The Return of the Disappearing Duke

by Lara Temple

  Birdie shrugged.

  ‘You two were served double...no, treble measures of stubborn at birth, sir. Even if you fetch him here, there’s no saying it will make a difference. You can bring a horse to water, but...’

  ‘Yes, yes, the drinking part. All I want is to dump him in the trough for the moment. Eventually, even that idiot must drink. He’s parched and won’t admit it.’

  Birdie grunted and began unpacking his purchases. The wide flatbread, speckled brown and black from the oven, was still warm and the scent filled the room.

  The girl swallowed audibly and Rafe tore off a generous piece, handing it to her.

  ‘Don’t eat it too quickly or you’ll make yourself ill, Cleo-Pat. Birdie will prepare one of his famous stews and some of the local mint tea which will help soothe your nerves and stomach. Then you sleep and tomorrow at dawn we’ll find a way to sneak you past these unpleasant fellows. Right, Birdie?’

  Birdie grunted again, casting her a look as he went to the door.

  ‘I had the landlord put water on to boil. I’ll be back with tea and stew.’

  The woman tensed as the door closed behind Birdie and Rafe touched her arm briefly, bringing her eyes to his.

  ‘Don’t worry, Birdie is as practised at this as I am. Once you eat, you sleep. If we’re to leave at dawn, I want you rested. You will need your wits about you.’

  ‘I don’t think I can sleep.’

  ‘I think you’ll find you can, Cleopatra. Here. Have another piece of bread.’

  He had a thousand questions, but he just sat and watched as she chewed slowly, like a dutiful child, even as suspicion was practically rising off her like steam from a bath. Still, when Birdie returned with bowls of the pungent stew and sweet tea she did justice to them with the same careful but methodical approach. Her face was no longer expressive, but as sealed as one of the statues they’d passed along their route. Perhaps it was only hunger and weariness that had left her so exposed.

  ‘More, miss?’ Birdie stood with the brass teapot poised over the girl’s cup. Unlike the previous three times, she shook her head, casting Birdie a fuzzy smile.

  ‘No more, thank you, sir.’ Her voice was slurring and she kept straightening her spine, only to have her shoulders sink under their own weight. Rafe would wager she was so far gone she thought no one was aware of the epic battle she was fighting against sleep.

  She’d thanked him as well, but without the smile; warily, like a street dog being offered a scrap and suspecting a trap, but too hungry to keep away.

  Pity—she had a smile that completely altered her face. It certainly worked on Birdie, because his usually taciturn friend was beginning to return her smiles, exposing his broken front tooth. That was an honour almost never bestowed on friends, let alone strangers. He was also digging through the stew to find the choicest pieces of lamb for her, something he’d never do for Rafe.

  Rafe watched this peculiar blossoming of ease between the two even as he gauged how close Miss Queen of the Nile was to utter collapse. She’d unwrapped her dingy cloth turban from about her head, revealing short hair that fell in feathery swathes across her brow and nape. It was a burnished chestnut colour, like sunlight on wood. Her eyes were also shades of wood and light, with a ring of gold around the increasingly dilated irises.

  With her cultured voice, her simple cotton gallabiyah, and woodland faerie hair, she was unlike anything he’d come across. Perhaps if he caught her on the cusp of sleep, with her belly full and her head heavy, she might be more liberal with her secrets.

  Her lids drooped again and snapped open.

  ‘Thank you, sir,’ she recited.

  ‘You’re welcome, Miss Cleopatra. So tell me about this book they are after.’

  ‘Book... I don’t know. I told you.’

  ‘Tell me again. Everything you know.’

  She smothered a yawn and rubbed her forehead.

  ‘My father disappeared. More than two months ago. He does sometimes. Disappears for long periods. Looking for objects to buy and sell. My brother went to look for him...’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Why?’ She dragged the word out, her eyes meeting his. He couldn’t see any gold in them now, they were all brandy and darkness. The poor girl was half asleep, but he needed to learn a little more.

  ‘Why did your brother go after him if you were accustomed to his absences?’

  ‘Oh. Because Farouq, my father’s servant, left him and returned to Cairo.’

  ‘You were worried about your father being alone?’

  ‘I wasn’t. Dash was. He’s nicer than I.’

  Well, that was honest.

  ‘Dash didn’t return. I was worried. I thought...if something happened and I had not tried...’

  ‘Ah. Guilt.’

  ‘Not only guilt. Dash is too good. My father takes advantage.’

  She waved a hand, narrowly missing her cup. Again she seemed to fade, leaning her arm on the table. Her other hand was absently fingering the scabbard of the knife attached to the cloth belt wrapped about her gallabiyah. He debated disarming her, but thought better of it. She would feel safer with that toothpick at her disposal.

  ‘So you dressed as Patrick and headed south... Surely not alone?’

  She shook her head and yawned again, covering her face with two hands.

  ‘No. I hired a dragoman. He ran away in Meroe.’

  ‘That is unchivalrous. Why?’

  ‘He heard al-Mizan was looking for an Englishman. My description. Dash and I look alike.’

  ‘I see. What did you discover of your father and brother?’

  ‘My father fell ill and died, and I missed my brother by two days. I’m so tired. I must...’

  She pushed aside her cup, laid her arms on the table, her head on her arms, and with a little sigh she was asleep.

  Rafe looked over her recumbent form at Birdie who had been listening as avidly as he.

  ‘What do you make of that, Birdie?’

  ‘Not much, Colonel. Plenty of holes in that tale. But we can’t leave her here.’

  ‘No, unfortunately not. Well, we shall have to change our plans. This sleeping stray here has hired me to deliver her safely to Cairo.’

  Birdie gave a snorting laugh.

  ‘Hired you. With what?’

  ‘A tale full of holes.’

  ‘You’re an easy mark, Colonel. Beware.’

  ‘She’s no threat. Look at her.’

  They both looked. She snuggled deeper into her arms.

  Rafe sighed.

  ‘I’d best put her to bed. Could you find another mattress for me? And not a word to the landlord about our guest.’

  ‘Naturally not. You take my room and I’ll bunk on the floor here.’

  ‘No, Birdie. Go speak with Gamal, quietly. Tell him to meet us with the camels by the desert road well before daybreak. That al-Mizan fellow will likely still have people watching the port so we must leave town by the back door.’

  ‘Pity. Gamal was looking forward to selling those camels at market and going home and I was looking forward to a gentle sail down the river.’ Birdie sighed and gathered the cups as Rafe came round the table, inspecting his sleeping charge.

  ‘So was I, old man. You are a right nuisance, Miss Patrick Cleopatra. Come along now, into bed with you.’

  He was prepared for panic or resistance, but there was none. He held her with one arm around her waist and she went as boneless as a rag doll, her head falling against his chest and her legs buckling. With a grunt he tucked another arm under her legs and swung her up.

  She was a tall woman and he’d been right that there were some very pleasant curves under her gallabiyah and robe. Her hair was silky under his chin, and beneath the smell of dust and hay was an elusive scent, something cool and green, like a field of wildflowers ca
ught in a late frost. It was totally out of place in a land of browns and ochres.

  He smiled at his unusual flight of fancy, but as he laid her down carefully on the narrow bed he allowed himself to breathe it in, her hair just tickling the tip of his nose as she turned to the wall and curled into a ball.

  ‘You are a very peculiar beast, Miss Whoever-You-Are,’ he murmured above her and went to fetch a blanket for his new employer.

  * * *

  Rafe stood by the bed. It was still dark and only the occasional sound of an animal—the faint bray of a donkey or yowl of a cat—broke the silence. The girl was still curled up against the wall, taking up a fraction of the long bed. She slept like a hedgehog being sniffed at by a dog.

  He rolled his shoulders.

  It was time to wake her.

  He’d been right to assume the men chasing her would have people at the docks. He’d gone there himself after she’d fallen asleep and seen a couple of the men who’d stood behind that al-Mizan fellow delivering orders to the boatmen. There would be no leaving by that route without having to contend with their knives and the might of the local Bey. It was possible, but risky, and he always preferred the path of least resistance.

  Which meant another ride through the desert.

  Not his favourite.

  He’d told Edge years ago he had no interest whatsoever in visiting his beloved Egypt, being burnt to a crisp by the brutal sun and having what was left flayed by sandstorms. His experiences of the land thus far had only partially changed his mind. He wasn’t averse to a nice trip downriver on one of those dahabiya boats, but camels...

  Damn, he was getting old.

  She sighed, shifting, and the dim light of the oil lamp on the table glinted on her short hair. Even in the pallid light, it was obvious that colour would look magnificent if left to grow long. She’d done a poor job in the back, leaving a tangle of warm waves that gave him a rather clear idea of the magnitude of the offense. Pity. He’d have liked to see that warm chestnut silk in its full glory. Since he’d have her back in Cairo within a week, that was unlikely, but a man could dream.

  He leaned over the bed and touched her shoulder and almost fell backwards as she catapulted on to her feet, skidding along the wall.

  ‘Shh...’ he cautioned, praying she wouldn’t scream. ‘It’s only the scarred mercenary. It’s time to leave.’

  She was breathing as if she’d run up four flights of stairs, her hands pressed to the wall. Her eyes were just pale slashes and then they closed as she breathed in very slowly.

  ‘I was dreaming of al-Mizan.’

  ‘I’m sure he’d be flattered.’

  ‘That is not what I meant.’

  ‘I’m relieved. I don’t see much of a future for you two. Unions should be based on more than a shared appreciation of criminality.’

  Her gasp was followed by a little snort of laughter.

  ‘I am not a criminal. I told you, I did not steal anything.’

  ‘I don’t particularly care if you did. Mercenaries aren’t choosy about their employers, Pat. Now dress so we can slink off into the dark while it is still dark.’ He held out his hand and she carefully detached herself from the wall. Her hand was warm in his as he helped her down and, despite her violent awakening, it had the softness of sleep in it. It felt...comforting—a peculiar feeling and not an unpleasant one. He wanted to slip her fingers between his so he could capture that softness, but he let go and turned to take the folded cotton scarf she’d used to cover her head from where Birdie had folded it over a chair.

  ‘You are looking a little better for your rest and food. How are you feeling?’

  ‘I feel...’ She paused, her eyes widening in surprise, ‘I feel better. That stew was life-giving. But I cannot remember anything after that.’

  ‘I’m not surprised. You were exhausted. Fell face forward into your stew.’

  ‘I did not!’

  Her hands, pale smudges, rose to touch her face and he couldn’t help smiling at her embarrassment. It was so out of place in this strange situation.

  She was out of place.

  Hell, he was out of place.

  Even in the dim light he could see her face turning bright red and he took pity on her.

  ‘I caught you before you landed. It would have been a waste of a decent stew.’

  ‘I don’t believe you.’

  ‘Well, I am exaggerating a little. You were coherent enough to put the plate aside before you folded your arms on the table and fell asleep. Don’t look so pained, Pat. Amazingly you did not make a fool of yourself, though I would be sure to tell you if you did.’

  She glared at him.

  ‘That’s right,’ he approved. ‘Annoyance is healthier than embarrassment. Have at me.’

  She surprised him again, her hands dropping, her brows drawing together almost in sorrow.

  ‘You must think me so selfish.’

  ‘I must? Why must I?’

  ‘I did not even thank you or your valet.’

  He moved towards the table, tucking his favourite knife into its scabbard and strapping it on before pulling on his coat. He had no problem with people showing their gratitude, preferably in monetary terms, but her remorse made him uncomfortable, as if he’d cheated it out of her, which made no sense.

  ‘You thanked me twice last night, Pat. And Birdie three times. Every time he brought you tea. You drank like a camel.’

  ‘Did I? I...it is all a little murky...but that is not the point. I am truly grateful. And I am sorry you must leave here because of me.’

  ‘Yes, well, we were leaving anyway. You have ten minutes to get yourself in order, Cleo-Pat. I’ll wait for you by the stairs.’

  He picked up his pack from the table and left the room before she said anything else. Her mercurial transformations were unsettling and he didn’t like being unsettled. It was bad for longevity.

  Chapter Three

  Cleo had lived through many strange days. Certainly stranger than skulking through the narrow roads and the palm groves out of Syene in the pre-dawn hours with two silent men.

  Her father’s activities had sometimes required hasty scuttlings off in the dark, but the emotions that accompanied those exoduses—a gut-tightening amalgam of fear, anger, frustration, exasperation and weariness—weren’t present that dawn. Other than her fear for Dash, she felt surprisingly calm.

  Still, she kept glancing over her shoulder, expecting to see al-Mizan and his men materialise out of the dark alleys, but no one followed and only a few stray chickens and a couple of somnolent dogs watched their departure, not even bothering to bark.

  Once clear of the town they followed a rough pebbled path towards the low hills. She had little to watch now but the broad back of the mercenary ahead of her. He wore a pale coat that blended well with the desert and he walked with long but light strides.

  She was following him without knowing a thing about him other than that he was English and a mercenary. Surely that was a flimsy base upon which to place her trust?

  He had a nice smile, her mind offered.

  Plenty of scoundrels had nice smiles. ‘A man could smile, and smile, and be a villain,’ as Hamlet had said. In fact, it was often their stock in trade. Her father, when it suited him, could smile and beguile with the best of them.

  And a marvellous physique, the same treacherous voice chimed in, and she gave it a firm shove back where it belonged. She’d fallen once into that trap and had sworn never to do so again. William had looked like one of the Greek statues he so admired and he’d been a thorough scoundrel in the end.

  As always, thoughts of William made her hackles and suspicions rise. She should at least demand to know their destination. It was clear they were heading into the desert, but surely these two men did not think they could get far in this brutal land on foot and with nothing but what th
ey were carrying in their backs.

  The mercenary raised his head, scanning the low cliffs, the dawn light turning his scars milky grey.

  Was he looking for someone? Perhaps he had struck a deal with al-Mizan while she slept and was delivering her to him in the privacy of the desert...

  She slowed, reaching under her robe to grasp the knife attached to the cloth belt wound about her gallabiyah.

  The giant turned and stopped, his eyes catching the first light of the sun rising sluggishly behind her. Her instincts, usually so reliable, were still as groggy as she’d felt yesterday. Perhaps she was still light-headed despite the tea and stew.

  She didn’t even know his name. That was wrong, wasn’t it? To trust one’s life to a man when you didn’t even know his name?

  ‘What now, Pat?’ He sounded impatient.

  ‘I don’t know your name.’

  ‘For the love of Zeus... You want society introductions? Here?’

  He swept an arm to take in the ragged hills around them and she backed away another step.

  ‘Why won’t you tell me your name? Two words. Even one will do.’

  ‘I could just as easily lie to you about it, you know.’

  ‘Yes, but then I’ll know you’re lying. About everything.’

  He sighed. ‘And you were so sensible yesterday. My name is Rafe. Now get moving before our guide Gamal decides to continue without us and trades our camels for a bride.’

  Rafe. It wasn’t much, but it wasn’t a lie. Strange name for a strange man. And apparently there were camels and a guide awaiting them.

  She took a deep breath and moved forward. He nodded.

  ‘Good. Now stop acting like a skittish foal and keep quiet. I don’t want anyone passing through these hills to hear a female speaking in English. So assume you’ve taken a vow of silence until we’re safely in the middle of nowhere, understood?’

  She opened her mouth and closed it as he raised a brow.

  She nodded, annoyance doing a fair job of chasing away her fear. There was no need for him to snap at her like that. Any sane person would hesitate under these circumstances. Skittish, indeed!