CHAPTER THIRTY

“Thank God,” Desdemona whispered as she stared out the tiny aperture at the horse and rider cresting a dune far in the distance. She’d known Harry would come. Love flooded her, relief making her shake. Now they only needed to wait a few hours before making their escape under the cover of night or until reinforcements arrived. She smiled, the sun and relief making her eyes dazzle.

The great ebony steed reared once and the fine manly figure …

Desdemona frowned. It didn’t look like Harry planned on sneaking in later and freeing her. It didn’t appear he was going to wait for the reinforcements. In fact, he was heading straight for the encampment. In broad daylight.

She blinked, finding it impossible to believe her canny Harry would be so reckless. It did no good. She still saw the same thing, a rider approaching pell-mell on a black stallion.

Black? Desdemona’s foot slipped on the bucket. She righted herself. Harry’s horse wasn’t black, and it wasn’t a stallion. It was a milk-white mare.

She grabbed the sill and scrambled up as far up into the narrow window as she could. It wasn’t Harry’s horse because it wasn’t Harry. It was Blake Ravenscroft.

His dark head uncovered under the burning desert sun, his black waistcoat flapping behind him, he cantered toward the abandoned town.

Good God, she thought, he is going to get himself killed.

She raced to the door, grinding her cheek against the rough wood in order to see between the ill-fitting planks. Outside she saw one of Maurice’s men crouch beneath a crumbling wall. Another scooted up over the edge of a half-ruined roof, like a lizard scuttling onto a warm rock shelf. Then she saw Blake ride by.

“Get out of here!” she hollered. “It’s a trap!”

He leapt from his horse, his head swinging to and fro as he searched for the source of her voice.

“Get away!”

“Oh, but it’s too late for that, my dear.” Invisible to her eyes, Maurice spoke from the other side of the door just before he appeared, walking toward Blake. She saw Blake’s head tilt with British superiority, his shoulders hitch in disdain.

“Honored Sid,” Maurice said, “to what do we owe the pleasure of this call?”

“You’re holding an Englishwoman,” Blake said. “Release her to me at once.”

“I’m so sorry, but I’m afraid I won’t do that.”

“I, sir, am a subject of Her Royal Majesty Queen Victoria, and as such I demand—”

Maurice struck him, open-handed, across the face. Blake stumbled backward. “Shut up and listen, and you just may live through this.” A tincture of excitement colored Maurice’s voice. He’d liked hitting Blake. “You’ll deliver this message to one Harry Braxton. Tell him that I hold his woman and that unless he comes for her, the things she shall endure by tomorrow’s first light—”

“You dog!” Blake launched himself forward. Maurice sidestepped the attack easily, clipping Blake on the back of the head and sending him sprawling. Helpless, Desdemona watched Blake lurch to his feet, fists raised as if he were about to go a round of gentleman’s fisticuffs.

Maurice took immediate advantage. He hammered both his knotted fists into Blake’s stomach, folding Blake in half with the force of his blows.

“Don’t be more of a fool than you can help,” Maurice advised. “Just take the message to Braxton. You’ll find him at—”

“I know where to find him,” Blake panted hotly. “He’s my cousin.”

Desdemona, seeing Maurice’s reaction, sobbed. Blake had just signed his own fate.

“Well, this puts a rather different light on things,” Maurice mused. “I now have two baits rather than one.”

Blake braced his hand on his knee and straightened. The effort cost him much for he was deathly pale now, his face sheathed in sweat.

“My,” Maurice said, “I am impressed. You’re quite a robust man, aren’t you? Unfortunately, a robust fellow like you will bear more watching than I can afford right now.” His gaze flickered behind Blake.

The man on the roof dropped like a spider from his lair and darted in swinging a short, stout pole. Before Blake could turn, the man slammed it into the backs of Blake’s thighs. Blake screamed as he crumbled like an ox being felled by an ax.

“You won’t be causing any trouble now, though, will you?” Maurice asked mildly, gazing down at where Blake lay, clench jawed in the dirt. “Yalta!”

Two men slunk forward and lifted Blake, dragging him toward her cell. Desdemona watched, tears streaming down her face. Tears of anger as well as sorrow. Blake’s heroics endangered not only his life but Harry’s, too, and all for what? A gesture. He could have easily sneaked in late tonight when Maurice was unsuspecting, freed her, and they’d have gone on their way. She banged her fist against the wall.

The door swung open and two men pitched Blake unceremoniously at her feet. He moaned. Immediately her fury disappeared. She knelt beside him.

“Are you all right?”

“I think my right leg is broken.” He gasped.

She looked at Maurice standing in the doorway, coolly considering them. “He needs a doctor.”

“Maybe Harry will bring one when he comes,” Maurice suggested.

Desdemona shifted closer to Blake, avoiding his injured limb. Night had fallen. The smothering heat of the day had fled, replaced by night’s piercing cold. Only the slivered moon’s milky radiance, as frigid as the air, illuminated the small room.

She’d tried examining Blake’s leg, but he’d have none of it. The only thing she could give him besides sips of water was the comfort of her presence. Small as that undoubtedly was.

He was in pain. His face looked strained and waxen. A sheen of moisture covered his forehead.

“I shouldn’t have ridden in here like that.” He’d muttered the same phrase over and over again and, truth to tell, his self-condemnation was beginning to annoy Desdemona.

“You thought it for the best.”

“It was a fool thing to do. But when I heard you yelling so frantically I—”

“I was yelling for you to go away,” she answered tightly, her compassion challenged by her irritation.

“Well, when one comes after a kidnapped woman and one hears this woman shrieking, one would naturally assume that she is being set upon by—”

“One would only assume that if one didn’t have the presence of mind to listen to what was being shrieked,” she bit out.

“I said it was a fool thing to do,” he snapped. “You might try graciously acknowledging my concession.”

“And you might try not harping your errors, your sins, and your shortcomings so much of the time. I didn’t realize people could get as much enjoyment out of their hair shirts as you do.”

He fixed her with an unreadable look and shoved himself into a straighter sitting position. Immediately he gasped with pain.

Her remorse was spontaneous. “I am so sorry,” she said earnestly. “Please, forgive my outburst,” she begged. “I—”

“You may be right.”

Her mouth clomped shut.

Gingerly Blake rearranged his hurt leg before fixing her with a stern look. “Harry said something similar a few days back. I have always found that if two people make note of something under separate circumstances, it may bear considering.” She smiled at him. He didn’t return it. He looked intense and horrendously romantic with his white skin and black eyes and tumbled glossy locks. Exactly like Bertie Cecil would look under similar circumstances. And as grim.

She’d never wondered whether Bertie Cecil smiled much. Now that she did, she realized that of course he wouldn’t. Berties weren’t terribly good at joy.

Harry was good at joy. Harry was good at everything. Harry, unheroic, unromantic Harry. Unromantic. Unheroic. What a fool she’d been.

Harry said he loved her and she’d not believed him. She’d been too blinded by the idea that there were things about Harry she didn’t know, that she’d questioned what she did know, had known for years; that he was honorable and loyal, that he never feigned an emotion or sentiment, that though undoubtedly unethical, he was highly moral, that he made her laugh and challenged her ideas and respected her wisdom. That she loved him.

She wasn’t a normal English girl, or woman. She never could be. Just as she couldn’t see herself living amid the eternal green gloom of England. She’d simply have to find her grandfather a companion when he went on tour with the museum’s collection of artifacts. Her future was in her Egypt. With Harry. God willing she had a future. She forced the thought away.

Without remorse she gave good-bye to her fantasies. They’d served their purpose, they’d awoken her heart to its potential. But as far as using them as a template for her life … She was probably allergic to heather, and if Bertie Cecils did exist they did so in the person of Blake here, an unhappy man unable to look beyond himself: his code, his conduct, his grievances.

She leaned in closer to Blake. “Tell me about Harry and reading and Oxford and Darkmoor,” she said.

With a sigh—it was impossible to tell whether of relief or annoyance—he leaned against the wall.

“Harry isn’t very”—he searched for a word—“bright. He can’t read. He can’t write. But that’s not why he was sent down from Oxford in disgrace. He was sent down for cheating. He paid another student to write his year-end paper for him. The lad swore Harry dictated every word, but that doesn’t change anything. Cheating is cheating. So he came here.

“Luckily,” Blake went on, “Harry has a simple parrotlike ability to mimic that has served him well.”

Desdemona stared at Blake, utterly at a loss for words. A simple parrotlike ability? The ability to master the nuances and subtle intonations of half a dozen dialects?

“I’m sorry,” Blake said, misinterpreting her bemused expression. “Learning about Harry’s lack of mental acuity is obviously a blow to you.”

Mental acuity, Desdemona thought sourly. Saying Harry wasn’t “mentally acute” was like saying a falcon didn’t run very fast. The mouse cowering beneath the shadow of a diving falcon must think it quite fast enough without worrying about its ground speed.

“It is apparent you and he have some sort of relationship. I know this will undoubtedly change your feelings for Harry, and I am sorry you have labored so long under a false impression of him, but you will simply have to chalk it up to experience. Believe me,” Blake said, ignoring her tightening lips and lowering brows, “Harry’s retardation has affected all of us.”

“How could Harry’s inability to read affect you?” Her voice was low.

“I see no reason not to tell you.” His face filled with tight dignity and old pain and she felt her anger bank. “Lenore DuChamp, in discovering my first cousin was abnormal, asked that our engagement be terminated. She couldn’t bear the thought that any children of ours would be … less than whole. When my grandfather discovered that my fiancée had left me, he assumed it was because of something I’d done. In turn, he cut me from the will. He was very fond of Lenore.”

“Harry didn’t seek to become your grandfather’s heir?” she asked faintly. Oh, God, she’d all but accused him of orchestrating Blake’s disinheritance.

“No. How could he?” Blake asked irritably.

“Didn’t you tell your grandfather why Lenore had decamped?”

“No. It would be dishonorable to blame Harry, who, after all, cannot help his unfortunate condition. A gentleman never seeks to lay culpability.”

“You misunderstand me,” she said coldly. “I meant why didn’t you tell your grandfather what a small-minded, bigoted little twit Lenore was and good riddance to her?”

Even in the untrustworthy light, she could see Blake’s face turn a dull red color. “Lenore did what any right-thinking, decent young woman who anticipates a family would do: She chose not to risk bringing another defective into the world.”

“Defective? By God,” Desdemona whispered, leaning over him, eyes dark and burning, “if Harry is a defective, the world should be fortunate enough to be so afflicted!” Her voice was low, throbbing and passionate. “If you are representative of what Harry had to endure at school, how he has managed to retain not only his charity and his laughter, but his self-esteem and heart, I will never know. His is the measure of a greater man than you can ever hope to be, Blake Ravenscroft. You deserve Lenore.”

“And you are bizarre and unwomanly and deserve Harry Braxton,” he returned hotly, his colossal self-containment finally crumbling, revealing the jealous and insecure little boy beneath.

She lifted her chin. For the first time those words were a source of pride and pleasure.

“Do you think someone with Harry’s problem is even capable of love?” Blake asked stonily. “Has he ever even said he loved you?”

“He’s been telling me for years,” she said softly, “I just wasn’t listening.”

“Sitt!”

Desdemona blinked awake at the sound of the feminine voice whispering from outside the door.

“Sitt!” The soft, heavily accented word came again. “Usskut!”

Be quiet! Desdemona had heard that word enough times to be familiar with its meaning. She complied, looking over at Blake who was struggling upright, his shirt wet with his efforts.

The door swung open and cold air rushed in. The Egyptian woman stood outlined in the cramped doorway. It was the same woman who’d earlier tried to bring blankets. She motioned Desdemona forward with a hand, her head turned as she peered over her shoulder.

“You are really Sitt Carlisle?”

Desdemona nodded cautiously.

“Yalla!” the woman whispered, pressing a bundle into Desdemona’s arms. “Horse packed behind. Guard sleep. Go now.”

“Why are you helping us?” Desdemona asked, suspecting this was somehow a trap, but uncertain how it could possibly benefit Maurice.

From beneath her voluminous wrap, the woman withdrew an evil-looking dagger and a small greasy package. She thrust both at Desdemona and once more indicated the door.

“Here light. Food. Go!”

“Why?” Desdemona insisted.

“Turkeys farm.” The woman struggled with the language. “My young brothers, no mother. No help. Sitt make turkeys farm. Food, bed. Sitt help. I help Sitt.” She tugged at Desdemona’s hand. “Come now.”

Desdemona allowed herself to be pulled forward only to stop as if jerked short by an unseen tether. With his broken leg, Blake could never ride a horse.

“Go,” Blake said, giving up the struggle to stand. He closed his eyes, fighting the pain. “Find Harry and warn him.”

“But you—” God. If she didn’t warn Harry, he would fall into Maurice’s hands and Maurice would kill him. At least Maurice had no reason to kill Blake.

As if he’d read her mind, Blake said, “Maurice isn’t going to hurt me simply to please himself. Bad business.” He smiled bravely. He would have made Bertie Cecil proud.

“Please,” the Egyptian woman implored. “Yalla. Khamsin comes. You go now. I find my man. Make him come. You go before khamsin.”

Khamsin. The name of the horrifying, bone-scouring sandstorms that swept through the desert in the spring.

“When is it coming?” Desdemona asked. If she did not escape the desert before it hit, she might never make it out. Harry might never know how very much she loved him.

“Soon,” the woman said.

Blake had found her papyrus container and was upending the scroll from it. He finished and tossed it to her. “Use this to carry the food and water.”

She stared at him. She could never permit him to act as messenger for her heart. She knew what she had to do.

She pushed the parcel and water skin into the container and then knelt by the abandoned papyrus. She ripped a corner from it and smoothed the golden parchment with her hand. Then she reached behind her head and dragged a pin from the thick coil of hair. Without hesitation, she stabbed her finger with it. A bright bead of blood appeared and she dipped the end of the pin into it, ignoring Blake’s horrified gasp.

Carefully she traced a few glyphs on the clean side of the papyrus. She waved it in the air a few seconds and handed it to Blake.

“If … if I don’t reach Harry in time to stop him from coming, please, give him this.” Wordlessly he accepted the scrap.

“Please, Sitt!” the Arab woman whispered urgently.

“I’ll find help,” she promised, sliding the dagger across the dirt floor to him. Before he could protest, she was gone.