She pointed toward the strange animals kneeling at the edge of the water.
“I presume those must be the camels I have read of?”
He chuckled at her amazement. “They are as necessary to my people as the horses are to yours, but I must warn you they can be as temperamental and stubborn as a female.”
She narrowed her gaze. “Indeed.”
Capturing her hand, he lifted it to press his lips to her knuckles, then before she could protest his intimacy, he was pointing toward the horizon.
“There. Do you see the dome?”
“Yes.”
“That is the seraglio of the pasha.”
“Seraglio?”
“The harem.” He smiled at her predictable frown before smoothly turning her attention toward the towering obelisk. “And there is Cleopatra’s Needle as well as Amud el-Sawari, or as the French have called it, Pompey’s Pillar.” His fingers brushed her cheek, his dark eyes lingering on the curve of her lips. “Perhaps if we have the opportunity I will take you to the catacombs. They are quite popular among the tourists.”
Her heart missed a tiny beat. Only a female in her grave would fail to appreciate Rajih’s potent attraction.
“But surely you do not intend to linger?”
“It will be morning before a boat can be arranged to take us to Cairo.”
Her hands tightened on the railing. She had been certain they were gaining on the men who held her sister captive. Now Rajih was suggesting she tour Alexandria as if she were a silly tourist while Anya was taken ever farther away from her.
“What about those camels?” she demanded. “There must be a few we could—”
Rajih turned her to meet his somber gaze. “Emma, it will be far quicker, not to mention considerably more pleasant to travel by boat.”
She made a sound of impatience. “I am not a pampered lady of society. I am accustomed to hard work and considerable discomfort when necessary.”
“But it is not necessary.” He laid a finger over her lips to cease her objections. “And while I do not question your fortitude you are not yet prepared for the unmerciful punishment of the desert. You must trust me.”
Emma heaved a frustrated sigh. She did not want to trust Rajih. Or Dimitri. Or any other man.
She wanted to find Anya and return home where they both belonged.
Unfortunately, she had no choice but to depend upon the caliph and to pray that he truly intended to help her rescue her sister from the monsters who had stolen her.
She returned to her cabin as they docked, pulling on a bonnet that was the precise shade of her pale orchid gown and arranged the veil to cover her face. Then, standing aside as her baggage was taken by a small boy wearing no more than a baggy pair of pants and sleeveless vest, she allowed Rajih to lead her off the ship and into a waiting carriage.
She settled on the leather seat, wincing at the turbaned servants who ran ahead of the vehicle, cudgeling the unwary who strayed in their path.
“Where are we to stay?”
“I own a house in Alexandria.” Rajih waved a slender hand at the men who rushed to line the streets, shouting out what Emma presumed must be words of welcome. “It is far more modest than my home in Cairo, but it will offer a welcome comfort after such a rough journey.”
On the point of demanding the precise nature of their living arrangements, Emma was distracted as their carriage was halted by a caravan of donkeys carrying men who beat small drums. Following them was a small crowd attired in silk robes trimmed with gold.
“Good heavens.”
“Do not fear.” Rajih placed a comforting arm around her shoulders. “It can be somewhat overwhelming for a visitor.”
“Somewhat?”
“Customs and fashions, and even religion, might separate countries, but people are very much the same wherever you might travel.”
She sucked in a steadying breath, her gaze skimming over the palm trees that lined the narrow lane and row of pale stone buildings that held shops, hotels and cafés where men sat around tables smoking tall pipes.
“I suppose that is true enough.” Her gaze lingered on the gentlemen wearing familiar tailored jackets and breeches strolling down the street as if they were royalty. “And to be honest, I am surprised to find so many Europeans.”
Rajih shrugged. “It was not so long ago that the Sultan Kebir was in command of my country.”
Sultan Kebir?
“Napoleon?” she deduced.
He nodded, the muscles of his jaw knotted. There was no need to ask his opinion of the French invaders.
“Yes.”
“And you have yet to be rid of the infidel invaders?” she asked gently.
The dark eyes hardened in grim resolution. Caliph Rajih was a man who would sacrifice whatever necessary, including his pride, to resurrect his country from the ashes.
“For now we have need of their expertise,” he forced himself to admit. “In ages past there was none who could compare with our scholars and engineers and scientists. We ruled without equal and none could stand in our path.”
The carriage jerked back into motion, turning toward the outskirts of the bustling city.
“Do you intend to conquer the world?” she teased.
“Not this evening, but in time our glory will be restored.”
Emma wrinkled her nose. Egypt had not been the only country to be invaded by Napoleon’s forces, nor to have sacrificed the blood of too many good soldiers to be rid of his armies.
“Perhaps it is because I am a mere female from a forgotten Russian village, but I prefer peace to glory.”
The merciless expression eased as he tugged a honey curl that had escaped from beneath her bonnet.
“As a mere female?” he drawled. “The crew of my ship was convinced you possessed the heart of a lioness with your golden beauty and fierce courage. You are as rare as the finest emerald.”
His finger drifted down the curve of her neck, then scooped along the low cut of her bodice. She shivered, instinctively pulling away from the temptation of his touch. No matter what the caliph’s attractions, she had given her heart to another.
Even if he was an ungrateful jackass.
“Rajih.”
He smiled with a rueful resignation. “He is far away and yet still in your thoughts, is he not?”
A flush touched her cheeks as she attempted to feign indifference.
“He?”
“Your Russian thief.”
“I have no desire to discuss Dimitri Tipova.” She clenched her teeth against the jagged ache of loss. “He is a part of my past I wish to forget.”
“And yet you carry his memory in your heart.” Before she could guess his intention, Rajih grabbed her hand and pressed it to his lips. “Have no fear, beloved. I shall banish his ghost in time.”
Having discovered it was impossible to argue with arrogant men, Emma sought to distract her companion instead.
“Goodness, why are those children darting into the road?”
The shimmer in his dark eyes revealed that he was aware of her ploy, but with a last kiss on her knuckles, he shifted to slide open the carriage window. At once a clutch of ragged boys ran forward, shoving tiny bundles into Rajih’s outstretched hand. He tossed a handful of coins into the street before closing the window and turning back to Emma.
She watched in interest as he delicately unwrapped a fig leaf and revealed a small pile of dark fruit.
“Taste,” he urged, lifting one of the delicacies toward her mouth.
“What is it?”
“Dates dipped in honey.”
She took a tentative bite, sliding shut her eyes in appreciation as the sweetness exploded on her tongue.
“Mmm,” she breathed, unconsciously licking her lips. “Ambrosia.”
She heard Rajih’s breath catch, his eyes darkening before he lowered his head.
“Allow me,” he rasped, kissing the honey that clung to her mouth. “The sweetest of ambrosia.”
His enticing scent cloaked around her, the exotic spice as heady a temptation as the strength in the hand that cupped her face. It would be easy to give in to Rajih’s urging to replace Dimitri in her heart.
Not that she truly thought he could accomplish the impossible feat, but there would be undoubted pleasure in the effort.
Thankfully, she was a woman who learned from her mistakes.
She had allowed herself to depend upon Dimitri and had been betrayed. She would not allow another man the opportunity to disappoint her.
Pressing her hands to his chest, she pulled away from his kiss.
“We have halted.”
His hand briefly tightened on her cheek, then with obvious reluctance he pulled back, a flush staining his cheekbones.
They said nothing as a servant in loose robes rushed forward to pull open the carriage door, and Rajih led her into the three-storied stucco home that was framed by palm trees and mimosa.
She noted the tiled floors and fountains surrounded by low divans as they moved through the foyer and into the inner rooms. She had no need for Rajih to tell her that the tapestries that lined the walls were ancient heirlooms or that the delicate pottery were priceless works of art. Even a peasant from Russia could recognize the exquisite craftsmanship of her surroundings, she wryly acknowledged.
They stepped through a set of towering doors into the square courtyard before Rajih at last came to a halt and turned to offer her a small bow.
“Welcome to my home, Emma Linley-Kirov,” he said in an oddly formal fashion.
Her brows lifted as she studied the small stream of water that meandered through the dark greenery and the banks of flowers that filled the air with a thick perfume. In the center was a large fountain that sprayed water into the air and was surrounded by marble benches.
It was like a hidden jewel; all the more lovely because it was so unexpected.
“You consider this a modest home?” she demanded.
“It once belonged to my grandfather.”
There was a sound overhead and she glanced up to discover birds of prey silhouetted against the brilliant blue sky. A small shiver feathered down her spine.
“Is there a harem?” she asked.
“Of course.” His lips twitched as he deliberately stepped closer, his slender hand waving toward the profusion of brilliant blooms. “These gardens are a part of the seraglio. I believe you will find them suitably comfortable.”
She licked her lips, belatedly aware that they were very much alone in the courtyard.
“Perhaps it would be best if I were to find rooms at a hotel—”
Rajih reached to tug off her bonnet, a heat flaring in his eyes as her honey curls tumbled about her shoulders.
“Do you fear I might lock you away as my concubine?”
“I would be a fool not to be concerned.”
“Undoubtedly.” He chuckled, brushing a light kiss over her lips before straightening to regard her with a steady gaze. “And I am a brute to tease you. Yes, Emma, during your stay our tradition demands that you remain in the women’s quarters. It is for your own protection. But be assured that you will never be my prisoner.”
DIMITRI PACED THE NORTH terrace of Windsor Castle, his gaze absently studying the frozen countryside spread beneath him. A servant had pointed out the Thames churning a path through the meadows, as well as the cluster of distant buildings he had proclaimed to be Eton College. He had also attempted to interest Dimitri in the history of the Round Tower standing in the middle ward that had been built by Henry II and the fine architecture of St. George’s Chapel that he was assured possessed a fine stone-vaulted ceiling and a stained-glass window that was the finest in all the world.
At last accepting that the grim-faced Russian would not be coaxed into the warmth of the Grand Vestibule, nor impressed by the grand English castle, the servant had returned to his duties, leaving Dimitri alone with his dark thoughts.
He had not been offered an explanation as to why George IV had insisted that Lord Sanderson and Sir Jergens be brought to this castle to be held and questioned, although he suspected the portly king was anxious to suppress the revelation that proper English nobles were involved in the tawdry sex slave business. Such things were meant to be kept hidden from society.
But while Dimitri was anxious to be done with the royal formalities so that the men could be taken to Russia and their confessions heard by Alexander Pavlovich, that was not the reason he was restlessly pacing the frozen terrace.
No. The raw, gnawing fear that plagued him could be placed entirely at the feet of Emma Linley-Kirov.
His heart twisted in pain.
It had been three days since Emma had disappeared from Huntley’s town house. Three days of futile searches through London. Of sending dozens of servants into the surrounding countryside, as well as to Paris and beyond to St. Petersburg to seek out any information of her whereabouts.
Of sleepless nights and endless bottles of vodka in an effort to dull the self-recriminations.
Perhaps he should accept that Emma had made her choice. He had done everything in his power to prevent her from her ridiculous habit of leaping into danger, had he not? If she were determined to get her throat slit, then there was nothing he could do to stop her.
Instead, he moodily vacillated between blinding fury that she would leave his protection and put herself at risk and a torturous knowledge that it had been his obsession to destroy his father that had driven her from his side.
Where the hell had she gone?
Was she alone? Had she found the trail of Valik and her sister? Had she been captured…?
The sound of approaching footsteps was a welcome distraction. Dimitri turned to watch Huntley’s approach, hiding a smile as the duke irritably waved away the covey of servants attempting to straighten his caped greatcoat and wrap a cashmere scarf around his neck.
Dimitri had endured a similar battle when he had arrived at the castle, nearly forced to punch the aggressive footman determined to take his gloves and beaver hat. Thank God he would soon be back in St. Petersburg where he was never mistaken for a feeble nobleman incapable of putting on and taking off his own damned clothes.
Huntley’s long stride never slowed as he headed toward the stone steps leading to the street below. Dimitri easily fell into step beside him, as eager as his companion to be finished with their business in Windsor and on their way back to London.
“It is done?” he demanded.
Huntley snorted in disgust, his breath visible in the chilled air.
“Between his bouts of wailing and pathetic pleas for forgiveness, Sanderson managed to confess the details of his sordid business.”
“And Jergens?”
“He was equally forthcoming.” Huntley shook his head. “A pity the guards did not discover Timmons until he had managed to take the coward’s path.”
Dimitri shrugged. Mr. Timmons had been discovered in his bedchamber with a bullet hole in his temple, obviously unable to face the sordid scandal that was about to spread throughout London.
“Did they reveal Count Nevskaya’s participation in the nasty business?” he demanded.
“With glorious detail.” Huntley’s laugh echoed in the still air. “Indeed, they were both eager to claim that the count had approached them several years ago with the scheme and that they were no more than helpless dupes being manipulated by the evil Russian.”
Dimitri waited for the torrent of exhilaration to overwhelm him.
This was the moment he had waited for since he learned of his mother’s death.
The means to brand his father as a depraved fiend who preyed upon helpless children was in his hands. There would be none in society who would not turn their backs on him.
He would be an outcast. Alone in his shame.
Just as Dimitri had dreamed of for so long.
Any satisfaction he felt, however, was as cold and empty as his heart.
“I do not doubt the truth of his claim,” he
said, absently tapping his riding crop against his glossy riding boots as they moved down the steep incline toward the lower ward. “Sanderson does not possess enough wits to devise such a cunning plot. My father, however, has never suffered from a lack of intelligence.”
“No, only a lack of morality.”
“That is a rare commodity among noblemen.”
Huntley lifted his brows at the less than flattering accusation. “I could say the same of thieves and scoundrels.”
They followed the curve in the road, ignoring the snowflakes that drifted from the sullen clouds.
“Have you arranged with the king to have the men sent to Russia?”
“We are in…” Huntley paused, as if seeking the appropriate word. “Negotiations.”
Dimitri muttered a Russian curse, his face hard with warning. “Huntley.”
“Be patient, Tipova.” Huntley slapped Dimitri on the back. “The king still harbors a bitterness at the perceived insults Alexander Pavlovich offered during his visit to England.”
Dimitri’s temper flared. He had not sacrificed so much only to have his opportunity for revenge threatened by a petulant peacock sitting on a throne.
“That was years ago,” he growled.
Huntley lowered his voice, as aware as Dimitri of the numerous servants who scurried about the castle grounds. It never failed to astonish Dimitri how many nobles were blind to the people who served them. Such stupidity ensured that he was easily capable of discovering whatever information he desired.
And information was power.
“George might be king of England now that his father has died but that has not cured his unfortunate tendency to spiteful pettiness.” Huntley grimaced. “As poor Brummell has learned to his regret.”
“I do not care if Alexander Pavlovich pissed on your fat king’s throne. I will not be denied my justice.”
The duke grasped his arm and roughly hurried them both down the road to where their horses awaited them.
“Do not be a fool, Tipova,” he muttered. “With a measure of diplomacy I will soon have the king convinced that the best means for him to be rid of a potential scandal is to send the men to Russia and lay the entire blame on Count Nevskaya. But not if you rile his temper. Be sensible.”
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