Desert Song (DeWinter's Song 3)

by Constance O'Banyon

  "Nothing. Oh, Warrick, now Michael may be missing. We haven't heard from him since he left. It's my fault if I've lost my husband and my son."

  Warrick put comforting arms around his mother-in-law, trying to absorb her pain. "When did Michael leave?"

  "A fortnight ago," Lady Mary offered. "I told Kassidy he'd write when he had the time. And lord only knows when the mail would reach us if he had written."

  Warrick nodded. "Let's give him another week, and if we haven't heard from him by then, I'll go to Egypt."

  Kassidy clutched at his shirt. "No, I will not lose another member of my family to that cursed land. Promise me you will not go, Warrick."

  Arrian took her mother's hand, thinking she'd never seen her so distraught. "Come with me upstairs, Mother. Little Grant has talked of little else but seeing his grandmama. And you have a new granddaughter who wants to meet you. Did you know her name is Kassidy?"

  Kassidy smiled through her tears. "Oh, yes, I must see the children." She rushed toward the stairs, and Arrian embraced her aunt.

  "I've never seen Mother like this. I'm frightened, Aunt Mary."

  Warrick turned to Lady Mary. "Is the situation as grim as it appears?"

  "I fear so, Warrick. I try to keep Kassidy's spirits up, but I'm having a hard time being cheerful after all that's happened. Thank God you brought the children, that will help her."

  * * *

  Michael awoke slowly, blinking at the sun shining through the crack in the curtained window. With effort, he raised himself up on his elbow and turned on his side to glance around the room. Vague memories stirred in his mind, but he was slow to comprehend all that had happened. Before he could question his situation further, the door opened and Lady Mallory entered.

  "You," he said, jerking the covers over his bare chest. "How did I get here?"

  She placed a tray on the table beside his bed and smiled at his embarrassment. "No need to be modest with me, because necessity has forced me to be your nurse. And as to how you got here, you'll have to tell me. I found you outside my garden gate. You had been stabbed."

  He shook his head to clear it. "Stabbed? But who would do—"

  "You don't keep very good company, Lord Michael. You might consider changing friends."

  He looked Mallory over carefully. She wore a dark green gown and her hair was hanging in curls to her waist. Surely if the goddess Diana had come to earth, she would not be more lovely. "You tended my wound?" he asked, thinking of his state of undress.

  "I had no choice. The doctor that came to treat you was none too clean, and I sent him on his way. I noticed that you have another scar on your upper arm. It's healed, but it can't be too old. Why are people trying to harm you?"

  "I'd rather not say." He flexed his arm and winced in pain. "How long have I been here?"

  She handed him a napkin, which he took without question. "Two days and nights, and I'm sure you are hungry by now."

  "I could use a drink," he admitted.

  She handed him a glass of sweet lemonade, which he gratefully took and drained immediately. "Thank you," he said, looking at the tray. "What other tidbits have you for me? I find I am indeed hungry."

  "I made my Cousin Phoebe's chicken and rice. She swears it can cure almost everything."

  Michael took the bowl she handed him and raised the spoon to his lips. "Mmmm, this is good. So the lady cooks; What else can you do?"

  "Play doctor to errant young men who turn up on my doorstep."

  He looked into laughing blue eyes—he hadn't realized she had a sense of humor. He watched her move around the room, straightening a lampshade, pulling the curtains aside, and opening the window to let in a cool breeze.

  "Sit and talk to me while I eat, Lady Mallory. I'd like to hear more about you."

  She stood at the foot of the bed, her hands clasped demurely in front of her. "There isn't much to tell. I lived in the country with my Cousin Phoebe. She sent me here to live with my mother and father."

  "Where are your parents?"

  "As you may have surmised, they have gone away. I'm all you have."

  "So you're country bred. I guessed as much. You have that healthy appearance about you."

  She glared at him. "Just what do you mean by that remark?"

  "Nothing, except you don't have that polish and sophistication that London society demands."

  When he saw her eyes sparkle with anger, he hurriedly added, "I have no particular liking for refinement in women. You somehow remind me of my sister."

  Was he deliberately being cruel? she wondered. Was she no more than a gauche country girl that he could hold up to ridicule? "If by that you mean I would find no pleasure in splashing an innocent pedestrian with my carriage, then you're right—I'm not sophisticated, and I'm glad."

  "What carriage—you have me confused. Am I supposed to know what you are talking about?"

  Mallory walked to the door. "You should not overeat. I'll send Safwat for the tray. Since you are mending nicely, he will now dress your wound and see to your needs."

  "Wait, I—"

  "Good day to you, Lord Michael."

  The door slammed behind her. He was puzzled. Why had she been so angry with him? Well, he had never understood women, and he certainly didn't understand this one. He supposed he should have been more gracious to her. After all, she probably had saved his life.

  "Red hair and temper," he muttered, taking another bite of tender chicken, "apparently they go together." He had no liking for a woman who couldn't be reasonable and was always putting a man on the defensive. He'd never met a woman like this one.

  * * *

  Mallory moved through the garden, breathing in the fragrant scent of the many exotic plants. Girlishly, she plucked a large yellow blossom and tucked it behind her ear. Then she moved onto the edge of a huge pond and looked at her reflection in the shimmering water. She did so detest her plain chocolate-colored gown. If only her mother would return, she might buy her more appropriate ones.

  Suddenly another image appeared in the pond. Lord Michael had come up behind her. Turning quickly, Mallory lost her balance and toppled into the pond. Sputtering and gasping, she regained her feet. With her wet gown clinging to her body, and water streaming down her face, she glared at the cause of her mishap.

  Michael couldn't hide his amusement. He reached up and plucked the blossom from behind her ear. "I'm sure there's an easier way to water this flower. Do you realize that I've seen you wet as often as I've seen you dry?"

  "And why do you suppose that is, Lord Michael?" Mallory asked him icily.

  "Surely you cannot blame me for this dunking."

  She refused his offered hand and stepped out of the pond. "Aren't you supposed to be in bed?" she asked in an angry voice.

  "And miss the spectacle of you tumbling into the pond. Not me."

  She stood before him, bedraggled and dripping. "If you cause your wound to bleed again, Lord Michael, I promise that I won't help you, but I'll call the Egyptian doctor back and let him practice his medicine on you. I'll even hand him the rusty instruments myself."

  His lips twitched. "Bloodthirsty when you're wet, aren't you?"

  Mallory saw nothing amusing in the situation. "Did your mother never teach you manners?"

  "Alas, she did, but I have not heeded all of her teachings. Here," Michael offered, "allow me to help you into the house lest you have another misadventure."

  Mallory's eyes blazed. "Thank you, no. I am perfectly capable of making it on my own."

  Michael watched her turn away and move toward the house with as much dignity as she could muster. His laughter rang out, and he realized that he hadn't laughed in a very long time. Lady Mallory was proving to be most entertaining.

  He glanced about the walled garden that had been his sanctuary in his time of need. She had taken him in, nursed his wounds, and asked no questions. Surely that set her apart from most women he knew. She really did somehow remind him of his sister, Arrian.

 
; * * *

  Safwat led Lord Michael into the informal dining room, where a servant was setting two places at the table.

  "Where is Lady Mallory? Michael inquired.

  "She will be here shortly and asks that you excuse her tardiness."

  Michael smiled to himself. She was probably late because she had to dry her hair after falling into the pond.

  Suddenly, she appeared at his side, smelling of fresh flowers and reminding him of England. "Forgive me, my lord, for being late."

  He held the chair for her and sat opposite her. "I want to thank you for your kindness to me in tending my wound, and your hospitality," he said with sincerity.

  "I'm sure you would have done the same in my place," she said, on the defensive. 'Tm also sure you are thinking that an unmarried girl in England would never entertain a gentleman at dinner while her parents were away from home. But you will have to admit that these are rather unusual circumstances."

  "I do admit that, and I appreciate your position. But this isn't England, is it, Lady Mallory?"

  She looked at him suspiciously, as if expecting hidden meaning in his innocent remark.

  Michael's eyes settled on her long, delicate neck. There was something different about her tonight and it took him a moment to comprehend what it was. She wore her hair swept up to the top of her head, in a style that made him realize she was attempting to look older.

  If she but knew it, she was lovelier in her plain, gray cotton gown with its simple lace collar than most women were when they dressed in their finest silks and satins. He really must have hurt her when he told her she was unsophisticated, but he had meant it as a compliment.

  "My gratitude is most sincere, Lady Mallory. If ever I can be of service to you, you have but to ask."

  She lowered her eyes and watched as Safwat served the main course. "I find myself worried about you, my lord. After you leave here, I hope you will be careful."

  "And I have concerns about you, Lady Mallory. Egypt is a dangerous place at this time. Do you know when your father will return?"

  Her lower lip trembled as if she were trying to keep from crying. "No. I haven't heard from my parents."

  "I would suggest if he does not return soon, you go to the British consulate and ask them to find you a suitable companion so you can return to England."

  "I have nowhere to return to, my lord." She glanced up at him. "Are you sure you're feeling well?"

  "Yes, you were an excellent nurse. I'll be leaving after we've dined."

  She stared at him for a moment, knowing she didn't want him to go. "I would not like to see you open your wound."

  "I can assure you that I'm perfectly well." To demonstrate, he raised his arm. "See, no pain."

  "You never did explain to me how you got that other wound."

  He smiled. "Let's just say I collided with another knife on board the Iberia one night."

  She reached out and touched his hand. "I don't know your story, but I do know you have enemies. Promise me that you will be careful in the future."

  He smiled, taking her hand in his and raising it to his lips. "I can assure you I'll be alert from now on, my ministering angel."

  Mallory withdrew her hand. "Most people would say I was more devil than angel."

  "And why is that?"

  "Because I have the devil's own temper," she admitted.

  "Ah, so you have."

  She glanced at him, her eyes blazing, but his laughter cooled her anger.

  "I'll still call you my angel."

  Her expression became serious. "You were out of your head with fever one night, and you talked about your father."

  "What did I say?" Michael insisted.

  "I inferred from your delirium that your father is missing here in Egypt."

  "Yes," he said, reluctant to discuss the matter with her.

  "Surely you aren't going to attempt to find him without help. Already you have suffered two mishaps."

  His expression hardened. "As I told you, I will not be taken unaware another time."

  "Can you not wait until my father returns? Perhaps he can help you. He knows about Egypt."

  "No, I cannot wait."

  Mallory was silent for a moment, then raised her eyes to his. "What will you do?"

  He wiped his mouth and laid his napkin aside. "I don't know, but I must leave now." He stood and stared down at her. "How can I ever thank you, my lady?"

  "By keeping safe," she answered, rising.

  "Will you let me out through the garden gate?" he asked. "If someone is watching, I don't want them to see me leave."

  She nodded. After they walked down the path to the gate, Michael stopped and turned to her. "Promise me you won't go out alone?"

  "I won't. One of the servants is always with me when I leave the compound. Do you think your enemies know you are here?"

  "I can't be sure. But I hope I haven't put you in danger. My enemies are faceless and nameless—they could be anywhere and anyone."

  Mallory felt an aching emptiness surround her heart. "Will I hear from you again?"

  Without a word, he swept her into his arms and pressed his lips against hers. Mallory melted against him, feeling as if she couldn't breathe. He quickly released her and stared into her eyes for a long moment. "I believe we shall meet again, my angel."

  Before she could answer, he had walked out of the gate and blended into the shadows. She wanted to call after him, but she merely closed the gate.

  For a long moment, she stood there with her back braced against the wall, her heart breaking.

  Then, for reasons she could not understand, Mallory began to cry.

  Chapter 13

  Michael had gone once more to see the consul, only to find he had still not returned from England, so Michael had been forced to speak with Abrams. He left, angered by the man's incompetence and wondering where he could turn for help.

  When he arrived back at his quarters, Michael again went through his father's letters and papers, but found nothing that would indicate where the duke had gone or with whom. He was discouraged because he didn't know what to do next.

  "I'm sorry, Mother," he said, sitting on the edge of the bed and burying his head in his hands. "You had faith in me, and I have failed you."

  When the knock fell on the door, Michael yanked it open. Seeing a man dressed in black flowing robe, and a patch over one eye, he vented all his frustrations on the stranger.

  "What in the hell do you want?"

  "Effendi, I've come as a friend."

  "I have no friends in this cursed country."

  "You are mistaken, effendi. My master has invited you to his camp. He begs that I say to you, to come and dine with him and your father."

  Michael grabbed the man by the robe and yanked him forward. "Do you take me for a fool? If my father was with your master, he would have written to me or come himself."

  "He could not come, effendi. He has been cursed with the desert fever—too much sun. He is just now able to sit up. Will you come?"

  Michael looked at the man suspiciously. "Of what tribe are you?"

  "Of the Mutullib bedouin, effendi."

  "I know little of your desert tribes, but I do know that effendi is a Turkish title of respect, is it not?"

  The man rolled his one good eye. "You are too shrewd, effendi. My mother was Turkish, so I adopted many of her manners and words."

  "What does my father look like?"

  "Like you, effendi, but older. He is of your tall height."

  Michael tightened his grip on the man. "What color are his eyes?"

  "Not green like yours, effendi. Your father's eyes are dark, effendi—dark like an Arab's."

  Michael released him, fearing to hope. This must be the opportunity he had been waiting for.

  "When do we leave?"

  "At once, effendi. I have all the provisions and a horse for you to ride."

  Michael nodded. "How many days' journey to your master's camp?"

  "Six da
ys, no more, effendi."

  "Then let's get started."

  The one-eyed man grinned and motioned with his hand. "All is in readiness, effendi. Follow me—follow me."

  For three days Michael and his four guides rode into the desert. Scorching sand, borne on the eternal winds, stung his face, while the sun blistered his skin and cracked his lips.

  Endlessly they rode, and Michael had to admit the desert ponies were of hearty stock and carried a man easily across the sand.

  He glanced about, noticing that only the hardiest plants clung to life in this wasteland. They passed colossal limestone figures left over from some long-forgotten pharaoh. Now they merely cast broken shadows on the lifeless valley of sand.

  That night, as they made camp, Michael ate the unidentifiable meat that the one of the men handed him. He thought it best not to ask what it was—he didn't really want to know.

  "When do I see my father?" Michael asked of the one-eyed man, who seemed to be the only one of his companions who spoke English.

  "Two more days, effendi. No sandstorm, so we make good time—good time."

  Glancing up at the full moon, Michael restlessly left the camp. He stood on a sand dune that gave him a glimpse of the surrounding desert. Over the next dune was another and another. A man could wander forever in this nightmare of sand.

  In the distance, he heard a jackal howl. Perhaps the desert wasn't barren after all—there was life for those who knew where to look for it.

  As he walked back to camp, his footsteps disappeared in the ever-shifting sand. He had the feeling this land could swallow a man and he'd never be heard from again. Was that what had happened to his father—would it happen to him?

  When he went to his tent, Michael fell exhausted upon the sheepskin that had been provided for him, but tonight he kept his pistol close at hand. He still didn't trust these men, for they were acting secretively and were often huddled together, casting furtive glances his way.

  He fell asleep, only to dream tortured dreams. He was back in London and the old Gypsy woman was predicting his future. She had warned him that someone near him was in danger. She had also warned him to beware of a one-eyed man. Suddenly he sat up, his eyes searching the darkened tent. Ali Hitin had only one eye. Michael shook his head in disbelief.