Historical Jewels

by Jewel, Carolyn

  “You didn’t,” he said softly. “It’s just, I haven’t even got us married yet, and you’re on to the children. We will have them. But how many?”

  She drew up her knees. “Half a dozen. Three girls and three boys.”

  “All as pretty as you,” he said.

  “All as handsome as you,” Sabine replied.

  “Heaven forbid,” he said.

  “We’ll have beautiful children,” she said, leaning toward him so she could keep her voice low. “Every one of them.”

  Foye threw back his head and laughed, not even caring that everyone looked at him. If Foye wanted to laugh at something his dragoman said, he was entitled. Sabine liked the way he looked when he laughed. His eyes sparkled, and his so unlovely face became, to her, preciously lovely.

  Looking at him, she understood now the reason for her earlier failures in trying to draw him. In those attempts she had not known Foye nearly well enough and so had failed to capture what he was. She had missed the decency and honor of him in favor of replicating the ways in which his face did not please the eye, all the while knowing that something had not been right. “I do want to sketch you one day,” she said.

  He shrugged. “You will one day.”

  The little privacy they’d had ended with one of the mercenaries calling her over to fetch coffee for Foye and herself. She found cups in their kit and went to the fire for their share. She thanked the Janissary in his language, but too formally, she thought. Too much as if there were that barrier of gender that had colored her use of the language when she was a woman.

  She took both cups back to Foye and sat down, this time remembering to sit cross-legged. She gave Foye his and sipped her own. She welcomed the sharp flavor, the aroma drifting up, invigorating even by scent alone. She’d been awake for too many hours to count, with several more facing her before any of them would have the opportunity to sleep.

  After the coffee was consumed, the fires put out, and accoutrements stowed away, they watered their horses one last time. A few of the soldiers took another turn at the fountain. Her years of traveling with Godard had given her the ability to pack, thus she was no better or worse than the others at stowing away her utensils and Foye’s, but her rug refused to be rolled as tightly as everyone else managed, and when she walked to her mare, she stood there stupid with the realization that she did not know the first thing about how to attach her gear. Her heart stuttered as she looked to see how the others were managing.

  Foye walked over and under cover of engaging her in conversation, readjusted her rug, showing her as he did, the proper way to affix it. He did the same with her saddlebags. She had the same maddening awareness of him as she had before. Cognizant that Foye was watching her, she remounted on her own, and they were back on the road. Now that, she thought with no small pride, was well done of her.

  They continued south to Aleppo. The sun beat down with no breeze but that generated by their motion. Dirt and sand constantly blew in the air around them. Sabine found herself glad for her headdress for it kept the wickedly hot sun from burning her head and neck. Like the others, she had a long cloth wrapped around her face to keep out the dust. Foye avoided her as he had previously, keeping his stallion at the front of the party, which had the chief advantage of being out of the dust. Before long she stopped hoping he would drop back and speak with her and simply concentrated on riding. Later in the afternoon, as they had in the morning, they ate hard bread, cheese, and bits of dried fruit, and sipped stale water in the saddle.

  Their second stop came an hour or two before full dark. They ate the same meal for dinner as they’d had for luncheon, followed by more of the strong, hot coffee that. Foye and Sabine drank sweet as she dared make it from the small supply of sugar in her kit. They barely rested after they ate, ten minutes at most. Everyone remounted without complaint. No one spoke to her. No one assisted her. But she’d learned her lesson well. She knew how to fasten her rug and saddlebags, and she could mount on her own. They continued to ride well past treacherous dark, their horses stepping unerringly around obstacles in the uneven ground heading toward the city. They reached Aleppo shortly after nine o’clock. Sabine was at the outside edge of their procession when their party passed the Citadel of Aleppo, the great gleaming white fortress that sat on a hill in the very oldest section of the town. The castle dominated the city’s landscape.

  They continued into this ancient section of the city to the khans, inns used by the caravans that stopped in Aleppo on their way east or west to the port city of Iskenderun. As at Nazim Pasha’s palace in Kilis, all the khans had arched entrance gates wide and tall enough to accommodate a fully burdened camel. The interior courtyard of the one Foye led them to was large enough to hold all the animals from two or more caravans. She did not yet read Arabic well enough to do more than guess at the meaning of the words inscribed over the gateway as they entered.

  After dismounting, Sabine looked after her mare first but left the animal wearing both blanket and saddle as was the custom. She followed Foye inside. The others remained in the courtyard. She remembered to walk as if she weren’t a woman, which wasn’t difficult given the hours she’d spent riding. If she’d had bollocks she was certain they’d be as sore as her posterior. The proprietor recalled Foye from his previous stop on the way to Kilis and spoke enough broken English that Sabine’s services were not required. Foye secured their accommodations himself.

  It did not occur to Sabine until it was happening that she would be sharing a room with Foye. Alone.

  Her stomach felt as if she had stepped off a very high cliff.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Aleppo, Haleb province of Syria, July 1, 1811

  A city continuously inhabited going back at least three thousand years before the birth of Jesus Christ, and presently under the putative control of the Turks. The very earth itself seemed to feel the regime could not last much longer, but no one knew who would take over once the Turks were gone. Nazim Pasha had his own opinion about that. As did Ibrahim Pasha, who had so resoundingly slaughtered his Egyptian competition earlier in the year. The French, the British, the Italians, and the Russians had their separate ideas as well.

  “There’s no help for it,” Foye said to her when they were alone in a second-floor room. He unslung the heavier of his saddlebags and let it fall to the floor. The ceiling was high and painted in creams, blue, and gold in intricate patterns centered around flowing Arabic script. The wood-paneled walls were just as intricately carved.

  “I understand that, Foye,” she said.

  There was no furniture but for a low octagonal table and a narghile at the edge of the divan. At each end of the room, a lamp hung from a hook in the wall. Foye crossed the room and dropped his other saddlebag on the floor, near the divan.

  “We aren’t married yet,” he said. He opened the cupboards built into the walls until he found the rolled-up mattresses. With both mattresses in hand he turned. “You have nothing to fear from me,” he said.

  “I know.” Sabine put down her things, too, and helped him lay out the bedding. That done, she stood hands on her hips, longing to take a deep breath but unable to because of the cloth so tightly wrapped around her rib cage. Anxiety curled in her belly. She was excessively aware of Foye.

  He frowned as he removed his pistols from his coat pockets and placed them beside his mattress. To them he added two knives and a dagger. She took another uncomfortable breath. “Why are you breathing like that?” he asked with a glance in her direction.

  She gazed at him, knowing her cheeks were flaming red Could he tell under the artificial color of her skin? Here she stood, alone with a man she’d kissed until her knees were weak, and she still felt shy. Worse than shy. They were alone, and he was not the polite and controlled marquess she’d known in Buyukdere. As for why she was breathing as she was, she wasn’t sure she could bring herself to tell him the problem, which was that her bosom was too tightly bound.

  “Sabine.”

&nb
sp; For a man so temperamentally even, he had a talent for skewering one with a single glance. “I am not comfortable, Foye.” He arched an eyebrow. She gestured at her upper body. “Here.”

  “Nor am I—” He scowled at her, but understanding had dawned. His gaze lowered to the vicinity of her bosom. “Ah. Yes. Our solution to the problems of anatomy.”

  “As you said, there’s nothing for it,” she said. She avoided looking at him by kneeling to unroll her rug and spread it over her mattress. She brushed away as much dust as she could. The room, beautiful as it was, was not very large. They would be close here. Very close. But nothing would happen. Would it? She kept her head down. Was that what she wanted?

  “Sabine,” Foye said.

  She did not want to hear anything from him about her constricted bosom. She wished to God she’d never even alluded to the reason for her discomfort. All she’d done was destroy the illusion that she was Pathros and bring back all the discomfort from before. They were now both too aware of each other. Well, she was too aware of him.

  “It would be best…” He coughed. “If we left our solution in place. Unless it’s unbearable for you.”

  “No,” she said. Lied. “It’s not.” She sat down, cross-legged, and was reminded that she too was armed when the weapons in her sash poked into her ribs. She took out both the pistols and the knife tucked into her sash. The purse he’d given her was there, too, but she left that for now. What had her life come to that she was pulling such deadly instruments from her clothing and thinking that perhaps she ought to have more?

  “They make a rather impressive pile, don’t you agree?” she said.

  Foye looked over. “Formidable.” He fetched his other saddlebag and moved both to one side. He, too, unrolled his rug and stretched out on the mattress. His feet hung off the end. “God willing, you will never use them,” he said, tucking his hands under his head. “And, God willing, you will if necessary.”

  “Yes.” She touched the larger pistol Foye had given her. Sabine would never have touched such a weapon. No one would ever think she could. But Pathros? He must be familiar and ruthless with such an instrument. “Do you think Nazim Pasha knows I’m gone?”

  “Assuredly.”

  “He’ll come after you.”

  “Yes. With luck. Barton has delayed him. We’ll keep you out of sight if he catches up with me. I intend to play the innocent for as long as it lasts. With more luck we’ll be on our way to Iskenderun before he finds us.”

  She removed her headband, scarf, and cap and ran her fingers through what was left of her hair. It felt sticky and damp with sweat and was uneven; longer in some places, primarily the front, and horribly short in the back. She did not care to imagine what she must look like. A fright. An absolute fright. She was glad there was no mirror to confirm her suspicions.

  Foye gave her a regretful look. Lord, it must be even worse than she imagined. “I’m sure it’s not much consolation at the moment, but your hair will grow out and the dye will fade.”

  “Better to look a disaster than to be identified because someone saw the color of my hair,” she said.

  He grunted.

  “It’s the first time I’ve ever wished I’d been born a brunette.” She ran her fingers through her hair once more, trying to work out the tangles. “If someone were to see it now, they’d know something was wrong.”

  He didn’t smile, but Sabine’s heart beat a little harder anyway. They were alone, and even though he said nothing would happen and even though she was relieved by his assurance, she was still nervous. Her awareness of him as a man was too sharp. “You’re right, of course,” he said. “I’ve a pair of shears in my kit. I ought to cut it properly. Just in case.” He pushed himself to his feet. “That’s if you trust me not to butcher you even worse this time.”

  “Thank you.” She made sure she sounded as if she didn’t feel she would fall off that cliff any minute. Nothing would happen. “I think that would be wise.”

  “Anything for you, my love,” he said in his familiar light tone.

  “Anything?” She returned his teasing lilt. She had her head bowed away from him while she used her fingers to work out a snarl on one side and so could not see his face. “I shall begin a list. A bath, I think.” She worked through the last tangle and looked up to see him watching her. Her stomach dropped again. “The moon and the stars? Can you give me those?” she asked softly.

  Foye didn’t answer her right away, and she was lost in the blue of his eyes. When he did reply, the humor was gone from his voice. “Anything,” he said. He had the shears in his hand and now went onto his knees beside her.

  “The universe?” he said. “Say the word and it’s yours.” His fingers brushed her shoulder. His gaze held hers. “You are magnificent.”

  Sabine’s breath hitched. The giddy, shivery feeling was back, centered in her stomach and lower, and she wasn’t at all sure what to make of it, except that she was both frightened of her feelings and wishing that whatever restraint kept Foye from embracing her would vanish.

  He reached into his satchel, dug around, and came out with a comb he held out to her. She took the comb and worked the teeth through her tangled hair while he held up the shears and scissored them with a madman’s grin that made her laugh and broke the mood.

  Everything would be all right, after all. Nothing would happen. She was safe from the emotions that rushed through her. She no longer felt like the naive young woman who had kissed the Marquess of Foye and fancied herself in love with a man she didn’t really know. Now, her feelings were far, far more complex and dangerous. He could hurt her, devastate her with a word or look.

  He wrapped her blanket around her shoulders and went to work. “My God, I made a hash of this,” he said. He took the comb from her. “I’ve no future as a valet or lady’s maid. Don’t move your head, Sabine.” He shifted closer to her so that she could not help but feel the size of his body. He felt warm, and he made her feel safe. Beyond that just now, she refused to speculate.

  She sat cross-legged with her back straight and her hands underneath the blanket around her, holding it closed. “I suppose you think me vain to regret the loss of my hair.”

  “No,” he said. The sound of the scissors snipping her hair echoed in her ears. “Even I prefer to be presentable, insofar as that is possible.”

  Without thinking, she turned her head. “You really mustn’t—”

  He pulled away the scissors. “Have a care, or I’ll lop off a piece of your ear.”

  “—talk about yourself as if you’re hideous to behold.”

  Honestly, though, she remembered all too well that her first impression of his looks had not been charitable. She had once wanted to draw his face for the novelty of capturing the irregular line of his cheeks and jaw. Now she wanted to know if she could capture the way his eyes and smile transformed him utterly.

  “You’re not.” She was insulted for him, since he would not be for himself. “Not at all.”

  Foye took her chin between thumb and forefinger and turned her head so that he had her profile. “Hold still, woman.”

  “Woman?” She snorted. “I am Pathros, effendi, and I spit on your calling me a woman. I spit on it!” He laughed, a low chuckle. “Don’t change the subject, Foye. You’re a far more attractive man than you give yourself credit for. Will you force me to speak to you sternly about this?”

  He went back to cutting her hair. “As to your sex, Sabine, that you are female is rarely far from my mind, you may trust me on that.” He moved behind her and resumed his work with the shears. “As to my appearance, thank you. I am flattered by your opinion. And I do not think you vain, by the way. You are so far from that, I think I ought to give you lessons in vanity. I will have you know I spend hours before the mirror achieving an absolutely precise fold of a cravat. It is an art to which every gentleman ought to aspire. So few succeed.” He snipped more of her hair. “I’ll turn you into a valet yet. Just wait until morning, Pathros, when I
require you to tie my cravat to my exacting specifications.”

  “I endeavor to please, effendi.”

  Snip, snip, snip. He touched the back of her head, pushing slightly as he cut.

  “When we’re back in England, and your hair has grown out,” he said, “I’ll have your portrait painted.” More hair fell onto her lap. “I said hold still. Do you want to keep your ear?”

  “Yes, my lord, I do. Forgive me.”

  Presently, he reached around her to her forehead and brought her head upright. “Almost done,” he said. He studied her, squinting at her before he went to work again. “I’ve made you as masculine as I can.” He tipped his head this way and that. “You’ll have to tell me if you think I’ve ruined you.”

  She laughed. “If you have, I don’t mind, Foye.”

  Too late, she realized how much could be read into what she’d said and how he must be taking it. Once again, the silence between them felt too large. “I didn’t mean precisely that,” she said. But was that true? What if she had? What if she wanted him that way? Now? “Not the way it came out.”

  “No,” he said. He drew a finger along the line of her jaw. “You gave my heart a turn nonetheless.” He put down the shears, but Sabine didn’t move. She kept her head straight. He moved again, this time to kneel in front of her. “I think this may be the best that can be done with you. It’s shorter than mine, now.”

  She slid her blanket off her shoulders and reached up to touch her hair. “Goodness,” she said as she felt just how short her hair was. Foye scooped up a handful of the hair he’d trimmed and took it to the window. He opened one of louvers and threw it out. “There’s almost nothing left.”

  When he returned, she’d brushed most of the hair off her blanket and was scrubbing the back of her neck, trying to dislodge the stray hairs. Foye sat in front of her again. Sabine pretended to be busy brushing more hair from her blanket. The truth was, the loss of her hair bothered her more than she wanted to let on.