by Lara Temple
‘I don’t know.’
‘Where do you wish to go?’
Here. I want to stay here and let the world care for itself. I want to see if this ease I feel with you is real because it is unlike anything I’ve felt with anyone else. Even with Rafe—and I’ve trusted him with my life.
The words didn’t come anywhere near his lips.
‘I don’t know, Sam.’
‘Do you ever want to have a family again?’
‘Yes. Yes, I do.’ The words left him before he could stop them. Jacob’s face rose before him, clearer than it had been in a long while—smiling as he smeared a jam-covered hand down the page of Edge’s first copy of the Desert Boy book. It wasn’t the words that had caught his son’s attention, but Sam’s illustration of Gabriel being jostled between a camel, a donkey and a one-eyed jackal.
‘So will you at least consider what I proposed, Edge?’
‘Yes.’
Her laugh was shaky as she finally untangled her hands and stepped back.
‘Good. Thank you. Goodnight, Edge.’
She grasped the cloth door of the tent and the panther reached through him and sank its teeth into its prey.
‘I accept.’
‘You...what?’
‘Accept. Your proposal.’
‘But... I did not mean you had to give me an answer immediately...’
‘Shall I withdraw my acceptance?’
‘No! No, but...’
‘We will tell Poppy and Janet in the morning and discuss the particulars.’
‘Edge, I...thank...’
He stifled the words before she could speak them. He didn’t want her thanks. He wanted...this—his hands in her hair, his mind already unravelling it over her shoulders, her mouth softening under his... Like the night before shivering heat swamped him as every parcel of his body fought to embrace or escape this.
She was right, whatever else existed or didn’t exist in this world, he couldn’t deny this. In mere days it had become a certainty and that scared the hell out of him. He softened the kiss, pulling away.
‘It’s late. Time to go, Sam.’
‘But...’
‘Now. Before I change my mind.’
About saying yes and about letting you leave this tent before I ask you to stay.
For once she obeyed him without a word, whisking into the dark like the last tendril of smoke from a campfire. He followed until she was safe inside and then stood for a long time in the darkness, wondering whether all those years of exile and isolation had finally pushed him over some precipice of insanity.
Chapter Five
Gabriel gaped into the pit. ‘There is nothing there but darkness, Leila.’
‘I am there. I told you the day will come when you must choose to trust me, Gabriel. That is today.’
—Treasures of Siwa,
Desert Boy Book Five
‘With this ring I thee wed, with my body I thee worship...’
Edge’s deep voice had been as flat as a millpond, but the words kept playing in her mind, just as her fingers kept playing with the simple gold ring on her finger.
She had no idea where he found it or when. The three days since her proposal were a confusing blur. Both Poppy and Janet had surprised her by being delighted at Edge’s laconically delivered news of their betrothal, utterly unconcerned that their nephew was about to marry a woman he had not seen in eight years.
Once in Cairo, Edge disappeared, returning with the news that a man matching Rafe’s distinctive description had booked passage to England on a ship which had sailed from Alexandria that very day.
He didn’t look at Sam as he spoke and when he added he’d requested the consul general help him find passage on the first fast ship to England she steeled herself for the inevitable. Here was a perfect excuse for Edge to withdraw from her proposal, or at least postpone it long enough to come to his senses. Perhaps so would she.
But then he’d thoroughly stunned her. Apparently he’d done more at the consul general’s than arrange passage. She’d listened in shock as he’d informed her that the same vicar who performed Chase and Ellie’s wedding was still in Cairo and more than willing to perform the ceremony should they choose to marry before leaving Egypt.
If she chose.
If.
She’d searched his face for some indication of his wishes, but this was Edge. He’d put the pieces on the board—the move was hers.
Sam touched her ring again. It was surprisingly delicate, very different from Ricki’s elaborate gold and ruby family heirloom that chafed her fingers and which she’d lost in the canal the day Maria drowned. The moment Edge slipped the ring on her finger at the vicar’s command the world shrank and hushed, like the moment birds chirping raucously in a tree at dusk settled suddenly into the calm of night. She’d still wobbled when they’d kneeled and his hand had caught hers and just for a moment he’d shown an emotion, even if it was worry.
Married.
Again.
Edge was now her husband.
‘My dear, dear Sam. I’m so very, very happy.’ Janet clasped Sam’s hand almost convulsively, her other hand pressing a now-mangled handkerchief to her eyes. She’d cried quietly throughout the brief ceremony in the drawing room of the British consul general’s house, nestling under Poppy’s arm. ‘You both deserve happiness after all you have been through. I know you were forever at daggers drawn when you were young, but sometimes that is the best way. You know the worst of each other which is so much more than most couples do when entering matrimony, you know.’
That much was true, Sam thought as she patted Janet’s hand. She was still too shocked to do more than smile at the people who had joined the impromptu congratulatory toast that followed the brief ceremony. Behind her smile her mind kept echoing with the same thoughts.
Married. Again. What have I done?
This was either a most brilliant move on her part or an impulsive recipe for disaster. This time she had climbed something from which she could easily fall and break her neck.
She squirmed with the same mix of excitement and terror that hadn’t let her go since she’d entered Edge’s tent. She’d expected him to throw her out on her ear with a good lecture at worst or with a stolid ‘I am flattered by your proposal but you are clearly suffering from desert fever, now go to sleep like a good girl’.
She should be content, happy. Edge might be a trifle...difficult, but he was good, conscientious, intelligent. Even kind when he let his shell fall away. Not to mention as handsome as sin and could kiss as if he had traded something very valuable to the devil for that skill.
There was no reason to be shaking with fear.
Yet she was.
‘Lady Edward, my warmest congratulations!’ The consul general joined them, beaming. ‘Are there any more Sinclairs for us to wed here in Cairo? We are most willing to continue in this pleasant vein.’
Spoken aloud the words sounded even more foreign than in her mind.
Lady Edward.
In the past that name had plagued her—it sparked twists of pain and the image of a golden-haired beauty waltzing in Edge’s arms under the light of a thousand candles. When her girlish hopes for her own marriage to Ricki turned to ashes she realised that image had goaded her into seeking a male version of the perfect and charming Theodora Wadham. She’d latched on to Ricki’s golden curls and infectious laughter, his pleasure in dancing the night away, his adoration of her... She’d been too young to see how much of that pleasure had been fuelled by wine and how much of his adoration fuelled by a need to possess the prize others sought.
Ricki’s perfect image faded fast, but not Lady Edward’s. At night as she lay under Ricki’s heavy body waiting for it to be over, her mind tortured her with images of the golden sylph in Edge’s arms, being loved in a manner utterly different from Rick
i’s heedless, drunken pawing... Eventually even those images faded and she just lay there.
Until the day Ricki taunted her once too often with her insipidity and coldness and the truth came roaring out of her—that she never had or ever would love him, that she’d married him only because she wanted a home and family and could never have that with the man she loved. Even now that memory was a taste of purgatory—her venom spilling out and then the realisation that despite his drunken clumsiness and childish posturing her husband actually cared. But it had been too late. There had been no taking back the truth.
‘More champagne, Lady Edward?’
Sam accepted the glass from Sir Henry, watching her husband over its rim.
Her husband.
That tall, handsome, serious-looking man listening to Poppy and the vicar with a slight smile softening the sharp-hewn lines of his face. Despite his outward calm, he exuded a raw but leashed power. She could see the other guests watching him as they might watch a wild animal only half-tamed by years of captivity, fascinated but wary that any moment he might forget his civilised veneer and succumb to an atavistic urge to devour. Not that he seemed to notice. Even as a young man he’d been just as unaware. She’d overheard her brothers ribbing him that this was why his mistresses were usually older than he—it took a mature and determined woman to make it absolutely clear they were interested.
Just as she had.
The thought and its implications made her shiver.
Edge looked over suddenly, his eyes shaded despite the glare of candles. He detached himself and moved towards her and she tried to gauge his mood but could see nothing in his darkened eyes but polite interest as they skimmed over her. He turned to nod to Sir Henry.
‘Thank you for arranging passage so swiftly, Sir Henry.’
‘Think nothing of it, Lord Edward. HMS Lark is one of the navy’s swiftest vessels and could have you in Portsmouth in under three weeks if weather allows. Pity you cannot stay to see the marvellous new finds. Truly exquisite. But perhaps you will be returning next winter?’
‘Perhaps.’
‘Depending on your lovely wife, I am certain.’
‘Mr and Mrs Carmichael will remain a little longer, but my wife and I had best leave as we must now prepare for an early departure tomorrow morning.’
‘Of course, of course. Everyone will understand.’ Sir Henry laughed, his cheeks redder than Sam’s.
* * *
Once in the carriage the sounds and smells of Cairo took over. Sam watched the darkened streets and wished again that Edge could have found Rafe innocently lodged in one of the hotels. Then there would have been time to adjust, to become reacquainted, explore Egypt together...
She threw him another glance, but he was looking out the other window, his mouth a straight line.
She had no idea what to say to him.
Are you regretting this marriage? Resenting me? Thinking only of reaching England and finding your brother? Or of something else entirely?
‘You look very lovely.’
She started at his words—though he hardly sounded as if he meant them.
‘So do you,’ she said anyway and the corner of his mouth curved a little.
‘I’ve never been called lovely before.’
‘Well, perhaps that is not the best adjective.’
‘What is, then?’ He finally turned to her, but still she could see nothing in his eyes but faint amusement. It scared her—that this man was her husband and she could not read him at all. She had the strangest sensation that though he looked like the Edge she’d once known he was someone else entirely.
She’d married a stranger.
‘What is wrong?’ His eyes narrowed as they moved over her face. She forced a smile.
‘I don’t know. I think I’m tired. No, nervous. No, I’m scared I’ve forced your hand and you will come to resent me.’
That was more honest than she’d intended, but at least it sparked something in his gaze.
‘Sam of old wouldn’t be so plagued by doubts.’
‘I don’t know if that is true. But in any case Sam of old is long gone, Edge.’
He reached out to trace a line from her cheekbone to the corner of her mouth, paused, and then continued, settling on the curve of her lower lip. He applied no pressure, but her lips parted and she had to consciously draw air into her lungs. She wanted desperately to moisten her lips, but her nerve utterly deserted her. Sam of old’s bravado, sparked by the raw beauty of the desert, had lasted long enough to shift her life on to an entirely new course, but now the fear was back.
‘Is she? Gone?’
‘I don’t know.’
His hand dropped and he looked away.
‘I hope she’s not completely gone, Sam. You’ll need her strength to tolerate me.’
‘I think it’s rather the other way around. I dare say you are regretting this already.’
He laughed, utterly surprising her as he pulled her on to his lap, his breath warm against her temple as he spoke.
‘At the moment I’m only regretting we will only have one night to explore the attractions of our alliance, Najimat al-Layl.’
His lips brushed softly over her ear, resting for a moment on her earlobe, and she shivered as his tongue traced its curve.
‘I like when you call me that,’ she whispered. ‘Even though it is merely another reminder of what a nuisance I was.’
His hands moved over her back, loosening the laces of her dress under the cover of her light cloak, sliding under the fabric, warm and firm, making her skin dance with skittish pleasure. She arched against them, trying to meet or escape the pleasure unravelling through her.
‘You were impossible, Night Star. I kept waiting breathlessly for the next disaster.’ He murmured the words against her cheek, brushing his lips lightly over hers. His mouth was cool, but he was a blaze of dark heat wrapping around her, singeing her from the outside in.
This was what he wanted from her, probably all he wanted from her.
The attractions of our alliance...
It should worry her, but right now the only thing that worried her was as he said—that they would have only one night before they set out on the long journey back to England which meant for three weeks or so the best accommodation they would have would be the narrow bed of a naval frigate.
She turned to him, her hands on his shoulders. In the darkness of the carriage his eyes glinted at her, challenging, his lips parted.
‘Yes, Sam?’
His hair was thick and silky warm against her fingers, her lips tingling with the need to feel it, to feel him. She could taste the memory of their kiss in the dark, feel the texture of his mouth on hers.
Her husband’s mouth...
‘Edge... Kiss me...’
His hands sank deep into her hair as she whispered against his lips, holding her there, pressing her closer.
‘Don’t stop.’ The words rumbled between them and then were lost as the kiss deepened.
When he finally drew away, setting her back on the seat with a muffled curse, it took her a stunned moment to realise they’d reached the Carmichaels’ house in Cairo.
* * *
At the top of the staircase she turned towards her room, but Edge caught her hand.
‘This way. My room tonight, Madame Wife.’
Heat flared through her—a mix of fear and anticipation. Her palm was hot and damp against his and the coward in her wished she could somehow jump ahead ten years to a time when everything had smoothed out, she had smoothed out into a calmer, more sensible person who was content to be content. Who wasn’t scared.
He closed the door behind him and she stared at the bed.
Years ago she’d stood just so in her husband’s room. Beyond the windows she’d seen the roofs of Venice and a sky tinged with the setting su
n and known she’d made a horrible mistake for all the worst reasons.
Right now she didn’t know anything but that the bed was enormous and that Edge was standing right behind her as if ready to push her off a cliff. Surely there was a chasm between them and the bed that would be impossible to cross. It was not at all possible they would in a matter of moments be in it. Together.
All those kisses, that heat, that hope, would end in...that.
‘What is it?’
She tried to answer him, but couldn’t.
‘Are you worried?’
She swallowed and nodded.
‘Are you tired? Would you rather sleep?’
Sleep? She would never sleep again in a million years. She swallowed again and shook her head.
He took her hand and drew her towards a door at the side of the room. It led to a small parlour with a desk and a cushioned mastaba bench under the window overlooking the inner garden. Jasmine vines poked in through the carved shutters, the scent powerful and soothing.
‘Sit.’ He eased her on to the bench and moved away and she almost grabbed for his hand again. God, she was behaving like a terrified virgin. He must think her ridiculous.
He returned with a glass of brandy and she sipped it, grateful to have something to hold in her hands. The cushions shifted as he sat beside her.
‘What will you do when we reach London?’ she asked hurriedly.
‘Search for Rafe. Hopefully he will have presented himself at Greybourne or at least alerted the lawyers of his return. Once I ascertain he is well I will beat him to a pulp for dragging me halfway around the world. If he isn’t there, I shall have to find him. You know that, don’t you?’
‘Of course. I would do the same.’
‘Yes, you undoubtedly would. What will you do when we reach London? Will your brothers be there? It would be preferable if you stayed with them rather than a hotel until I can make arrangements.’
‘Of course we shall stay at Sinclair House. But...should we not go see your family?’
‘We just have. They stood behind us at the ceremony and are hopefully enjoying the consul general’s champagne as we speak.’