Chapter 10
AT SUNSET THE CONTRARY WIND DIED AWAY. BY this time, Daphne was aboard the Isis. She was clean, dressed in fresh garments, and trying not to bore her dining companion out of his wits. This was difficult for a dull scholar like her even in the best of circumstances. After such a day, it was impossible.
The Ramesses cartouches…the kiss…the stepped pyramid with its wonderful interior and fascinating falcon motif…the kiss…the tablet with its inscription…the snake lunging at her…death so near…the kiss…the strange, dreamlike time of being carried like a sleeping princess in a genie’s arms…the kiss…
Avoiding the many improper or disturbing subjects on her mind limited her to the dullest of scholarly ones. Now, while they lingered over sweets and coffee, she babbled about the Coptic language, believed to be the modern version of ancient Egyptian. Though no longer in everyday use, she told him, it remained the Egyptian Christians’ church language. It was written using a Greek alphabet with added symbols for sounds that didn’t exist in Greek.
She explained how one might use it to decipher hieroglyphs.
Mr. Carsington frowned into his coffee cup.
She wondered what he was thinking. She knew it was not about Coptic, one of the world’s most boring topics.
She wondered what she would have talked about if he hadn’t found out her secret.
“I always go on far too long,” she said. “Miles will cry out, ‘Enough, Daphne! My head is about to explode!’ If you do not speak up, Mr. Carsington, I shan’t know when to stop. I tend to forget how few others, including scholars, find the Coptic language as engrossing as I do. Your cousin Miss Saunders is one of the few. She and I have carried on a most stimulating correspondence. It was she, in fact, who obtained for me several Coptic lexicons many years ago, when I began my study of hieroglyphs in earnest.” Daphne paused and bit her lip. “Well, that is not very interesting, either.”
“Yes, it is,” he said. “Fascinating. It was my own Cousin Tryphena who obtained these books for you.”
“As well as a number of papyri in my collection,” she said.
“I suppose, being so devoted to theology, Mr. Pembroke hadn’t time to hunt up lexicons and papyri for you,” he said.
“Mr. Pembroke did not approve,” she said, trying for a light tone, with mixed success.
“Of Egypt altogether?” Mr. Carsington’s dark brows rose. “I can understand wanting to avoid the dangers of travel here, but where’s the harm in studying the language?”
“Mr. Pembroke, like most of your sex, did not believe intellectual pursuits constituted a proper occupation for women,” she said.
“Really,” he said. “What evil did he see in it, I wonder? Or was it your devotion to scholarship he found so objectionable? Was he jealous? You did say it was a passion, when we were at the statue of Ramesses. Do you recall? It was moments before—”
She stood abruptly. “I can hardly keep my eyes open,” she said. “I had better make an early bedtime. Good night.” Face ablaze, she hurried from the front cabin into the passage. It was only a short way to her quarters.
Not nearly short enough. She heard his footsteps at the same moment she heard his deep voice close behind her.
“What a nodcock you are,” he said. “We’re on a boat. How far do you think you can run?”
“I am not running.” She was, though she knew it was stupid and childish. She was not afraid of him.
It was herself she feared, the self she couldn’t trust, the one who belonged in a room with books and documents, pens and pencils.
“You’re not a coward,” he said. “Why are you behaving in this cowardly way?”
She’d reached the door of her cabin. As her fingers closed over the door handle, he laid his palm against the door and rested his weight on it. The passage was narrow, and this was the end of it. His big frame, inches away from her, blocked any return to the front of the boat. His big hand held the door shut. He not only took up most of the space but most of the air, it seemed. She found it difficult to breathe, near impossible to think.
“You had your turn to talk about Coptic,” he said. “Now it’s my turn. I want to talk about…Ramesses.”
She knew he hadn’t followed her to discuss the pharaoh’s cartouches. “That is quite unnecessary,” she said. “You already apologized.”
The passage’s gloom veiled his expression, but she heard his smile when he said, “Did I? That’s unusual. What on earth for, I wonder?”
“I know it is the merest trifle to you.” She lowered her voice to an undertone while hoping that Leena, inside the cabin, did not have her ear pressed to the door. “However, many people believe it is highly improper to kiss a member of the opposite sex who is not a close relative.”
“Oh, that kiss wasn’t a trifle,” he said. “I’ve had trifling ones, believe me, and that was another category altogether. That kiss was—”
“I think we had better pretend it never happened,” she broke in desperately.
“That would be dishonest,” he said.
The space was small, and growing smaller and warmer by the second. She was desperately aware of the large hand on the door. She remembered how easily he’d captured her, how gently yet firmly he’d grasped her head and held her while he claimed her mouth and made it his. She remembered his powerful hand on her backside, pressing her so close, and the pressure of his arousal against her belly. She was awash now in the mingled scents of Male: boot polish and shaving soap, pomade and, most intoxicating of all, the combination that was so absolutely and devastatingly him.
“It was an aberration, a momentary madness,” she said.
“It was madly exciting,” he said, his voice so low that she felt rather than heard it, on her neck, behind her ear, and deep, deep within, where the devil lurked and made her ache for wild and wicked things.
She said, her voice taut and a little too high, “But above all, it was wrong, Mr. Carsington.”
She didn’t see him move, but it felt as though he stood nearer, too near.
“Really,” he said. “What was wrong with it? Which part? Should I have done this?” He laid the palm of his other hand upon the door, boxing her in. “And this?” He lowered his head and lightly kissed her forehead.
It was the gentlest of touches. The world slowed, and awareness narrowed to the light touch of his lips upon her skin. It was butterflies. Rose petals. The glisten of morning dew. The first note of birdsong. She had no words in any language for the sweetness she felt.
“And this?” He kissed her nose.
She was afraid to move, afraid the sweet feeling was a dream. If she moved, if she breathed, it would vanish, as so many dreams had done.
“And this?” His lips brushed her cheek.
“Oh,” she said. “Oh, this is…Oh, I don’t think…”
“Don’t think.” His lips touched hers, and then she was melting, everything within her dissolving into liquid.
She leant back against the door, her hands flat against it at her sides, keeping herself still, or trying to. Her knees weren’t there anymore. She was dying of pleasure. It was wicked, but so sweet. The sweetness held her, made her give back in kind, and the pleasure deepened and darkened into longing.
She knew better than to long for any man, especially this kind. She knew the sweetness was seduction, not affection. This was not the youthful innocence it felt like. She knew this, in some safe, sober corner of her drunken mind.
Knowing all this, she should have turned away or pushed him away. She couldn’t, wouldn’t.
She had to have the feel of his mouth hard against hers. She needed the taste of him again as much as the hashisheen needed their drug. She could not get enough of the slow, wicked game he played with his tongue, and the tiny heat shivers he triggered in the back of her neck and in her belly. In some part of her clouded mind she knew she’d suffer for it, but that was far away, and he was near, and the scent and taste of him blocked out everything else. He took her into the darkness, and that, it seemed, was where she was meant to be.
RUPERT KEPT HIS hands on the door. He’d meant to hold back, to wait. He’d had enough torture this day, and pursuing her, touching her, was begging for more. Still, for the moment, torture was delicious.
It was only a kiss. Merely the longest kiss in the world, a thousand kisses blossoming from one. His mouth played upon hers, and hers upon his, and in no time at all she’d set the moons and planets and stars whirling.
He kept his hands on the door. For balance. For strength. And to stop it from ending. He mustn’t move his hands, mustn’t let them touch her, or she’d shy away.
He could drink her in, though. He could inhale the scent of her, a hint of incense carried on the desert wind. And he could savor the taste of her, a strange champagne, light and fresh even while it made fire trails in the veins.
He could let his mouth tease hers, playing over the hint of a pout. He could brush his face against hers, skin to skin, hers like silken velvet, a softness that stabbed him someplace within, and left him weak-kneed and half-laughing inside at how easily a woman could bring a great lummox to his knees.
He feathered kisses over her creamy, heart-shaped countenance and traced her beautiful cheekbones with his lips. He found the sensitive place behind her ear, and the pulse point in her throat. He felt its quickened beat under his mouth, and heard his heart hammer an eager answer.
His hands slid down the door, and they were not quite steady, either. He brought them to her shoulders, because he had to stop. Enough was enough. He was no saint. He could barely resist temptation at all, and he’d already tested his limits and beyond.
And then somehow his fingers were sliding up the smooth column of her neck and pushing into her silken hair. Then he needed more of her mouth and the strange champagne and her tongue playing a wicked game, enslaving his.
Then it was all too easy to forget what he’d meant to do. She was warm and soft and so passionate and for the moment completely his. Every perfect, curving inch of her was close at last, and she fit exactly as she should in his arms.
He brought his hands down over her straight back to her waist. She felt so right under his hands, and the rightness swept him along. He forgot about slow sieges and getting round obstacles and winning her by slow degrees. He forgot that it was too soon and he mustn’t rush his fences or she’d be on her guard next time. It was too much to remember. He was drunk on her scent.
He was only distantly aware of the gasp that faded into a sigh as his questing hand moved over her breast. It was warm and soft and fit his hand as though made precisely for the purpose, bespoke for him from the beginning. And so it was the most natural thing in the world to need to touch skin and to reach for the bodice fastenings—
“Good grief!” She pushed him away, so hard that he stumbled backward. “What are you doing?”
“Taking off your clothes,” he said.
“No,” she said. “No, no, no.” She yanked the door open, staggered inside, and slammed it behind her.
Breathing raggedly, he regarded the closed door with narrowed eyes.
“You knew this would happen,” he told himself in an undertone, “and you did it anyway.”
But she had said it was wrong, and she’d done it anyway, too.
And so he left the passage and went out onto the open deck, softly whistling all the while.
Zawyet el Amwat, opposite Minya
MILES HAD PLANNED to row to the nearer and more thinly populated eastern shore, rid himself of the shackles, find a hiding place where he could sleep for a few hours and gather his strength, then set out at first light. The dinghy held the tools and weapons he’d taken as well as a basket of Egyptian bread. This, along with lentils, had made up the crew’s diet. It ought to hold him for a week, by the end of which—in a small boat, traveling by day, with the current carrying him—he should be back in Cairo.
All he needed—apart from getting rid of the curst shackles—was a disguise. It would be best not to attract anyone’s attention. He couldn’t play a ghost in the daytime, and he couldn’t travel under cover of darkness and risk colliding with another boat or a sandbank. Even experienced Nile navigators had accidents, sometimes in broad day. The sand-laden desert winds constantly reshaped the riverbed, and navigation was most difficult at this time of year, when the Nile was reaching its lowest point.
He wished he’d thought of stealing clothes before he fled the sinking boat, but he would deal with that later.
It turned out to be later than he expected.
It took him all night to rid himself of the shackles. By then his head and hands were throbbing. A wave of nausea and dizziness drove him to his knees. He vomited, but the nausea only worsened. His head was on fire.
The sun was coming up, the fierce Egyptian sun, compared to which the English sun was a lantern in the fog.
He couldn’t travel, sick with plague or whatever it was, under the baking sun. He could only conceal the boat as best he could, pack as much as he could carry, and drag his shaking, burning body across the narrow stretch of fertile land to the cliffs looming behind it.
Many hours later, when he woke up inside a tomb, he couldn’t remember how he got there. He wondered if anyone had seen him. He thought of Daphne, and hoped he’d live to see her again. Those were his last coherent thoughts. By nightfall he was delirious.
Wednesday 11 April
WHEN LORD NOXLEY’Sdahabeeyah the Memnon arrived at Minya, Ghazi was at the landing place, waiting for him, along with two men.
Neither of the two men was Miles Archdale, a circumstance which caused a small frown to mar his lordship’s angelic countenance. While the expression seemed mild enough, those who knew him easily discerned the black thundercloud forming above his head.
Ghazi discerned it. He had, in fact, expected it, which was why he’d hurried to Minya as soon as he heard of the debacle with the kidnappers. He let the two men tell the master their story. It was short enough.
They were all that remained of the group Ghazi had sent to recover the Englishman, the friend of the master, they said. Everyone else was dead, including all of the kidnappers.
Had these two men been a trifle more intelligent, they would have pretended to be dead, too. Most certainly they would not have lingered in Minya, waiting to give their master bad news. But like many of those Lord Noxley employed, they had not been hired for their intellectual skills. Like most of the others as well, they’d dealt with his lieutenants, never with the Golden Devil directly.
“The kidnappers killed the Englishman?” said his lordship. “How odd. Why should they kill a valuable captive?”
The men were unable to explain this.
“I trust you recovered my friend’s body, at least,” his lordship said.
They looked at each other. Then they told him about the ghost who’d come after them when they were tying their small boat to the larger one.
Lord Noxley said little during the ghost story, merely nodding with what they took to be sympathy and understanding while the thundercloud they couldn’t see grew blacker and thicker. He dismissed them, telling them to make themselves useful aboard the Memnon.
Then he set out with Ghazi to visit the kashef, the pasha’s local representative.
On the way, Ghazi provided a less garbled account of events. “My men attack the boat. Someone cuts the mooring ropes and the boat drifts because everyone is fighting and no one steers. The boat strikes a sandbank. These men come last, a little after the others.”
“And run away from a ghost, ‘tall as a giant and pale as a shroud,’ ” his lordship quoted, shaking his head.
“It is your English friend, yes,” said Ghazi. “He did not know who my men were—thieves, perhaps, from one of the villages, he thinks. He wished to flee. He needed the boat. It was most cleverly done.”
“I should think so,” said his lordship. “Archdale is a genius, you know.”
“I came the instant I heard,” Ghazi said. “Duval has followers to the south. This is where Faruq goes. By now they will hear of the ghost, and Faruq will know, too, who it is, because he is no fool. I came to find your friend before Duval’s men do.”
The thundercloud lightened a degree. “Very wise,” said his lordship.
Encouraged, Ghazi went on, “This ghost is seen most often on the east bank, in places from the rock tombs near Zawyet el Amwat to those of Beni Hasan.” He gestured toward the east bank of the Nile.
“A range of about fifteen miles,” said Lord Noxley. He paused to gaze that way. “And the cliffs riddled with tombs throughout. Not to mention that most of the sightings have been imaginary. The Arabs are so credulous. One of them thinks he sees a ghost, and soon everyone sees armies of ghosts and ghouls. Doubtless Archdale will have appeared in several locations simultaneously. Finding him could take weeks.”
“It is true they see him everywhere,” Ghazi said. “But me, I think a clever man keeps away from the villages and stays close to the tombs. To find him is not impossible, especially if the kashef helps. He has many spies.”
“Then all it wants is baksheesh,” said Lord Noxley, walking again. “I’ll see to it.” He continued for a moment, thoughtful, then said, “I’d better leave finding Archdale to you. Faruq still needs to be caught.”
“He knows we follow him, and so he will change his plans,” Ghazi said. “I think he will not linger in Beni Hasan, to wait for Duval as they arranged. In his place, I would continue south. A large party of French is in Dendera. I think he will go there.”
“I know what that party of French is after, curse them,” said his lordship. “The brutes have got permission to carry away the magnificent zodiac ceiling from the Temple of Hathor. They shall not have the papyrus as well. I’ll set out as soon as we’ve dealt with the kashef.”
They walked on in silence. As they reached the official’s residence, Ghazi said, “Those two men of mine, the cowards. What is your pleasure regarding them?”
“Find Archdale,” said Lord Noxley. “Leave the cowards to me.”
THE WIND, WHICH had died down completely the previous night, revived the next morning, this time in their favor. To Daphne’s relief, it blew strong and steady, driving the Isis swiftly upriver. They made up much of the time lost previously, reaching Beni Suef in less than three days.
The sights beckoned, certainly. To the west of the village lay the remains of ancient Herakleopolis. On the east bank, a road through the desert led to the Coptic convents of Saints Anthony and Paul. It was impossible to pass the area without feeling at least a twinge of longing to explore.
It was no more than a twinge, though. Finding Miles was more important to her than any monument. After that they’d have all the time in the world to explore Egypt, together, as they’d planned, she told herself.
In the meantime, with a clear head if not conscience, she could pursue the discoveries she’d made recently. She needn’t worry about distractions. Mr. Carsington had evidently decided to be “dishonest.” He pretended, as Daphne had asked, that nothing of an intimate nature had occurred between them.
He reverted to the easygoing blockhead she’d first encountered. He stopped asking uncomfortably penetrating questions. He made no gesture or remark that in any way resembled an advance.
They had companionable dinners, during which they talked, much as she might have done with Miles, about the sights they glimpsed as the Isis flew along: the variety of birds, for instance, or the interesting rock formations, or the Egyptians’ agricultural methods, which had not changed, apparently, since the time of the pharaohs.
Clearly Mr. Carsington had no trouble interpreting the meaning of “No, no, no,” and a door slammed in his face. He had promptly and with amazing ease put their two embraces from his mind.
Daphne should have been pleased and relieved.
She was annoyed.
How easy it was for him, she brooded. To him she was merely one in a long line of forgettable women. At the next large town where they moored for the night, he’d probably go looking for dancing girls. It was all the same to him—except, perhaps, that dancing girls would not be as boring as she was, droning on about Coptic and cartouches and crowned falcons.
She knew that to men like him she was a freak, and a tiresome one at that. There were times when even she wished she hadn’t been burdened with a brain, times when she wished Miles had inherited the famous Archdale intellect. It would have been easier on their parents, especially their father, who’d spent so many years in turmoil about what to do with her: treat her like a normal girl and ignore the gift heaven had bestowed, or educate her as her intellect required, though it was unnatural?
It would have been easier on Daphne, definitely, had she been a normal girl. She would not have had to listen to Virgil’s constant correcting.
I am sure you meant to take into account…
No doubt you have overlooked…
Naturally, it did not occur to you…
Doubtless you were unaware of my wishes…
She could still hear his voice, so very gentle and patient and…infuriating.
He’d wanted a normal wife. She wasn’t normal.
And she didn’t want to be, not really, or she would have changed, as he wished.
She did not, really, want to be like other women. Her work intrigued and stimulated her and made her happy.
She knew men didn’t understand her. They didn’t like her, either, most of them. It was her well-rounded person, not her well-filled mind, that pleased them. This was true, certainly—and to her great shock and disappointment—of Virgil.
She knew Mr. Carsington’s interest was purely physical. And temporary. She knew it was right and reasonable for him to cease attempting her virtue.
She knew it was illogical and wrong of her to miss the pleasure and heat she’d felt, the sense that this was as it should be: without rules, without shame.
It was disgraceful and stupid of her, but she longed for more. When he stood near—on the deck of the boat, for instance, while they gazed at the swiftly passing scenery—she wanted, with something like desperation, to press her face against his cheek and drink him in. She wanted, with the same mad urgency, to feel his body crushed to hers.
It was a purely animal desire, as deep and primitive as hunger or thirst. But those needs were rational: food and drink were essential to life. Intimacy with him was not only not essential but not good for her in a hundred ways.
She knew this. She knew she should be happy that he treated her like a sister. But she was wretched.
This morning, as the boat passed Beni Suef, she was still trying to subdue the wild creature within. Small wonder she’d made so little progress with the cartouche in front of her. It was one of those she’d copied from Ramesses’ gigantic statue.
She gazed at the goddess with the feather on her head and wondered if all women became featherbrained in Mr. Carsington’s vicinity, or she alone.
A rap on the door and a familiar, impossibly deep voice called her out of the latest bout of self-flagellation.
She very nearly bade him enter. She was opening her mouth to do so, in fact, when she recollected the cabin’s narrow dimensions. Given her deranged state, inviting him into a confined space with her was an exceedingly stupid idea.
She rose, went to the door, and opened it.
And suppressed a sigh.
There he was: tall, dark, far too handsome for anybody’s good, and only half-dressed, as usual. Loose white Turkish trousers tucked into gleaming boots. An Arab-style shirt, called a kamees, with very full sleeves. Over this he wore a wine-colored English waistcoat, unbuttoned. He hadn’t bothered with a neckcloth. The shirt had no buttons, merely a slit in the front. This left his neck and collarbone as well as a deep V of his powerful chest completely exposed. The Egyptian sun had turned his neck several degrees darker than the outer edge of the V. She wanted to draw her tongue along that paler edge of skin. She wanted to bury her face in his neck.
She wanted to bang her head against the wall.
She wiped the damp palms of her hands on her skirt and asked if anything was amiss.
“Far from it,” he said. “Matters look to become a great deal more interesting. Reis Rashad tells me we’re entering bandit territory.”
Of course Mr. Carsington would find this “interesting.” A chance to break heads, fire off pistols, and swing swords. A chance to play I Dare You with death. Daphne could almost comprehend his enthusiasm. She, too, would like an excuse to do violence.
“Apparently, the neighborhood from Beni Suef to Asyut is notorious,” he went on. “Nearly two hundred miles of marauders. Leena says we must hire guards from the town at night, which will make the local sheik responsible for our safety. But we must have someone watch the guards, because they’re worthless. Even in the daytime, we dare not turn our backs even for an instant. Otherwise”—he began to gesture in the theatrical way Leena did—“they will strip the boat down to a stick, and we will all be hacked to pieces. They are wicked and evil, and so ugly and dirty they make you sick.”
He went on, mimicking the maid’s overwrought style as he repeated her dire warnings.
The inner tumult abated, and Daphne felt a smile tugging at the corners of her mouth. She gave up and let it have its way.
“The prospect of certain death amuses you?” he said, smiling a little, too.
“You have caught her manner perfectly,” she said. “You are aware, I hope, that Leena tends to exaggerate?”
“I’ve noticed,” he said. “But Tom seems to agree in the essentials. He did a few of his pantomimes: a pickpocket, a thief creeping onto the boat. He did a good deal of it with one eye shut. Leena claims that most of the locals are hideously disfigured. A great many are blind in one eye. She assures us that the interior matches the unattractive exterior. In short, it appears we shall have to put those pistols of your brother’s to work.”
Daphne tried to pay attention to what he was saying, but her mind wouldn’t cooperate. She wished he would not dress so provocatively. It was unfair to show so much skin, when she was haunted by memories of the scent and taste of that skin. She had only to draw a few inches nearer to inhale the provocative scent of Male. She had only to reach up and grasp the back of his neck and draw him down—
“Mrs. Pembroke?”
She heard laughter in his voice. Her face caught fire. “I’m sorry,” she said. “You said…” What had he said?
“Your mind is elsewhere, it seems.” His dark gaze went past her to the papers strewn about the divan. “Ah, of course. Ramesses. The cartouches. Have you worked out the lady with the feather on her head?”
“A goddess,” she said.
“And the feather?”
“That would tell me which goddess she was,” she said. “But at present I am altogether in the dark about her.”
He bent nearer to look over her shoulder, and she caught a whiff of shaving soap.
“Light as a feather,” he said. “Light-fingered. Light-headed. Lighthearted. Wait.” He closed his eyes. “I saw it somewhere. That feather of hers on a scale. What was on the other side? Something weighed in the balance. A judgment scene of some kind, it looked like. You smell like a goddess, like incense.”
He opened his eyes and gazed straight into hers.
She stared into those dark depths, wondering if she’d heard aright.
“I must have seen it in one of Tryphena’s picture books. One of the French lot.” He stepped back. “Where do I find the pistols?”
She was still reeling from the smell-like-a-goddess remark. It took her brain a moment to attend to the other revelation. Picture books. French lot. “The Description de l’Egypte?” she cried. “You studied it?”
“There is no need to become hysterical,” he said. “It was wonderfully popular with the ladies, who liked to sit close and comment on the pictures.” He shook his head. “Anyway, I don’t remember where I saw the scene. Tryphena has countless books and drawings. Maybe the feather-headed goddess herself sat on one scale. Weighed against…” His brow knit. “I think a jar or vase stood on the other.”
He was playing battledore and shuttlecock with Daphne’s brain.
Still, habit and obsession soon reasserted control. She quickly thrust to the back of her mind his familiarity with Miss Saunders’s Egyptian collection and its usefulness in luring women to his side.
“Scales like the scales of justice, you mean?” she said eagerly. She turned away, hurried to the divan, and snatched up one of her pictures. “The Egyptian goddess of justice, do you think?”
“No, Mrs. Pembroke,” he said. “I don’t think. You do. But I am happy to see you so…excited. If, however, I might have a moment—a mere moment—of your attention? The pistols? The fine Manton pistols?”