by Lara Temple
‘I fell asleep,’ she stated unnecessarily. ‘What happened? What...?’ She stopped speaking, realising something was very, very wrong.
‘We’re moving! Rafe, the ship is sailing. Oh, hurry, we must stop it!’
She surged past him, groping for the door; instead she found herself blocked by a large body once more.
‘Rafe! Tell the Captain...’
‘We sailed two hours ago.’
‘What?’ Her voice faded. She could hardly see his face, but she could feel him and not merely through her hands, which were fisted in his shirt. He was stone again. Grey.
‘It’s Dash.’ She forced the words out. ‘You’ve discovered he’s dead.’
His hands grabbed her arms, tightly this time.
‘No. No, I haven’t. I don’t know if he’s dead or alive. We could not discover if anyone of his description sailed for England in the past couple of weeks. I bribed the harbourmaster to keep an eye out for him and to tell him his sister has sailed to England and that if he has an ounce of sense he’ll do the same if he has not already.’
She let go of his shirt. Her hands were burning, her face, her chest. There was a boiling blaze at the centre of her forehead. It wasn’t the heat of lust that had carried her into a dreamful sleep. It was rage.
Fury.
‘You bastard.’ It was like the hiss of a kettle. She could barely part her teeth to let the venom through.
He laughed.
‘Chance would be a fine thing.’
‘You had no right. Oh, God, if I were bigger I would... I would... How dare you! You tricked me! You might very well have left my brother to die!’ She groped around in the dark, searching for something, anything, to wield. She bumped into a chair, wrapped her hands around its back and raised it, but it was absurdly heavy. She threw it anyway and it dropped, narrowly missing her foot.
She bumped into the shelves and glass clinked on glass. The bottles! She stroked upwards, over the wooden shelf guard to the smooth glass. She grabbed a bottle by the neck and hoisted it.
She knew it was pointless and pathetic, but she couldn’t stop. She was choking with something, suffocating with it, and he just stood there like a lump in the dark while they moved further and further from the only person who mattered, leaving him to whatever fate awaited him. Alone.
Because she’d trusted this man. Hadn’t she learned anything from her feckless father? From William? She’d walked into this trap without a second thought, like the blindest of the blind, smitten, fools. She’d learned nothing.
She’d wanted so desperately to trust him not only with her fate, but with Dash’s, too. She had trusted him. Despite everything, she’d felt lighter, happier these past days than any time she could remember. She should have known it was too good to be true.
She hated him, but she hated herself far more.
Her eyes were better accustomed to the dark now. He was still an outline against the door; watching her. He’d done nothing to stop her frantic search for weapons. His face was blank, but his shoulders were slumped. She knew he wouldn’t move if she threw the bottle, which was stupid. She didn’t want him to accept her anger. She wanted him to toss it right back at her and tell her the truth. That he was only doing what mercenaries do—she was to blame for trusting him. That she’d known all along what he was, but she’d closed her eyes and dreamed. And while she’d been dreaming they’d cast off their moorings and sailed and left Dash to his fate.
No hurled bottle or chair would turn this ship back. She had nothing to threaten him with or bribe him with. It was done.
She replaced the bottle and pressed her hand to the lump of blazing coal embedded in her forehead.
‘No.’
‘Cleo...’ His voice was husky and he pushed away from the door, but she raised her other hand, palm out.
‘Go away. You win. Now go away.’
He shook his head and righted the chair.
‘I’m staying.’
‘I don’t want you here.’
‘I’m staying and you’re listening.’
‘No.’
‘Yes. It was the right course of action. The only course of action. For you and for your brother if only either of you are intelligent enough to understand that.’
‘Don’t you dare belittle him.’
‘Or what? I’m sick and tired of you endangering yourself as if he’s a five-year-old lost in the forest. He’s a grown man and if he has an ounce of the integrity you claim every time you sing his praises he’ll be thanking me for getting you out of Egypt.’
‘If he isn’t killed by al-Mizan. If he hasn’t already been killed by him.’
‘He hasn’t.’
‘You can’t know that—’
‘I can. Boucheron is no fool. I told him—’
‘You told him...you spoke with him?’
‘Shh. You’ve already woken half the ship. Do you want to wake the other half? Yes, he owns a palace in Alexandria and was in town awaiting a ship to France, or so he said. Al-Mizan must have sent him word of our encounter because he wasn’t in the least surprised when I arrived. Boucheron might be a dangerous man, but he’s no fool. I made clear that whatever idiocies your father engaged in, your brother had no part in it. As long as your brother leaves Egypt swiftly, Boucheron will let him be.’
She swallowed her bile and lowered her voice.
‘That sounds like quite an amicable discussion you had.’
The chair squeaked as he leaned forward and the gleam of the night sky turned his eyes luminescent, like foam on the sea.
‘I negotiated with an enemy, that is what I do. Hopefully Boucheron will now be wary of interfering with your brother knowing he is not unprotected. What the devil do you think would have happened if you stayed in Egypt? Even if your brother discovered you were still there, he could not contact you for fear or putting both of you at risk.’
‘Why did you not tell me any of this?’
‘Because I knew you wouldn’t wait here simply because I asked. So I told Chris to sail as soon as I came back aboard. There is a trunk with some of your clothes over there by the wall, by the way. We rescued them from your lodgings.’
She gave the trunk no more than a cursory glance. She had more important issues at hand.
‘Did you drug me?’ she demanded, thinking of that wine and her dreams. Perhaps that explained why she’d so lowered her guard to fall asleep while effectively a prisoner.
‘What? No, of course not! You can lay quite a bit on my doorstep, but don’t blame me for falling asleep.’
‘It was convenient, though.’
‘It damned well was. Believe me, I wasn’t looking forward to...this.’
This.
She reached for her anger and found there was nothing there. Not anger, not fear, not anguish, not...caring. Nothing.
He was probably right about everything. Even that she was a risk to Dash as long as she remained in Egypt.
It didn’t matter anyway. They had sailed. That ship had sailed. What a silly little phrase. Nothing you can do, that ship has sailed. And here they were. On their way to England. And nothingness.
‘I hate that you went about this without me. Without telling me anything.’
‘I know,’ he answered.
‘You told me I could trust you.’ She couldn’t stop the words or her voice from shaking.
‘Trust me to do my best to keep you safe. Not actually trust me. Those are two different things.’
‘Apparently.’
He didn’t answer. He was just another bulk in the gloom. Like the cupboard and table. She wanted her anger back. Something to make her tilt her head back and howl at the skies; she wanted to find Dash—safe, alive. She wanted to turn the clock back six months and make everything go away, including Mr Rafe Grey. Now she was on her way to Engl
and, to a world she no longer knew and a future she couldn’t imagine.
She lay down on the bed, turned her back on him and stared at the whorls on the wooden wall.
A night breeze was slipping in through the galley windows along with the sound of the waves lapping against the hull. A fast, sleek ship suspended between two worlds and she belonged in neither. Perhaps it would never reach anywhere and they would sail and sail, the two of them with a band of pirates.
It was a mark of her confusion that she could consider that fate the best of all possible outcomes.
* * *
Rafe stayed where he was, watching the slow rise and fall of her shoulder and arm. She was curled up tightly and he wished he could wrap himself around her, absorb her confusion and fear until it drained away.
A fantasy even more likely to remain a fantasy now he’d made her hate him.
The swift collapse of her justifiable anger didn’t reassure him in the least. He’d have preferred the storm to stay high.
He considered leaving the cabin so she could have the privacy of her misery. But he didn’t fully trust her either, so he shifted a chair so that it blocked the door and sat down. He didn’t know what Cleo might do, but he couldn’t leave her here alone with her pain and frustration. She was still his responsibility, whether either of them liked it or not.
Chapter Fourteen
He had no memory of falling asleep, but the next he knew the bed was empty and the daylight was bright in the open windows.
The open windows...
He surged out of the chair with a strangled sound. She wouldn’t. She...
The door to the quarter gallery swung open and Cleo entered. Rafe sank back into the chair, rubbing his face and waiting for his pulse to slow. His tumbling, panicked mind struggled to right itself.
He was too old for this. Not that anything in his past was truly equivalent to this. This was proving far too much of a strain on his tattered soul. He watched warily as she moved towards him. He searched her face for the volcanic anger that had welled out of her last night, but her face showed nothing but weariness.
‘Please let me pass. I would like to ask where I may prepare some tea. I am thirsty and there is nothing here but wine.’
He half stumbled to his feet, shoving the chair to one side.
‘I will fetch it.’
‘There is no need, thank you, Mr Grey.’
‘Cleo...’
‘Miss Osbourne, please, sir. We are no longer in the desert,’ she said haughtily as she swept past him into the narrow corridor.
* * *
The sailors Cleo came across as she passed through corridors and crowded holds didn’t seem shocked to see her, but they did tend to melt away, as if unsure whether she posed a threat. When she reached what must be the sleeping quarters—a space hung with hammocks, some still populated by snoring sailors—her steps faltered and a luckily slim man of indeterminate years approached her, his deep black eyes reflecting the light of the lamps.
‘Mees? I help?’
Yes, please. Help. Take me back to Alexandria and help me save my brother.
‘I’d like some tea. Thé. Shai. Please,’ she answered, the last word a little wobbly.
He smiled and beckoned her to follow and to her surprise he led her on deck. The wind held the sails taut and the air was filled with the sound of water slapping against the hull and the creaking of ropes and masts. The view all around was the same she had seen from the window of the Captain’s cabin. A blue, liquid, anchorless desert.
The brigantine was far swifter than the heavy merchant ships she’d travelled on and she could feel the gentle burst and skip of the ship as it cut through the low waves. She felt a strange detachment—she was suspended between England and the East, the two halves of her past. She wished she could stay here—all she needed was tea and a book and she could sail like this for ever.
‘You rang for tea?’
Rafe stood before her holding an elaborate silver tray, his feet braced apart for balance and his expression that of a punctilious butler. She wanted to hate him, knock the tray out of his hands and let loose the howl inside her. She let the image come and go and even that tired her.
All she wanted now was tea.
‘Thank you.’
He hesitated, watching her as if waiting for something else. Then he placed the tray on the table before her. The ship shifted and the tall, elaborate coral-coloured teapot with delicate paintings on either side teetered.
‘Goodness, careful!’ She steadied the pot, inspecting the gently drawn landscape rising from a river to jagged mountains along its side. ‘This looks like it is Qianlong. Or more likely a marvellous fake. If so, my father would likely have brokered a deal with the forger on the spot.’
She poured the tea into both cups and the scent, as fine as the crockery, mingled with the salt air. Rafe sat on one of the wooden chairs. It was a little small for him and he shifted uncomfortably.
‘Knowing Chris it’s not a fake. He’s too finicky.’
‘Not finicky; discerning,’ said a deep voice and she turned. The man did not in the least resemble the image conjured by a wine-loving Captain with a taste for luxury. He was quite tall, though not as tall as Rafe, but it wasn’t his stature that was the source of his impact. His hair was a deep shade of mahogany brown, gilded at the edges into fire by long exposure to the sun, his eyes as blue as the sea, shading to dusk around the pupil, and he was one of the handsomest men she had ever seen.
Rafe grunted and stood, confirming his superior height, if not manners.
‘Finicky. Chris, this is Miss Osbourne. Cleo, this is Captain Christopher, or Chris. They don’t use surnames on this vessel of knaves. And whatever you do, don’t call him Kit.’
Their host shot Rafe a look that could have felled a forest, but by the time he turned back to Cleo he was smiling and she smiled back without thinking.
‘You are quite right, Miss Osbourne. It is Qianlong. You have a good eye.’
So do you. Two of them, even, she almost said before she recollected herself.
‘I apologise for commandeering your cabin and now your chair, Captain Christopher.’
‘They are both honoured. I am sure if they could speak they would be thanking you for the improvement in their terms of employment. Besides, I owe this ugly fellow a favour and this allows me to discharge it while enjoying the company of someone who appreciates beauty. Any chance you can go read a book somewhere and leave us to discuss the long and convoluted history of Chinese crockery, Grey?’
‘No. And fetch your own cup. That’s mine.’
The Captain’s mouth curved up at the corners, but he put down the cup and beckoned to the sailor who had helped her earlier. When that was done the Captain leaned back in his chair and began the tale of how he had acquired the Qianlong teapot. It involved actual pirates—rather than faux pirates, as Rafe disdainfully called Chris—a beautiful Chinese princess, a malevolent wizard, a dragon’s egg and the daring rescue of the princess’s beloved Shih Tzu puppy.
Meanwhile a sailor brought more cups, tea and delicious little almond-and-hazelnut-filled cakes sprinkled with cinnamon which Cleo devoured without even realising.
‘If you like I will show you a collection of Sèvres théières I’m transporting for a friend, Miss Osbourne. Did you find the book, Benja?’ he asked as the sailor who had brought the tea returned.
Benja handed a book to Cleo with a little bow. It was all very ceremonial and she had to resist the urge to bow in response.
‘I am quite certain you will enjoy this,’ said the Captain as he rose. ‘If you will excuse me?’ His smile shifted from her to Rafe and deepened into a near grin as he headed towards the bridge.
‘One day he’ll hang,’ Rafe said just loud enough to be heard.
‘Shhh... I thought you were friends.’
Cleo sighed, licking a sliver of hazelnut from her fingers before wiping them on her handkerchief and picking up the book.
‘I don’t care. It was a wonderful tale. Oh, look, it is Captives of the Hidden City, the fourth of the Desert Boy books! How marvellous.’
She was struck with sudden guilt. Just an hour ago she was railing against fate and here she was enjoying tea, laughing with her nemesis and blissful at the prospect of sinking into this wondrous book.
‘Ah, don’t go that way again, Pat.’ Her face must have shown her thoughts, because Rafe leaned forward, his hand rising, but falling back on to his thigh. ‘You’re alive. If your brother hasn’t already left Egypt, with any luck he’ll do so soon and will find you in London.’
Don’t go that way.
He was right, it wasn’t like her to become maudlin. She leaned her head against the back of the armchair and met Rafe’s storm eyes straight on. He smiled a little.
‘That’s right, Cleopatra. No asps for you.’
‘Of course not. But there is no comparison. Cleopatra likely believed wholeheartedly in the afterworld where she would reign as queen and goddess. Death was merely a rite of passage.’
‘Still a mad thing to do. I’d rather stay and fight.’
‘Evidently.’ She smiled. ‘You and your Captain Krees are of that breed. Taking on life headlong and making the most of it. I’m envious.’
‘You’re not that different, sweetheart. I don’t know a handful of women, or men, who would have made it this far from Meroe. Whatever misguided vision you have of yourself, take it from someone who has seen a little of the world—you have a deep, strong core. You’ll survive and thrive.’
She couldn’t stop her mouth from wavering out of shape or her eyes burning. She didn’t want him to say things like that.
‘I’ve said the wrong thing again.’ He sighed. ‘Have some more tea.’