Chapter 12
SHE WAS VASTLY PLEASED WITH HERSELF, flushed and smiling, her green eyes sparkling. For a not-beautiful woman, she was amazingly handsome at times, Rupert thought.
She’d been pale at first—frightened, no doubt, as people unused to firearms so often were. But she wouldn’t let fear master her.
He’d noticed this about her the first time they met. She must have been frightened in the dungeon. It was dark, and it stank of death and decay—and those were the more agreeable odors. Yet she’d beaten back fear for her brother’s sake.
Since then, Rupert had seen daily examples of her pluck. They all made him want to get her naked, naturally, but he had other feelings, too. He wasn’t sure what they were: a sort of fondness, a kind of affection, something oddly like what he felt for his brothers.
He hadn’t thought overmuch about it, though, and didn’t do so now.
At present he was vastly entertained watching her: the fierce frown of concentration while she loaded the pistol, the grimly determined stance as she held the weapon with both hands, and the reasonably straight shots she got off in spite of a not-quite-steady grip.
It was great fun teaching her, too, especially the parts where it was necessary to stand quite close, touching a little now and then.
He looked down at the rifle he’d brought and smiled. This would be more entertaining than the pistol.
“I can learn that, too,” she said, misinterpreting the smile. “It must operate according to the same basic principles.”
He nodded. She gave him the pistol and picked up the rifle.
While he carefully put away the pistol, she tried the rifle’s weight and studied the mechanism—quite as gravely and intently as she studied hatted falcons.
She had no trouble loading it, though at forty-five inches long, it was a good deal more awkward to handle.
It was also a good deal more weapon to manage. She’d soon find out how much more. That would be interesting.
When all was ready, he made his face very serious, and drew closer. “You rest the butt against your shoulder, so,” he said. He explained about recoil, placed her hands, straightened the rifle, showed her how to sight, and so on. Then he moved behind her, made some final adjustments, and said, “Fire when you’re ready.”
She gave a little twitch of her backside as she sought a comfortable position. Then she fully cocked the weapon, shifted her stance slightly, and pulled the trigger.
There was a metallic snap, a puff of smoke, a brief delay, then the explosion and the recoil, driving her backward.
Though he’d warned her, she was not prepared for the recoil’s force. The rifle fell from her hands, and she stumbled back into him. He was fully prepared, though, and caught her, his arms closing over her bosom, his crossed hands firmly upon her breasts. He might have regained his balance but didn’t try. He simply gave way, and fell backward onto the sandy ground, taking her with him.
It was unnecessary and thoroughly improper—her breasts were in no danger of becoming dislodged—but he didn’t care. She would probably plant him a facer in the next second or drive an elbow into him, but he didn’t care. Smiling happily, he lay under her, his hands upon her splendid bosom while he waited for the explosion.
A long moment passed.
Then she pushed his hands away, twisted sharply about, and raised herself up to glare at him.
He grinned at her. She gazed at him for a time, green eyes fierce. Finally, she opened her mouth, and he thought, Here comes the tongue-lashing.
She let out a huff of vexation…
…and her soft mouth came down on his.
She tasted like gunpowder.
Rupert grasped her waist and held on. It was like being shot from a cannon or thrown from a precipice. She had only to bring her mouth to his, and the world flew apart, and he rocketed to places he didn’t recognize.
She pushed her fingers into his hair and held him—as though he was imbecile enough to try to get away—and dragged her mouth over his. The teasing hint of incense was everywhere, mingling with the taste and scent of gunpowder and the taste and scent and feel of her: the ripe peach of a mouth and silk velvet skin, the feathery tickle of her hair, the curving body shaped exactly for his hands.
He’d waited so very long. He’d been so patient—for him—and careful—for him. But she was so different. He’d never known a woman like her. He’d never had so many feelings. He might as well be a raw schoolboy. He became heated in an instant, like a boy.
Not that he cared who he was or how old he felt. Only her mouth mattered and the lure of her wicked tongue, drawing him deeper, and the strange champagne taste of her, sweet and tangy in his mouth and swirling through him to make a smoky haze in his brain. Only her body counted, moving sinuously over him, the delicious friction of her breasts against his chest.
The Egyptian sun beat down, but it was nighttime to him. The gritty sand under his head and back was silken sheets. He forgot where he was and why. Her mouth left his, and she rubbed her cheek against his jaw, and the touch was a jab to the heart. She pressed her lips to his neck and trailed kisses to the base of his throat, little lightning strikes to the skin. Everywhere her mouth touched caught fire and set off thunderbolts in his heart.
If he could have thought, he would have let her have her way, going at her own pace. There were all the obstacles, after all. He’d kept a distance, sure that time and proximity would wear down her resistance. He had known all this: what to do and what not to do and above all, don’t hurry her.
But that was before she destroyed his mind. Now all he could do was feel, and the feelings all added up to I want. He was hot, and his mind was a black nothing, and she was close at hand, in his hands, and he had to have her. Now.
He dragged his hand down over her backside and pressed her hard against his throbbing cock. Ah, it felt good. But it could be better, much better. He dragged up her skirt and slid his hand over stocking and garter and up under the bunched-up skirts and petticoats over the back of her thigh.
She jerked away as though he’d shot her.
“Good God!” she cried. She rolled off him, tugging down her clothing. “Are you mad?”
He blinked and dragged in air. “Well, yes,” he said thickly. “Lust does that to a man.”
“You thought we would—you would—do…that? In public?”
“I wasn’t thinking about where we were,” he said.
Her eyes widened.
“I’m a man,” he said with what he was sure must be, in the circumstances, saintly patience. “I can do one or the other. Lovemaking or thinking. But not both at the same time.”
She stared at him for a moment. Then she drew up her knees and folded her arms upon them and buried her face in her folded arms.
She did not pick up the rifle and knock him on the head with it.
Perhaps all was not lost.
“Somewhere else, then?” he said hopefully.
DAPHNE LIFTED HER head and stared at him in blank wonder.
“Somewhere more private,” he said.
“No,” she said. “Not here. Not anywhere.”
“But we like each other,” he said.
“It is completely physical,” she said.
“Isn’t that the point?”
She stood and brushed sand from her clothes and tried to straighten her petticoats discreetly. She could still feel his hand on the back of her naked thigh. Within, she was still atremble, still felt excitement and need along with other sensations she couldn’t name and didn’t trust, shivering through her.
They had come so close, too close. And in public. In public!
“The point is finding my brother,” she said, keeping her voice low and calm. It wasn’t easy. “This is not a pleasure cruise. The Isis is not a seraglio. I am not your mistress, and I don’t intend to become your mistress. I’m sorry I gave you reason to think so. I’m sorry I behaved badly.”
Oh, but how was the wild girl inside her to resist?
If, like a proper woman, she’d scrambled away from him the instant they fell, she would have had a chance. But she wasn’t proper, and it wasn’t possible. A proper woman would have been outraged. But she was improper, and she’d wanted to laugh. At the way he’d so boldly clasped her breasts. At the way it felt: so good and pleasurable and right. She’d relished the pressure of his hands. She’d gloried in the feel of the long, powerful body under her…and most horribly improper of all, the feel of his arousal against her backside had thrilled her to the core.
How on earth was she to behave properly when primitive urges so easily conquered her moral principles?
She was not sure where or how she’d found the willpower to push his hands away. She’d wanted to stay there, trapped in his arms, sinfully aware of his desire for her. Somehow, though, she found the strength to break away and make herself turn and face him.
Then what was she to do when he lay there, grinning at her, quite unrepentant, a mischievous boy? Devilment danced in his dark eyes. It should have warned her off. But it called to the devil in her instead, and down she went to him, to claim his wicked mouth and make it hers. She’d no sooner touched her mouth to his, felt the smile against her lips, than she caught his scent, the diabolical woman-trap that sapped her reason, will, and morals.
Nonetheless, it was not his fault.
She couldn’t blame him. He was a man, after all. It wasn’t his fault that she was so sadly lacking in moral fiber or willpower or whatever normal women used in such situations.
“You have a remarkable animal magnetism,” she went on into the taut silence. “I’ve had no practice with that sort of thing. I’m sorry for misleading you. I was taught moral principles. I ought to be capable of adhering to them. I shall do so in future, I promise you.”
He walked a few steps away and came back. He kicked a pebble. He said something under his breath. He picked up the rifle and brushed off sand.
“This will want a thorough cleaning,” he said. His voice was dry, detached. “Where the devil are the servants?”
He whistled, and Udail/Tom came running. Minutes later, Daphne found out what had kept the party engaged for so long after she’d stopped shooting.
One of the guards had them enthralled with a story—about a white-haired ghost who’d caused a boat to collide with a sandbank and sink near Minya a week ago.
THE GHOST, THE guard said, had a very small beard, even though it appeared as a full-grown male. It was tall—almost as tall as the English sir—and dressed like a foreigner. It was very pale and wearing chains. Several people had seen it, the guard said.
Some on shore had seen the apparition on the boat as it was sinking. They saw two men jump into the water and swim away in terror. The ghost appeared again upriver later the same night, floating toward the tombs, then again a few nights later, going to the river. Everyone avoided the tombs beyond the red hill now, because of him.
Ordinarily, Daphne would have simply smiled at the tale. Egyptians’ lives were thickly populated with supernatural beings. But the “white” hair and small beard gave her pause, and she asked for a fuller account.
As she translated for Mr. Carsington, she saw the stiff, distant expression fade from his countenance and an arrested look come into his dark eyes. He, too, had guessed the ghost’s identity. Like her, though, he was careful to show no more than a mild interest in the tale.
But when the guard was done and had rejoined the others, Mr. Carsington said in a low voice, “Your brother, I collect.”
Her heart thrummed—with hope, anticipation, and fear, too. She composed herself, met his gaze, and nodded. “The guard says the boat broke apart when it stuck on a sandbank. Several corpses have turned up but no survivors, apparently. He must have escaped.”
“He played a ghost to keep people away,” Mr. Carsington said. “Very wise of him.”
“Miles has a vivid imagination,” she said. “When it comes to solving practical problems, he can be amazingly sharp and quick, often ingenious.”
“That’s good,” Mr. Carsington said. “From all I’ve heard, Minya isn’t a safe place for a solitary European.”
In truth, even with a large, armed escort and Mr. Carsington towering over everybody, Daphne had been glad to leave the town behind.
Leena hadn’t exaggerated about the people. Daphne had never before seen in one place so many one-eyed individuals or so many sickly and stunted children. She knew the eye disease opthalmia was one of Egypt’s perils, and she’d brought sulphate of copper and citron ointment, the medicines recommended to treat it.
The Egyptians had no medicines and took no precautions against disease. Magic and superstition ruled. She’d seen too many small children—even helpless babies—with flies clustered upon their eyes. She’d seen a mother prevent a child from brushing them away. She’d also heard that some boys were deliberately mutilated to make them ineligible for conscription into Muhammad Ali’s army.
The flies and scarred faces were reason enough to pass through the town quickly, even had it been friendly. It was not friendly. The people were sullen and evasive.
Miles, who’d been in charge of planning their journey, had told her about the two hundred miles of marauders. No wonder he’d done what he could to keep people away.
“The Egyptians believe in an immense variety of jinn, good and bad,” she told Mr. Carsington. “Ghosts, ghouls, and afreets—demons—are species of jinn. They frequent graveyards and tombs.”
“Well, he’s not haunting the burial ground at the moment,” Mr. Carsington said. “I daresay he only comes out at night.”
“There are tombs a short distance southward,” she said, pointing. “Near the red mound, the Kom el Ahmar.”
“Then we’d better have a look,” he said.
IT WAS DANGEROUSLY close to sunset before they found any sign of Archdale, and then it was clear they’d come too late.
As the day waned, their Egyptian entourage had grown increasingly reluctant to continue the search. At present, the guards waited outside the tomb. Most of the crew ventured only a few feet inside the entrance. Only Tom and another young servant, Yusef, carrying the torches, had bravely followed Rupert and Mrs. Pembroke into the interior.
Deep within the tomb they found the remains of a cooking fire and other signs of habitation. This was not unusual, Rupert knew. Foreign explorers often took up residence in tombs and temples, as did some natives.
But this tomb held pieces of chain, as well as the remnants of English clothing of high quality. While dirty and torn, it was royal raiment compared to what the average Egyptian peasant wore. No native tomb dweller would have left such riches behind, in plain sight.
At the moment, Tom and Yusef stood in a corner, talking in subdued tones.
Mrs. Pembroke had the ragged garments and pieces of chain in her hands. She was staring at them, her torch-lit countenance bleak.
The heartbroken look only added to the nasty stew of emotion Rupert was experiencing.
He’d rather not think about how he felt or she felt. He wanted to get out of here and on to the next thing. But he had to do something, say something. She’d started the search so eagerly and hopefully, and she was so bitterly disappointed.
Not to mention that Rupert was still disturbed about what had happened earlier.
While he wasn’t a saint, he did have rules, simple sporting rules regarding what a gentleman did and did not do. A gentleman didn’t bed an unmarried lady, for instance. He did bed unwed women who weren’t ladies: actresses, ballet dancers, courtesans, and such. He might bed a married lady—but Rupert had always shied away from such liaisons, deeming them far too complicated. Widows, though, weren’t complicated. Virginity breached, husbands permanently out of the picture, they were supposed to be fair game.
He was desperately in lust with this widow. She’d shown clear signs that she wasn’t indifferent to him. She wasn’t easy to seduce, and the challenge made her even more attractive.
Besides, she had the face and figure of a goddess and a gigantic brain. Everyone knew goddesses were more difficult and dangerous than the common run of females. Look at what happened in the Greek myths. You couldn’t expect an extraordinary woman to behave like an ordinary one.
If she’d hit him with the rifle butt or bloodied his nose or at the very least given him a blistering scold earlier, he would have accepted the punishment cheerfully. He’d misbehaved, after all, using a minor accident as an excuse to take an outrageous liberty.
Instead, the baffling creature blamed herself and apologized to him, of all things! She was vexed with herself instead of with him. This made no sense. Worse, it made him feel all wrong inside. He was experiencing the ghastly sensation he remembered from boyhood: conscience. It hadn’t troubled him in years. Now it yowled at him and tied his innards in knots.
Because of a bit of a grope with a widow who’d said in plain English that she liked him physically!
“Well, we’re a few days late, it seems,” he said finally. “Still, looking on the bright side, we know we’re on the right track: he isn’t being held captive in Cairo. He’s less than a week ahead of us.”
“Or behind us,” she said. “He might be trying to return to Cairo.”
Or he might be dead. Or he might have moved on to another hiding place. The cliffs were riddled with tombs. It was a miracle they’d found any sign of Archdale after only half a day’s search.
But she knew this as well as Rupert did, and if he didn’t say something to rouse her spirits, she’d lose heart. Her face would get the dead-white, taut look that upset him almost as much as actual weeping.
“You’d think Noxious would have found him by now, then,” Rupert said. “You’d think he’d be looking diligently. Everyone stops at Minya. Surely he’d have heard about the boat mishap, and put two and two together. It hardly takes a genius. After all, I worked it out.”
She looked up, and he saw her come out of whatever dark place of her immense brain she’d gone into. Her countenance brightened. Even in the wavering torchlight Rupert could see her remarkable eyes shifting back and forth.
“Good grief, I’d forgotten about him,” she said. “But there’s been nothing to remind me. No one’s mentioned him. Isn’t that odd? His boat is distinctive, you said. He’s been up and down the Nile several times. People would recognize his boat. The kashef would know him.”
“Not so strange,” Rupert said. “The locals aren’t the most forthcoming lot of Egyptians we’ve ever encountered.”
“Then we’ll have to make them talk,” she said. Clutching her brother’s effects to her bosom, she hurried out.
AS THEY WERE returning to the landing place, Daphne was calculating her stores, debating whether she ought to sacrifice another set of the pistols or perhaps some of Miles’s instruments as bribery. She was glad to have a plan of sorts, something productive to think about.
She had not realized how deeply—painfully so—she’d hoped, until the hope was dashed. She had not realized, truly, how much she missed Miles until she held his filthy shirt in her hands. Then to see the broken pieces of chain…and imagine what he’d endured, and feel so helpless…She’d told herself not to succumb to despair, to be grateful she had not found his body. She’d told herself not to weep. It would avail nothing.
But never had she wanted so much to sink to her knees and cry until she had no tears left.
She was recovered now, though, thanks to Mr. Carsington’s mentioning Lord Noxley.
His lordship had pointed out how quickly news traveled here. It was odd that no one in Minya had said a word about him. His boat must have stopped there for supplies. Otherwise, they must wait until they reached Asyut, nearly a hundred miles away.
Calculating bribes and speculating about his lordship kept her mind occupied all the way back to the landing place. As they neared the water, a young woman pushed past the men and thrust a baby wrapped in dirty rags in Daphne’s face.
“Help my child,” the woman cried in anguished Arabic. “Give the babe your magic, English lady.”
Some of the men tried to push the woman away.
Mr. Carsington’s arm went around Daphne’s shoulders.
“Her baby’s sick,” Daphne said.
“I can see that,” he said. “But they’re all sick, and I don’t trust anybody. Tom, get a coin from my coat, and give it to her.” He drew Daphne closer. “Come away.”
Daphne started to go with him but glanced back. The woman was young, little more than a girl. She shook her head at Udail/Tom, who was holding out a coin. Tears streamed down her cheeks. “My baby,” she cried. “Please, English lady.”
Daphne glanced up at Mr. Carsington.
He wore a pained expression.
Then to the woman she said, “Come with us.”
RUPERT COULD SEE that the mother was young, poor, and desperate. He didn’t want to turn his back on her. But it might be a trap. Or it might lead to trouble. If the babe died—and it looked very near to drawing its last feeble breath—any of a number of things might happen, none of them good. Tom and Leena had agreed that blood feud was popular in the countryside.
Rupert had enough to do, protecting Mrs. Pembroke and her entourage from villains. What the Isis did not need was a lot of vengeful villagers in pursuit as well.
The sensible thing to do was give the girl a generous baksheesh and get away as quickly as possible.
He would have been sensible, would have carried away Mrs. Pembroke bodily if necessary—if the confounded Egyptian female had not commenced weeping.
As the first tears trickled down, he knew he hadn’t a prayer.
He got everyone safely aboard and kept vigilant watch as they crossed to the Isis. There he spent his time on deck with the men. Occasionally, Leena would emerge from the middle cabin, which had been quickly transformed into the Isis’s infirmary. Her reports on the infant’s progress were invariably pessimistic. The child suffered from a bilious fever, perhaps the typhus fever or something even worse. Fevers killed strong, healthy adults. They’d brought the consul general to death’s door more than once, she’d heard, and he had proper doctors, not shamans and village hags. What hope was there for a weak, ill-fed baby who’d been treated with nothing but charms and magic spells for days? Now they would all catch the fever and die in one of the filthiest and ugliest places in all the world, and when they were all dead, the peasants would come and pillage the boat and throw their bodies in the river for the fish and the crocodiles to eat.
After Leena returned to her mistress—and certain death, by the sounds of it—Rupert could spend the next several hours cursing himself for once again falling victim to feminine tears.
He was an idiot. No, worse, he was a cliché.
Women wept. Easily and often. An adult male ought to be able to remain sane while they did so. Had he remained sane, Mrs. Pembroke would be in no danger—or no more than the usual danger—of contracting some unspeakable foreign disease.
They were miles from civilization and anything remotely resembling medical care. All she had was her medicine case, whose contents were shrinking, thanks to the crew members’ frequent accidents. She’d treated with success someone’s bruised foot, someone else’s swollen thumb, and one case of sunstroke. Rupert had no idea how much she knew about treating fever. More than he did, beyond question. If she fell ill, he wouldn’t have the first idea what to do.
From sunset until the last streak of light faded from the sky and the stars arranged themselves in the familiar constellations, Rupert paced the deck, growled when spoken to, and repeatedly waved away Tom’s attempts to lure him into the front cabin to take some supper.
When he heard the footsteps behind him, he assumed it was Tom again, come to plague him.
“No, I don’t want any supper,” Rupert said. “No. Is that not clear? I thought you had mastered the English term. Clearly, I was wrong. What is the Egyptian word for no? How about bokra? Not today.”
“No is la,” came an amused feminine voice. “The polite refusal would be la shokran.”
He turned quickly, and his heart slammed into his rib cage. He managed to keep from reaching for her and pulling her into his arms. But he couldn’t suppress the moronic smile or the laugh of pleasure that it turned into.
All this, at the sound of her voice.
But she sounded happy. He was relieved, naturally. The child wasn’t dead. The prognosis must be hopeful, else he’d have heard the disappointment and sorrow in her voice.
“The babe?” he said. “It’s well?”
“It’s a she, amazingly enough,” she said. “Girls are not very important and normally wouldn’t be worth the trouble. But Sabah’s mother deems her exceedingly valuable. The name means morning, you know. We got some liquids into her, which seemed to help. We gave her a cool bath, and she bore it well, unlike her mama, who was terrified. Then I tried a decoction of Peruvian bark. The fever seems to be declining. Quite rapidly, in fact.”
Rupert let out the breath he hadn’t realized he was holding. “I’m glad to hear it,” he said.
“You can have no idea how relieved I am,” she said.
Not nearly as relieved as he, he’d wager.
“I have no experience of children,” she went on. “Still, I did care for my parents and Virgil, and must have absorbed some doctoring wisdom. It is little enough, but these people have none. A compress, a bath, a poultice—the simplest remedies are great miracles and magic to them. Good grief, what a world this is.” Her voice caught.
“You’ve had a long and trying day,” he said quickly. “Come inside and help me eat the supper Tom’s so frantic about.” He paused and added, “Dr. Pembroke.”
She laughed at that, but he heard the strain in her voice.
“Come, I’m starved,” he said. And then it was simple instinct to put a protective arm about her shoulders and lead her inside.
They had a quiet, companionable meal, and Rupert was reaching for his third helping of sweet pastry when Leena screamed.