine realized that he wasn’t going to do anything. Despite the heat between them, the feeling that only the two of them existed, nothing was going to happen between them. “Good,” he said. “Because it wouldn’t do at all if you were to mock me.”
“Foye,” she said. But she didn’t know how to tell him what she wanted, because he had been so adamant that nothing would happen between them. They shouldn’t. He was right in that. But she wanted him to kiss her, and she could see that he wouldn’t. She lifted a hand to her hair, as short as a boy’s, and yet shorter than Foye’s. It barely reached the top of her neck.
He rolled away until he was sitting up. “We should both be asleep,” he said, He shrugged out of his coat, and laid it over his saddlebags. He reached for his cravat.
Sabine said, “Allow me, effendi.”
“I can undress myself,” he said. His voice was gruff.
“Don’t be difficult, Foye. We’re both tired and tense, and there’s really no need to take my head off, is there?”
“No.” He sighed as she pushed herself up to a sitting position and deftly untied his cravat. “I didn’t mean to snap, Sabine.”
When she leaned forward to pull the strip of linen off his neck, he breathed in. She folded his cravat and placed it very neatly and precisely on his coat. “It’s all right. It’s very strange, us being here like this.”
His waistcoat was next. She unfastened his watch, that was easy enough, and tucked it into a pocket. There were eight cloth-covered buttons. He kept very still while she pushed it off his shoulders, and then, well, the contact was too much. Too intimate. Though she had imagined doing this more than once, the reality was nothing like what she had imagined. Her body reacted in ways she hadn’t anticipated: nervous, aroused, uncertain, even guilty. She didn’t feel confident the way she had in her imagination, not of herself, or of Foye, for that matter. There were matters between men and women of which she was ignorant and he was not, and yet she thought she’d never live if he didn’t want her, too.
She drew away her hands, leaving him with his waistcoat halfway down his arms, and she had never in her life seen any man but Godard in his shirt, and it wasn’t the same at all to see Foye in this state of undress.
Thank you, Pathros,” he said, shrugging off his waistcoat on his own. He was trying to make light of a moment that wasn’t. “You are an able valet. Now, it’s time we went to sleep.” He stood up—my God, in only his breeches and shirt!—and dimmed the lamps until the room was almost completely dark. Then he lay down, pulled his blanket over him, and closed his eyes. “Sleep, Sabine.”
“Yes, my lord.”
But she lay in the dark, listening to Foye breathing and fighting the tears dammed up in the back of her throat.