by Lara Temple
Still, she wished so much she could take something more before they parted ways tomorrow... The thought was suddenly so unbearable she reached out and took his hand. Strange how well she knew it already—its size, the roughness of his callouses and the softness of the heart of his palm. She’d held it sitting by the fire in the middle of the universe and nothingness.
In the dark, with the city hushed around them, his hand was like that campfire—it became the centre of a vast universe, the point from which everything was mapped. She wanted to feel it against her cheek and neck with a need stronger than a desert thirst. Her own skin was half on fire, half icy.
‘Cleo...’ His voice scraped at her nerves, his hand tightening on hers for a moment, but then he stepped back and turned resolutely towards the door.
‘Goodnight.’
Chapter Ten
Rafe was at the table when she entered the sitting room the next morning, the remains of breakfast to one side and a cup of coffee at his elbow as he scribbled on a sheet of paper. He glanced up as she entered, but then returned his frown to his letter.
‘I need the direction of your house,’ he said to his letter. ‘I will go there this morning.’
Cleo took a piece of bread and poured cardamom-scented coffee into a small cup.
‘I’m coming with you.’
‘No, you are not.’
‘I most certainly am. Aside from everything else, you will never find it without me.’
There was a distinct sound of grinding teeth, but he remained bent over his writing. She watched his hand moving in a steady dance over the paper, dipping into the inkwell, flexing. Her own hands were tingling.
He laid down the pen, but did not look at her.
‘I concede you know a great deal more about Egypt than I do or will ever wish to know, Pat, but I know more about thieves and murderers than I hope you ever will.’
‘Excellent. Then between the two of us we should be prepared for everything.’
‘You have hired me...’
‘To bring me to Cairo. Which you have. You are no longer in my employ and I am no longer your charge.’
‘You are merely strengthening my case that you are not in command. I work alone.’
‘That is not very kind to Birdie.’
‘Birdie and I are considered a unit for the purposes of my occupation. You, however...’
‘Know my way around this city and my own home, which is more than you do. Even if I were to give you the direction, several other families have rooms in that building. You will likely become lost and go into the wrong rooms if you go alone.’
‘Must you always insist on having your way?’
‘Only when I know I am right.’
He sighed.
‘I don’t know why I even bother arguing with you.’
‘We are not arguing. We are conferring on how best to proceed.’
‘No. I was telling you... Damnation, never mind. You may come. But otherwise you will do precisely as you are told. If I tell you to run, you pick up your skirts and run. Understood?’
* * *
Cleo paused at the corner of the road, between an open-fronted shop stacked high with rugs and another glittering with pots and pans.
The street looked the same and utterly different.
It was not as busy as Boulaq, but this part of Ezbekiya was still crowded with shops and narrow streets populated by foreign merchants and mid-level officials of the Khedive’s court. Her father had always hoped their fortunes might so improve as to allow him to move to the more prosperous parts of Cairo, but Cleo had enjoyed the anonymity of this crowded corner of the city. No one appeared to know or care whether she appeared in her boy’s garb or in one of her few dresses.
Now the noise and the crowds felt as oppressive and foreign as the first time they’d come here four years ago.
‘Is one of those buildings where you live?’ Rafe put a hand on her arm, not to guide her across the road, but to restrain her. He needn’t have. She’d become as wary as he these past weeks.
‘Yes, we have rooms in the building just by that little passage halfway down.’
‘You have that look on your face again. What is amiss?’
‘I don’t know. Perhaps I am being over-cautious, but something feels...wrong,’ she murmured.
‘Cautious is good. Especially when a group of unpleasant men are on your tail. You should trust those sensations—your mind sees more than you do. Is there something out of place on the street?’
‘No, it is merely...yes, yes, you are right—something is out of place. I left the mashrabiya shutters closed and Dash would never leave them open in the middle of the day. See upstairs?’
He raised his eyes to scan the house, his hand moving a little on her arm. It was a reassuring rub. For such a big man he had a gentle touch.
‘Perhaps your landlord came to look around?’
‘He has never done so before and would have no reason to. Our rent is paid through to the end of the quarter.’
‘I see. Is there somewhere you can wait for me? Or perhaps I’d better take you back to Boulaq now I know my way here.’
‘We agreed I was to come with you!’
‘And you have. There is no need for you to go any further, Queenie. We passed a spice shop just around the corner. Wait for me there.’
‘No!’ It was her turn to grab his arm. It was a substantially thicker and more solid affair than hers and she added her other hand to secure her grip. He looked down at her hands, his brows rising. Embarrassment hit her like the blast of an open oven and she dropped his arm, tucking her hands into her gallabiyah.
‘Listen to me. The buildings along the north side of the street were once part of a Mameluke palace and they’ve been separated into lodgings in the least sensible manner. Corridors and doors head in every direction so you might never find the right door and even then you won’t know if anything has changed since my departure. Besides, I am far safer with you than on my own out here and—’
He sighed. ‘Very well, you will probably only follow me anyway and make matters worse.’
‘There is no need to be insulting.’
‘And there is no need to take offence when you’ve already won the draw. Now, lead on, MacDuff.’
‘It is “Lay on”. Why must everyone misquote that?’
‘Because it is an improvement on the original.’
‘An improvement on Shakespeare!’
‘You look ready to run me through. You shouldn’t idolise anyone, Pat. Not even a man who’s safe by dint of being dead. He can still disappoint, you know.’
‘I don’t idolise him. There isn’t even a him to idolise—it’s his writing that means something to me; not the man himself. He could be a three-legged, one-horned goat for all I care.’
‘Yet you still allow him to sway your judgement.’
‘I do not.’
‘You are standing here on a street corner, arguing with me while al-Mizan’s minions might be roaming your house. I’d call that being swayed.’
‘It’s not... I’m merely...not ready.’
‘I know, but it’s always better to know the truth.’
‘No, it isn’t. Oh, devil take it. Let us go see.’
* * *
‘Your housekeeping skills leave a lot to be desired, Queenie.’
Rafe watched her as she scooped up a pile of clothes and a bonnet from the floor. ‘What are you doing?’ he asked as she began laying out the clothes on the narrow bed.
‘Checking.’
‘What?’
‘Clothes.’
‘And why are you checking clothes?’ he asked carefully.
She placed her hands on her hips and looked around the room.
‘Dash has been here.’
‘I don’t know much
about your brother, Cleo, but I don’t think he made this mess.’
‘Of course he didn’t, but someone has taken at least one set of clothes—warm clothes—as well as his best shaving kit and his old writing case. The note I left him is missing as well. I doubt the thieves would have been interested in that.’
‘I see. But we don’t know if he came before or after the people who decided to redistribute all your possessions on the floor.’
‘After. This picture frame is broken, but the likeness it held of my mother is gone. It was hanging on that wall and had it been intact when he came he would have taken it with him, frame and all.’
‘Good point.’ He rubbed his chest as realisation set in that had Cleo not gone in search of her brother, she would have been here when they came to search the rooms. If he’d had any lingering doubts about the need to remove her from Egypt without delay, the casual violence inherent in the ransacked room removed it utterly. By hook or by crook he would see her safe to England and be done with this.
He watched her as she continued inspecting the room. Her face was imperturbable again, except for that stubborn jutting of her lower lip. He could see no fear there, but she was no fool. She must realise the danger to herself. He followed her into the next room.
‘This means that your brother has likely been through here in the last few days, seen this chaos and realised it was time to leave Egypt in your wake post haste. That is good news.’
‘Yes.’
‘You don’t look relieved.’
‘I should be, I know. But I don’t understand what they are looking for. My father may have been many dubious things, but I’ve never known him to steal something outright. I cannot make sense of any of this.’
She was gathering and stacking the discarded slips of paper, the same ferocious frown cutting lines in her brow. He wanted to tell her to forget about making sense of her sire’s leavings and concentrate on the future. Except that he was as aware as she must be that her future was even cloudier than her present.
She placed the stack of papers on the desk and straightened a small framed print of a very English landscape on the wall. He could see where she had done her best to give this depressing set of rooms some character—there were colourful cushions and carpets and a few framed drawings of temples and landscapes.
He followed her into the next room and stopped in the doorway, absurdly embarrassed as he realised it was her bedroom. It, too, was a jumble of discarded clothes, cushions and books and she bent and untangled a simple muslin dress from the pile in the middle of the floor. There was hardly anything untoward about the sight of a plain cotton frock, but he took a step backwards and went back to the main salon.
It was only a dress. He’d seen hundreds of them—on and off women. He wasn’t merely getting old; he was becoming addled. Next he’d be blushing at the sight of a bonnet and getting hard at the mention of a reticule.
Pathetic.
After all, the simple Egyptian belted robe she wore showed as much of her anatomy as a gown. Well, not as much of her magnificent bosom. He wouldn’t mind at all seeing that on display in one of the low-cut London fashions. With her height and physique and those elfin features she would probably attract a great deal of attention. She would look best in vivid colours, desert colours, that reflected the honey of her eyes and skin and the chestnut warmth of her hair. Earth and fire.
Ah, hell.
‘We should be going.’ His voice was more growl than suggestion and he cleared his throat, calling himself to order.
‘In a moment...’ Her reply was muffled and her shadow moved about the room, the dark length of an arm slipping across the floor and touching the bed as if beckoning him.
Seeking a distraction, he picked up a book from the desk and flicked open the cover. With a jolt of annoyance, he realised that the fates were having a grand time toying with him—it was a well-worn copy of Edge’s first Desert Boy book, the one he himself had all but forced his brother to write. He flicked the page, his heart contracting at the familiar drawing of a cat riding a camel and the printed dedication.
To J.-My heart, my home, for ever.
And to R.-My brother and my rock.
Combating lust with sentiment was not a tactic he had tried in the past. He couldn’t even vouch for its effectiveness because at that second a far more immediate peril intervened.
He could never later make sense of this lapse in his caution.
A bout of juvenile lusting, even combined with surprise at seeing Edge’s book, was no excuse for becoming so preoccupied he completely missed the man’s approach. He couldn’t even console himself that his near-murderer had been unusually stealthy because Cleo did hear him. One minute he’d been glaring at the book and the next there’d been a cry and a blur of movement as Cleo barrelled past him and into the man rushing towards him with a dagger, her hands fastening about the attacker’s wrist, driving it upwards.
The man cursed, swinging his arm back at her and there was a dull thud as his elbow struck her head and she hit the wall, sliding to the floor. The assailant hardly changed his trajectory as he continued towards Rafe, his whole body behind the thrust of the knife. But the momentary check Cleo had provided was more than enough.
Rafe raised the book he held and gave a brutal whack to the man’s knife hand and then swung the volume back to connect again with the side of his attacker’s all too familiar face. The knife flew in one direction and the man in the other, his head hitting the doorjamb behind him with a thud. Rafe advanced immediately, but before he could even grab him al-Mizan’s eyes rolled backwards and he slipped to the ground.
‘You killed him,’ Cleo whispered, rubbing her shoulder as she struggled to her feet. She did not appear to be very shocked by the prospect.
Rafe’s blood was still boiling, but too many thoughts were going through his mind so he focused on what mattered right there and then.
‘He’s not dead and he’ll probably come out of this faint any moment, so help me. Bring me a cravat or scarf to tie his hands and then go into the hallway and I don’t want to hear a peep from you. Not one word.’
She hurried out and returned with a stack of linen strips and he hauled al-Mizan on to a wooden chair and set about tying his hands and legs to it. The man was already beginning to stir and Rafe shooed her towards the hallway.
‘Stay out of his sight and for God’s sake don’t say a word. Promise me!’
She bunched her fists, but nodded, and he picked up the man’s knife and waited.
It did not take long. Al-Mizan groaned, cursed and looked as though he was well on his way to casting up his accounts, but he controlled himself, finally focusing on Rafe.
‘Hello, al-Mizan.’ Rafe smiled. There was a livid bruise along his cheekbone where he’d knocked against the doorjamb and another along his jaw where the book had caught him. Rafe tapped the tip of the dagger to the already swelling flesh and al-Mizan winced, shying away.
‘Looks as though you are going to have quite a black eye. I suggest applying wet compresses and avoid trying to skewer people for a few days.’
‘You lied to me in Syene,’ al-Mizan snarled.
‘Did I? I only remember turning down your less than generous offer.’
‘You knew of this Osbourne. You are in league with him.’
‘Not at all. It is simply that his offer was better than yours. I am merely trying to help return him to England in one piece. I assure you he neither has nor wishes to have whatever it is you are looking for.’
‘I saw you this moment holding a book!’
Rafe picked up the discarded Desert Boy book and opened it.
‘This? I applaud your master’s taste in reading, but he could have saved himself great expense and trouble and bought a copy at a bookshop.’
Al-Mizan glared at him, but there was a growing puzzlement in his eyes.
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‘Perhaps I was mistaken about this instance, but the son of Osbourne took his father’s possessions from the lodgings in Meroe. The book as well. My master did not think the boy was in his father’s confidence, but then why take the book and why disappear?’
‘Perhaps because a murderous fellow was on his trail?’
‘He was not to know I meant to harm him.’
‘You’re not that stupid, al-Mizan. What else was he to think when mercenaries begin to make enquiries about him in the middle of Nubia? Of course he ran. He told me the day he came to find me he did not know why you were chasing him.’
‘If he does not have the book, then who does?’
‘I neither know nor care. My role is to ensure Mr Osbourne is put safely on a ship to England. I am happy to enquire if he took any books from his father’s possessions and, if he has, I will ensure we deliver them all to your master, Monsieur Boucheron.’
It was a gamble. Rafe saw Cleo’s shadow shifting in the hallway as she listened and he hoped she kept quiet.
Al-Mizan’s eyes narrowed and he gave a tug at his bonds.
‘I never spoke my master’s name. You reveal yourself, basha nadab.’
‘Not at all. It does not take a great mind to realise Osbourne’s father took something from his employer. Neither I nor Osbourne the Younger have any interest in entering that feud.’
‘I see no reason why I should trust you. When last I did my men wasted a day chasing two of Bey al-Wassawi’s cousins.’
‘Only a day? They were even more ineffective than I thought. As for trusting me, you should because you strike me as a sensible man and, more to the point, because at the moment you are tied to a chair and I could easily make away with you right now.’