City of Jasmine

by DEANNA RAYBOURN

  She paused and patted her face again with the damp handkerchief. “I saw at once that I should have to become involved. András tried to hide it from me.” She chuckled. “He was such a child, he wanted to surprise me when he discovered it, to present it to me as a king of ancient times would present a treasure to his queen.”

  Gabriel flicked a quick glance my way and I lifted a brow. The countess might believe it, but I had my doubts. Perhaps András Thurzó had seen an opportunity to finally rid himself of the domineering older sister who had controlled his life since infancy.

  She was still speaking, her voice clear and calm. “We talked for a long time, and we decided we would wait for Mr. Rowan,” she said with a nod towards Gabriel, “to return for his treasure. We were too afraid that Daoud would not be able to find the treasure again on his own, and it seemed much simpler just to take it once you had retrieved it. Daoud promised the help of his friends for a little money, and the arrangements were made. We argued several times over the amount of money, and at one point Daoud even said he had made the whole thing up and there was no treasure.”

  “That must be when he decided to try his luck with Gethsemane,” I murmured to Gabriel.

  The countess heard me. “Yes, this is so. He went to he, as well, but we did not discover this until much later. We did not realise the Cross was missing the most essential component, the heart of the relic,” she added with an accusatory look at Gabriel. “But perhaps we were foolish thieves. You must blame our inexperience. We ought to have looked at the Cross immediately, but I was so nervous. I wanted only to get away. I do not know what came over András,” she said, burying her face in her hands. She looked up a moment later, her eyes damp. “It was as if a stranger had taken the place of the brother I loved. When we left you after you were—” Her voice broke then and she could not say the word. “When we left, we quarrelled bitterly. I thought we would simply tie the pair of you up and leave you, but when I told András this, he laughed at me and said I had no spirit for this sort of thing. And when he discovered the heart had been taken from the Cross, he was so angry. I have never seen him in such a temper. When he left, I was in a state. I hardly knew myself. I understood, you see, that he would return to kill Madame Starke.”

  She balled her little fists at her sides. “It was wrong, monstrously so. And I told him this, but he would not hear me. He was a man possessed. When he did not come back, I did not understand. I thought an accident perhaps. I could not imagine that Madame Starke could harm him. But when I saw you,” she said to Gabriel, “alive and unharmed, I understood. He would not have expected you.”

  “No, he did not expect me,” Gabriel said quietly.

  “I do not wish to know anything more except this—was it quick? I do not say you were unjust. But I think of that beautiful little boy whose curls I once stroked, and I think I will die if you tell me he suffered.”

  “He never saw me,” Gabriel told her. “It was over in an instant.”

  “How?” She barely mouthed the word.

  To his credit, Gabriel gave her the truth. “I broke his neck.”

  She considered the words a moment and then nodded. “I do not care if you have given me a lie. It is a lie I can live with.” She gave a deep sigh and all the life seemed to go out of her. “Now, will you be so kind as to tell me what will become of me? The French promised to escort me to Damascus, but there was not time.”

  “There’s little point in going to Damascus,” Gabriel told her. “King Faisal has declared his country independent and the government is in the hands of its people.”

  He went to the door and called out a few words of Arabic to a pair of Sheikh Hamid’s men. One of them asked a question, and Gabriel responded before turning to the countess.

  “These men have agreed to see you safely to the Turkish border. What becomes of you then is your own affair.”

  She stared at him, her eyes almost but not entirely blank. “I do not understand.”

  “I’m letting you go,” he said coolly. “I suspect everything you’ve just told me about your upbringing is absolute rot. It’s a lovely story, designed to win you the greatest amount of sympathy, and I daresay on some, it might work a treat. For my part, I’ve always considered you the cleverer of the two, and possibly deadlier. But you at least understood the stupidity of killing me, and you tried to talk him out of having me shot. It wasn’t your fault he didn’t listen. A life for a life, Countess. You spared mine. I’m sparing yours.” She opened her mouth to speak, but he cut her off. “Don’t thank me yet. The ride will be hard. You’ve hundreds of miles to cover and these fellows will be eager to get home again, so they won’t be any too gentle with the pace. But if you can keep up, you have a chance.”

  She moved slowly to the door. “I do not know what I will do with myself,” she said, her voice hollow.

  “At least you will have a chance to find out,” I told her. She did not look at Gabriel as she left. Perhaps it was too much for her to acknowledge the man who had killed her beloved brother. Or perhaps it was too difficult to find the words to thank the man who has just spared one’s life. In any event, she passed out of the door and out of our lives.

  I looked at Gabriel. “You told me he fell. Why did you lie?”

  The arch manner and mocking expression were gone, perhaps forever. There was nothing in his eyes except a fathomless pain. “Because every death is a burden, Evie. I didn’t want you to have to carry this one.”

  He turned on his heel and I followed him. There were few other rooms at the outpost and it took only a little time to search them. In the former commander’s office, cabinets had been broken open, but in the desk, a single drawer was still firmly locked.

  Gabriel drew a small pair of picklocks and made quick work of it. He reached into the drawer and pulled out a familiar goatskin bundle.

  I gasped. “She was lying. Daoud never robbed her.”

  “And she wasn’t about to tell us the French deserters took it off her. I’m guessing the Turkish commander left his key to the desk behind and they locked it up for safekeeping. They wouldn’t have had time to retrieve it before haring off into the desert. No doubt the countess hoped to elude Hamid’s men and come back for it,” he mused. He slipped the bag onto his shoulder and gave a sharp nod. “Time to go, pet.”

  I walked out into the clear purple night. The stars were just beginning to appear, and here and there the remaining Bedouin were working by lamplight to pack up the last of what they wanted to bring with them. The dead lay as they had fallen, and I looked around me, shaking my head.

  He led me to the Jolly Roger. “Can you fly her in the dark? The moon is almost up.”

  I nodded. “I’ve made arrangements. But, Gabriel, there was something—” Before I could finish the sentence, a figure loomed out from the shadows, a sword raised high as it swung the blade slashing down at Gabriel. I shrieked just loudly enough to warn him and he dodged as the sword went wide.

  Gabriel dropped to his knees, flinging the Cross aside as he went. He rolled to the side, and in the rising moonlight, I saw Daoud’s face, twisted with rage as he bore down on him a second time.

  Gabriel lifted his arm to deflect the next blow, and only his elaborate robes saved him. The blade tangled in a woolen sleeve, and Gabriel twisted free, landing two hideous thuds to Daoud’s midsection in quick succession. Daoud groaned and fell to his knees, but he did not drop the sword, and I understood then that this would be a fight to the death.

  They fought for what seemed like hours, although I realised later it could only have been a matter of minutes. First Gabriel landed a series of blows that would have crippled a smaller man than Daoud. But Daoud was wiry and strong and he was fueled by the desire for revenge. He came at Gabriel again and again, slashing Gabriel’s robes to ribbons. Both of them were heaving, their faces pouring with sweat and blood when I saw Ga
briel lose his footing and slip to his knee.

  Daoud pressed his advantage then. I would have leaped on him, but I knew one false move, one distraction, could cost Gabriel his life. I did not even think he remembered I was there until I heard his voice, thick with pain and fury, call out a single word to me. “Contact.”

  My hands were busy before I even had a clear thought of what he wanted. Somehow my body understood, and within seconds I started her up. Gabriel had gathered up the shreds of his sleeves and was using the thick pads of wool to shield his arms as he rose, pushing himself at Daoud. With the last reserves of his strength, he came at him, swinging hard, moving him closer and closer until finally, with one last final thrust, he pushed him backwards into the propeller blades.

  Daoud never saw what happened although it is a sight I will remember for the rest of my life. It was over in an instant. One moment he was there, his sword raised high, flashing in the moonlight as he prepared to bring it down in one final blow on Gabriel’s head. The next he was gone, his remains scattered on the sand.

  Gabriel lay on his back, breathing hard. After a long moment, he staggered to his feet and pulled me up. There were still clots of desert earth in my hands as I walked, and I forced my fingers to open, leaving the dirt and sand behind. He retrieved the Cross and shoved me towards the plane. “It hasn’t hit you yet. Get out of here before the adrenalin wears off and you start to shake.” He pushed me up onto the wing and into the cockpit. He put my leather helmet onto my head and tightened the buckle. “Evie, can you hear me?”

  “Yes, I think so.”

  “Good. Now forget what you just saw. Don’t think about it. Can you do that?”

  “I don’t know,” I told him honestly. For the first time, my pilot’s training seemed to have deserted me and all I could do was stare at my hands. Seeing a few deserters killed from the air had been nothing compared to the bloody awfulness of watching pieces of Daoud strewn across the sand.

  He hesitated. “Christ,” he muttered. Then he reached into the cockpit and hauled me out bodily, dropping me neatly into the rear cockpit. He buckled my safety belt and took my goggles, strapping them onto his own head.

  “What are you doing?”

  “I’m flying the goddamn plane,” he yelled. He strapped himself in and before I could object, we were airborne, leaving all the carnage behind us. He had never told me he could fly, but if that night had taught me anything, it was never to underestimate Gabriel Starke again. I sat in the rear cockpit, letting the cold wind rush past me as he flew us back to the village. He pointed us in the right direction, pulling us high to avoid the hills he could not see. By the time we were past them, a living line of light beckoned us down to the desert below. It was the women of the village, organised by Aunt Dove to stand with torches to guide the Jolly Roger home.

  He brought her down with a bump that would have sent me flying out of the cockpit if he hadn’t buckled me in, but we were down. Within moments he’d unstrapped me and set me on my feet. I fell to my knees, washing my hands in the sand as the Bedouin did before prayers. Without a word, Gabriel scooped me up and carried me to the tent.

  Aunt Dove peered over his shoulder. “What’s happened to her? Is she all right?”

  “Perfectly fine,” he answered. “Just a bit of shock. She needs warming up and some whisky. Take care of her, will you?”

  He dumped me down like a sack of meal and left. He must have told the women their men were coming home safely, for the cheering began. They carried on outside while Aunt Dove tended to me. She helped me wash and change into a soft robe of green silk. She poured me a stiff drink and tucked me in then, telling me to rest, but when she left, lowering the flap of the tent behind her, I could not close my eyes. I saw Daoud, or the bloodied bits of what was left of him, lying on the dark desert floor.

  “You’re thinking about it too much,” said the voice from the tent flap. I opened my eyes to see Gabriel, washed and changed, his hair still damp and his robes fresh and clean. His bruises were spectacular, but the blood had been washed from his face and hands, and he was carrying a tray of food and a familiar goatskin bundle.

  “Are the others back?”

  “Just now. They’ll probably be up the better part of the night making merry and they’re planning a feast for tomorrow. Ought to be quite the party,” he added, coming near. He brought the tray of food down next to me. “I wasn’t certain if you were hungry.”

  “Are you?” I asked, sitting up.

  “Ravenous,” he admitted.

  “So am I. I’m a little ashamed,” I confessed. “That’s why I came over so funny, you know. It wasn’t because of what you did to him. It was because I wanted you to. I knew what you intended as soon as you yelled ‘Contact.’ I understood what was going to happen and I didn’t even hesitate. I never thought I had it in me,” I said soberly. “And if I suspected, I would have thought there would be some regret or some guilt with it. But there isn’t. I’ve been lying here, waiting for it to come, expecting the shame or horror to set in. But I haven’t felt a damn thing except plain, quiet satisfaction. Can you explain that?”

  He gave me a knowing look and poured out a whisky for each of us, raising his in a toast.

  “It means you’re one of us, pet. You’re a Lost Boy, too.”

  We ate then, the usual Bedouin fare, cold meat and fruits and flatbread with nuts and some little pastry with honey. We said little until we had washed our fingers in the bowl of rosewater and poured out more whisky.

  “This is very good whisky,” I told him at one point.

  “A little single malt courage for the ordeal to come.”

  “What ordeal?”

  His expression was grave. “The one where I answer all the questions you’ve had. The one where I make a clean breast of it and confess all. The one where I try to begin to apologise for everything I’ve put you through.”

  I took another sip. Oh, it was lovely stuff, burning right through all my resentments and doubts and leaving nothing but clean and pure instinct behind it.

  “No,” I said slowly.

  “No?” His dark brows arched skyward.

  “No. I mean, yes, I want you to tell me all about it. But not now. After.”

  “After what?” he asked, his brows still raised.

  I rose onto my knees and leaned forward, putting my arms about his neck. He opened his mouth, but if he meant to speak, I had other plans.

  I had never undressed him before. I had never taken him before. But that night I did as I pleased with him. He was very still at first, holding himself in check as if he did not dare to move. Did he wonder if I was a mirage? Did he wonder if speaking or touching me would somehow break the spell? I did not ask him. But when I pulled his clothes away and covered his body with my own, his perfect control suddenly snapped. He gave a great shudder and rolled me roughly onto my back, moving within me and twisting his hands in my hair until I cried out his name into his own mouth.

  Afterwards, we lay together, damp and still in the warmth of the tent and the silence between us was like a perfect living thing, holy and complete. It was enough to be together. The questions and the imperfect answers could wait, and wait they did until we had slept and roused again. It was leisurely then, as if we had all the time in the world and no one to care. Old pleasures were resurrected and new ones discovered. We made no promises and expected none. It was flesh and bone, striving together and stoking new fires. He murmured poetry, snatches of Marvell and Donne and even some Traherne, as he traced his lips over each part of me as he spoke. “‘These little limbs, these eyes and hands which here I find, these rosy cheeks wherewith my life begins, where have ye been?’”

  When it was finished, we picked over the remains of the food, nibbling bits of fruit and bread as we lounged on leather cushions.

  “You have spoilt me for anothe
r life, Evie,” he said lightly. “I think I shall take up the job of pasha in an eastern harim. All this lying about suits me.”

  “You’ll need at least three more wives. I can’t be responsible for keeping you occupied all the time,” I returned.

  He gave me a serious look. “I know you want answers. Ask.”

  “Anything?”

  “Anything and everything. I owe you at least that much.”

  I sat up and put the pieces together as best I could. “All the time I thought you were dead, you were here, in the Badiyat ash-Sham. Have I got that much right?”

  He shrugged. “For the most part, yes. There were the odd trips abroad, but I’ve spent the better part of five years right here.”

  “And during the war, you were acting the part of the Saqr, this mythic sort of hero who organised the Bedouin into active resistance against the Turks?”

  He winced a little. “I wouldn’t put it like that. The Saqr is no myth. He’s a very real fellow, you know—just a bit of theatre, something for the Bedouin to rally around.”

  “As Colonel Lawrence was doing in the south?”

  “Only with rather fewer movie cameras about,” he said with a smile. “I warned you not to romanticise it too much, Evie. I was simply an agent provocateur, albeit one with a rather dashing wardrobe. My job was to keep them focused on the task at hand, which was keeping the Turks too occupied to help the Germans. And, in time, to help chuck them out altogether so the Arabs could have their own lands back.”