* * *
Mrs. Wickett was complaining of a headache, so Mallory convinced her to take a turn about the deck, certain that the fresh air would be good for her.
When they stepped onto the deck, Mallory drew in a deep breath, allowing the salt air to fill her lungs. Mrs. Wickett dabbed at her face with a damp handkerchief, but her color was better.
The sea was at a flat calm, and the sun was obstructed by heavy clouds. It looked as if it would rain before the day was over.
Mallory tucked an errant red curl beneath her bonnet and stopped at the railing to watch a school of playful dolphins weaving in and out of the water.
A dagger of sunlight pierced the clouds and fell upon the sea, painting it crimson and reminding her of silk rippling in the wind. She gasped at the lovely spectacle.
"It's breathtaking, isn't it?" a masculine voice spoke behind her. "The sea is like a woman and never wears the same face twice. It's always intriguing and mysterious."
Mallory knew before she turned to face the man that it would be Lord Michael. She raised her chin haughtily. "I beg your pardon, sir, were you speaking to me?"
Michael stared into frosty blue eyes. He was unaccustomed to having a woman annoyed with him. He had not really intended to engage her in conversation, but it somehow seemed impolite to pass her by without speaking. "Forgive me if I appear bold, but on shipboard, especially one this small, it's foolish to stand on formality. I am Michael DeWinter." He bowed slightly. "I believe you have a misconception about me."
"My encounters with you always seem to end in disaster for me," Mallory answered. "I do not wish to make your acquaintance."
"I know I appeared guilty this morning. I can only ask you to forgive me."
Mrs. Wickett beamed. "It's always good to see you, m'lord. I told Lady Mallory I couldn't believe you would dash her with water."
He bowed slightly to the little woman, making her smile even brighter. "I'm encouraged by your belief in me.
Even dressed informally in tan-colored trousers and a white ruffled shirt, Mallory thought he was the essence of how the son of a duke should look. He was tall and trim; his features were classic and aristocratic. He was undeniably handsome.
"I know what you did." Mallory said, turning away and glancing back to sea.
"If you would allow me to—" He paused, knowing he could not explain without involving the poor seaman.
She tossed her head and glared at him. "See, you can't explain, can you? You know I saw you with the bucket in your hand."
She was dressed in a simple burgundy gown and a black bonnet trimmed with dried blue flowers. She was pretty, he thought, but he knew many pretty girls—this one did not appeal to him. Michael could see wisps of red hair poking from beneath the brim of her bonnet—he'd never been partial to red hair.
"I find myself unable to explain what happened, my lady. If only you would—"
"I don't wish to hear anything you have to say, my lord."
He looked past her in exasperation, thinking she didn't deserve his consideration. Never had he met a more disagreeable young woman. "Then please forgive the intrusion, Lady Mallory. I'll wish you a good day."
She turned her back on him and stared out to sea. He had attempted to apologize for his actions and she suddenly felt guilty for behaving so discourteously. What did it matter? They would never meet again after this voyage, and she intended to avoid him whenever possible.
"M'lady," Mrs. Wickett said in shock. "How could you speak so to his lordship? He was attempting to apologize."
Mallory drew in a deep breath of salt air. "I don't care to hear anything he has to say." But she did turn to watch him walk away. His back was straight, his head held at a proud tilt. She wondered if he ever smiled. Surely if he did, he would steal a girl's heart.
She turned back and stared silently out to sea. After a while, she had the feeling someone was staring at her. Glancing up, she met the dark eyes of a man wearing a white robe and a matching burnoose.
The man bowed to her slightly, his eyes never leaving her face. He was obviously a passenger, perhaps an Egyptian returning to his homeland. But why was he watching her so intently?
She turned back to the railing, but she could still feel his eyes on her, and it made her so nervous that she dropped her sunshade.
When it clattered to the deck, the stranger rushed forward to retrieve it for her. "With, your fair skin, you will need this, Lady Mallory," he said in cultured English.
On closer inspection, she saw that he was younger than she'd thought. The man bowed, and then moved away before she could find her voice.
"Well, did you ever!" Mrs. Wickett exclaimed indignantly. "How dare that man speak to you. He was much too familiar. He spoke your name."
Mallory could find nothing disrespectful in the man's manner. "I suppose everyone is aware of our names."
"Well, we shan't welcome the company of the likes of him. I do believe he admires you. We just can't have that. I'll speak to the captain about his actions."
Mallory touched the older woman's arm. "It is a matter of little importance. Besides, his manners were above reproach. You will not speak to the captain about him. It would only cause him trouble."
Mrs. Wickett wanted to insist, but the determined look in Lady Mallory's eyes made her reluctantly agree. "I'll let it go this time. But if he speaks to you again, I shall certainly inform the captain."
Mallory leaned over the railing, watching the foamy spray fan out from the ship. She had already forgotten the incident.
Chapter 7
The night was balmy, and the stars were reflected in the gentle waves, giving the illusion that sea and sky were one. Michael stood on deck, hesitating to enter his cabin. With a troubled mind, he watched silvery foam ride on the waves.
His insides were tied in knots, and he gripped the railing until his knuckles whitened as questions pounded in his mind. What had happened to his father? Would he be able to locate him? What if his father was dead—how would he accept that? How would he tell his mother?
Michael's attention was diverted by the sound of scuffling. He glanced across the deck, trying to see past the shadows cast by the rippling canvases. He heard a muffled cry and moved quickly to the foredeck to investigate.
He saw three men locked in combat. It didn't take him long to assess the situation. It was the Egyptians, and it appeared that two of them had banded together to overcome the third. One of the men held their victim in a tight grip, while the other raised his arm, and in a flash, Michael saw light reflect off the blade of a knife.
Without stopping to think, Michael rushed forward to grab the attacker's arm, holding it in a firm grip. Moments passed as a life-and-death struggle ensued between the two of them—the assailant had turned his rage on Michael. The blade of the knife came dangerously close to Michael's throat, but he gained the advantage and thrust the Egyptian from him.
Suddenly both assailants turned on Michael. He managed to slip out of one man's grip, but the man with the knife lunged forward, burying the blade in the fleshy part of Michael's arm.
With renewed determination, Michael gripped the man's arm and slammed him into the bulwark. The man groaned in pain and crumpled to the deck.
Michael then turned to engage the other assailant, only to see the man move out of his reach. The second attacker jumped to his feet, and they both darted into the shadows.
Michael quickly dropped down to examine the injured man, who was having trouble catching his breath. "Are you hurt?" he asked.
The man answered him in a gasping voice. "They . . . tried to choke me ... I am but winded. I would now be dead if it were not for you. I owe you my life."
"Nonsense," Michael replied, reaching out his hand to assist the man to his feet. By now blood had soaked through Michael's shirt and he could feel the pain of his wound.
"You are injured," the Egyptian said with concern. "I will help you."
"It's but a scratch and can wait until we re
port this incident to the captain."
At that moment, a noise drew their attention. Michael looked toward the sound of hurrying footsteps and watched in disbelief as one of the attackers slipped over the railing and dropped into the sea! Horror registered in his mind as the second man also leaped into the dark waters.
"My God, they must be demented," Michael cried out as he ran to the rail of the ship. He could see nothing but inky blackness.
He turned to the other man, who had come up beside him. "It's too late to save them from drowning," Michael said grimly, "but we must inform the captain at once."
The Egyptian put his hand on Michael's arm. "I would ask that you not say anything about this. As you said, those men are now beyond help. I know that they were sent to slay me or die in the attempt. Since they failed, they had no recourse but to end their lives."
"What kind of men are they that they would deliberately drown themselves?"
The man merely shrugged. "For them, it was better to die than live with the disgrace they would have faced if they had returned and I still lived."
Michael was feeling lightheaded from his wound and staggered to rise. "Perhaps the wound is more serious than I thought."
"I will get the ship's doctor for you."
Michael waved him aside. "No, I'd sooner be in the hands of a butcher. I'll not have that man tend me. I've heard too many horror stories about seafaring doctors."
The Egyptian nodded in understanding. "Then perhaps you will allow me to assist you. I am quite capable of treating your wound."
Michael agreed. Already he had lost a lot of blood, and a feeling of weakness made him stumble. With the assistance of the Egyptian, they made it to his cabin before Michael collapsed on the bed.
The stranger removed Michael's coat and ripped the shirt sleeve. He was silent while he examined the wound. "It is deep, and it is a miracle his aim was not accurate. Allow me to go to my cabin and get my medical kit. I'll only be gone a short time."
Michael closed his eyes, trying not to think about the pain. He reached for one of his shirts and tied the sleeve around his arm in an attempt to stop the flow of blood.
Soon the Egyptian reappeared. With the expertise of a man who had treated injuries before, he cleansed the wound and applied some strange-smelling herbs. Deftly, he bandaged Michael's arm in clean white linen, then stood back, observing his handiwork with satisfaction.
"It was a clean wound and should heal nicely, Lord Michael."
Michael took a good look at the man. His white robe was disheveled and soiled from his encounter with the assassins. He'd lost his burnoose in the struggle. His complexion was swarthy, but he had finely chiseled features.
"You have the advantage over me. You know me, but I don't know your name."
The Egyptian bowed, touching his forehead and mouth, his dark eyes suddenly cautious. "My name is Khaldun Shemsa, and I owe you my life. The knife that you took was meant for me. I will always be indebted to you, Lord Michael, and I shall never forget your bravery."
"You have determined enemies, Khaldun Shemsa. Are you certain you don't want to report this to Captain Barim? He will soon begin to question the men's absence, and I'm sure he'll come to you, since they are obviously from your country."
"Obvious to the English, perhaps, but the men who attacked me were Turks, not Egyptians. I beg you to say nothing of the incident. It is imperative that I reach my home with all possible haste, and if this matter is brought to the attention of the authorities, I will be detained for an indefinite time." He looked into Michael's eyes. "There is much turmoil in my tribe. Even now, I am uncertain whether our enemies have taken control and slain our leader. Otherwise, why would the assassins so boldly attack me on an English ship? I fear those I love may be in great danger."
Michael somehow believed the Egyptian. "I understand your concerns better than you think."
"Then you will say nothing?"
"I will say nothing," Michael agreed, "because I, too, have no wish to be detained by questions."
Relief plainly showed on the Egyptian's face. "You are most unusual for an Englishman. I never expected one of your race to put his life in danger for me."
Michael smiled faintly. He couldn't help but like the man. "You are most unusual for an Egyptian, Khaldun Shemsa. Where did you learn to speak English so well?" Michael asked, eyeing the man speculatively.
"I attended your Oxford University for two years and am on my way home. My two escorts were found dead before I left London. I knew then that someone was stalking me, but I could prove nothing. Your captain would send me back to England if he knew about the murders of my servants. I tell you this because I trust you, Lord Michael, even though I cannot say why."
Michael flexed his sore arm and winced in pain. "I will keep your secret, and share mine with you, because I feel I can also trust you. My father went to Egypt at the request of your viceroy. He is missing, and we don't know if he's alive. If there is any advice you can give me that might help me locate my father, I would be most grateful."
Khaldun was silent for a moment as he considered Lord Michael's words. "I will do all I can to help you find your father. Until I contact you, perhaps it would be best if we pretended we didn't know one another. I would not like my enemies to become yours. There could be other Turks hiding on this ship, posing as members of the crew."
Michael flinched when the Egyptian propped his wounded arm on a pillow. "I know little of your country and would welcome anything you can tell me."
"I will do what I can, for we are as brothers since your blood was spilled in place of mine."
"You will excuse me if I rest now. I find I'm very fatigued."
"Tomorrow you should re-dress the wound. I shall leave the herbs and bandages with you. I will not come to you again, lest I put you in danger." Khaldun handed Michael a bottle of green liquid. "If it pains you during the night, take some of this."
Michael could only nod. "I would advise you to look to your own health, Khaldun. As you said, there may be others on board who wish you dead. It would be wise for you to sleep lightly."
"I will be more careful." Khaldun lowered his eyes. "I cannot say why anyone would want to harm me since I am only the son of a humble tailor."
Michael stared at the Egyptian, knowing he was not being truthful now. His speech and manner of dress were not in keeping with a son of a tailor. And a man of humble background did not go all the way to England to attend Oxford.
Khaldun touched his forehead and bowed. "Sleep well, my new friend. Allah ye'tik, may God go with you in your search for your father."
"May God help us both," Michael said with growing weariness.
After Khaldun departed, Michael closed his eyes. He had been foolhardy tonight. If he had been killed, who would have continued the search for his father?
Outside Michael's cabin, hostile eyes peered out of the shadows, watching his door. After hearing someone approaching, the man left hastily to be swallowed up by the night.
Since the night Michael had saved Khaldun's life, the Egyptian avoided him when they would chance to meet. One morning, Michael awoke to find that a note had been shoved under his door. It was from Khaldun.
Lord Michael,
I have reason to believe I am being watched, although I cannot say why. I know that my cabin has been searched. So for your safety, I will continue to pretend we do not know each other. Do not think I have forgotten that you saved my life. We shall surely meet again, and I will come to you if you ever need me.
The note was unsigned. Michael still wondered why anyone would go to so much trouble to kill Khaldun. His instinct told him there was more to the Egyptian than he would have people believe. But then Michael also had his secrets, and like Khaldun, he might have his enemies.
At that moment, there was a knock on the door and Michael opened it to find the first mate standing there with his hat tucked under his arm. "Begging your pardon, m'lord. The captain wondered if you would do him the hon
or of dining with him tonight. All the passengers are to be included in the invitation."
Michael had been having his meals brought to his cabin because he didn't want anyone to notice that he'd been injured. Now he could at least move the arm without too much pain. "Inform the captain I shall be glad to dine with him."
Thus far, there had been no inquiry about the two men who had jumped overboard. Michael was sure that the captain was beginning to wonder what had happened to them. He suspected that everyone at dinner tonight would be questioned about the missing Egyptians.
He would keep Khaldun's secret because he didn't want to be entangled in a web of intrigue.
Mallory parted her hair down the middle and arranged it in the French finger curls that were so in vogue. She slipped into a powder blue satin gown with bows on the sleeves and all about the hem. When the seamstress had made this gown, Mallory hadn't liked it, and she still didn't. Poor Cousin Phoebe could not have known it was shamelessly out of style.
Mallory lifted her hand mirror and stared at her image. Oh, well, there was nothing she could do about her appearance. She might be considered a beauty in the country, among the locals, but to a man like Lord Michael, who was accustomed to polished beauties, she would seem plain.
On a whim, Mallory quickly removed all the ribbons that adorned the gown and added a small cluster of silk lilacs to her hair. The gown might appear simple, but at least it wasn't garish.
With a resigned sigh, she worked her hands into her wrist-length white gloves, hoping no one would notice they had been mended at the fingertips.
Chapter 8
The sea was rolling gently as Mallory and Mrs. Wickett were greeted by Captain Barim. He looked very distinguished in his blue uniform with gold trim and epaulets.
"Good evening, Lady Mallory. Nice to see you, Mrs. Wickett. So glad the two of you could join us this evening." He ushered them into the cabin where the table had been laid with a white tablecloth and sparkling silver and china.
He presented them to his officers and then turned toward the banker. "Lady Mallory, may I present you to Mr. Fenton?"
Desert Song (DeWinter's Song 3) Page 6