by Anne Gracie
“But I—”
“Not you, the old lady. She has lost her husband and her only son and now, when she is in the twilight of her life, alone, lonely, and without hope, here is the beautiful young granddaughter she thought was dead and gone, restored to her. Of course it is a holy gift and you cannot refuse, little one.”
“But you and I both know it’s not me she wants. You are my family, Laila. You and Ali.”
Laila shook her head. She cupped Ayisha’s chin and said, “Listen to me, daughter of my heart. What future is there here for you, dressed in men’s clothes, hiding all the time from those who come looking? How will you marry? How will you have children?”
“Maybe I don’t want to marry.”
Laila shook her head, her eyes wise and knowing. “You will, chick. One day you will meet a strong, handsome man and your heart will beat thud-thud-thud.” She thumped her fist against her chest. “And your knees will go weak and your woman’s loins will warm and—aha, you blush! Perhaps you have already met someone, perhaps this Englishm—”
“No, it is your foolishness that makes me blush,” Ayisha retorted. “My woman’s loins will warm indeed!” She could feel her cheeks warming, nevertheless. So what if she did find the Englishman appealing to look at? He was handsome, that was all.
Laila chuckled. “Ah, little one, until you have gripped a strong man between your thighs and felt him thrusting like a stallion as he pours his hot seed into your body, do not talk to me of foolishness.”
Ayisha stared, her mouth drying at the picture Laila’s words conjured in her mind. Laila had always been earthy, but this . . .
“Now you really are blushing, and me, too.” Laila gave a deep chuckle and hugged Ayisha. “It’s been so long since I have had a man in my bed, I forget my manners.”
“Is it truly like that between a man and a woman? So . . .” Ayisha groped for a word. “Magnificent?”
Laila sighed. “With my husband, it was, though I know from other women it is not always like that with their men. But he was mad for me, and I for him, and when he came to me at night, he was like a stallion.” Her eyes glowed, remembering.
“But he divorced you.” Ayisha could not imagine the pain it must have caused Laila.
The light died from Laila’s eyes. “I thought he loved me, and perhaps he did, a little.” She made a helpless gesture.
“But not enough. Marriage is about property—and my family is poor, remember?—and about children, and so when I could give him no child, he divorced me and took another wife.” She gave a wistful sigh. “She brought him land and gave him sons, so he was probably a stallion with her, too.”
Ayisha shook her head. After fifteen years of love and trust in a man, that was Laila’s reward. Tossed aside and thrown to the mercy of that slug Omar.
It was what happened when you trusted a man to take care of you. It happened to Mama, it happened to Laila. Ayisha would never make the same mistake. Never.
“Do you think of him often?” Ayisha asked.
Laila shook her head. “No, it is just . . . Sometimes I wake in the night, hot and restless, and I miss . . . a stallion in my bed.”
She looked at Ayisha and giggled. “Look at your face! I have shocked you, an old woman like me talking of such things. Come, let us get the baking finished. The morning is passing.”
“Five and thirty is not old,” Ayisha said.
“It might as well be, living on memories as I must.” Laila sighed. “I will sleep alone the rest of my life, for Allah has made me barren, and what man would take a barren woman to wife? But you, Ayisha—you choose to live like this, hiding as a boy.”
She let her words sink in, then said, “It is not a future for you, dear child; it is lifelong imprisonment.”
She was right, Ayisha knew.
Laila arranged the rounds of dough on baking sheets. “Take the cover off and I’ll see if the oven is hot enough.” She took up a small jug of water and a sprig of herbs. Ayisha removed the cover of the oven door. Heat gushed out.
Laila flicked water onto the stone base of the oven with the herb bunch. It hissed. “Perfect,” she declared. “Pass me the trays.”
Ayisha passed the bread trays to Laila, who pushed them deftly into place with a long wooden paddle, then covered the door again.
“Don’t let me forget the time,” Laila said, her face flushed from the heat of the oven. She started wiping down the bench. “Your father would want this for his only living daughter.”
Ayisha grimaced. “My father left me with nothing.” Worse than nothing. He had left her to be a target for evil men.
“If you were not meant to go to England, you would not be given this chance. Besides, blood is blood; you have obligations to your father’s mother.”
“And what if they find out?”
“Piff!” Laila waved an airy hand. “How will they know? They are in England, on the other side of the world.”
“There were people here who knew. English people, who are now in England.” People who had shown no mercy, no kindness to a nine-year-old child.
“Worry about that if it happens,” Laila said. “If your grandmother did not know, how would anyone else? No, you must go to England.”
“But what about you and Ali?”
Laila snorted. “Foolish child, have you so soon forgotten who takes care of you? Am I suddenly an old woman who cannot take care of her family? Do not worry about me and Ali. We will do very well, you will see. Now, the bread will be done, I think.” She tossed Ayisha the cloth to protect her hands from the heat and picked up the flat wooden paddle.
Ayisha fetched the flat rush baskets they carried the bread in and for the next hour or two they concentrated on baking bread and selling them through the wooden hatch in the wall that looked out into the street. The morning batch always sold quickly: people could not resist the delicious smell that wafted in the air.
When all the bread was sold and half the takings securely hidden in the hollow behind the bricks, Laila made them both a coffee from Omar’s special hoard.
They sat in the backyard, sipping the thick, steaming brew, and shared the last, fresh, hot round of bread that Laila always saved for them. Today she spread it with honey for a special treat.
Ayisha sipped the coffee and licked honey off her fingers. Hot bread and honey and coffee was her favorite meal in all the world, but today the coffee seemed too bitter, the bread tasteless, and the honey merely sticky.
Laila didn’t understand. To her, the choice was simple: be rich or be hungry; take care of your grandmother and the rest would take care of itself.
But Ayisha already lived a life of deception and it had been hard, harder than Laila realized. She didn’t mind deceiving strangers. But when you started to get to know people, to become friends with them, to care about them, such deception became . . . complicated.
And when—if they came to care about you, it became . . . painful.
In this life only Laila and Ali knew she was a woman. Omar had no idea. Even Ali hadn’t known at first. Childlike, he’d accepted her as she was. But when he first learned she was a woman, she knew he had felt betrayed.
It would be worse in England. Lying to her grandmother, letting an old lady come to care for her . . . It was one thing to get bread under false pretenses; it was quite another to steal love meant for another, to raise hopes built on lies.
To go to England and make a new life—it was what she’d dreamed of. But at the price of living another lie? It might not be imprisonment, but it would be an ax poised over her head, waiting to fall.
The only way to avoid deception was to tell the Englishman the whole truth. But that would put her entirely in his power, and that she simply could not, would not—dared not—do.
“You look worried, my chicken,” Laila observed.
“I don’t want to go with him. I don’t trust him.”
“Did he try to do anything to you?” Laila asked sharply.
Ayisha thoug
ht. She’d felt his arousal . . . He could have taken her if he’d wished, though she would have put up a fight with every breath, but . . .
“No,” she said. “He treated me with honor. But then, with Lady Cleeve’s granddaughter . . . he would.”
There was a short silence, then she added, “But I don’t want to go back there.”
“I can see this,” Laila said. “What about Ali?”
Coils of guilt swirled in Ayisha’s belly. “Can’t you go?”
Laila shrugged. “I will try, of course, you know I will, but if it’s you he wants, it will do no good. Is he a stubborn man, do you think? Or persuadable?”
Stubborn? More than stubborn, Ayisha thought. As persuadable as the sphinx. And as easy to understand.
She sipped the bitter brew thoughtfully. She had no choice. Ali was her responsibility.
“I will go.” She drank the last of her coffee, hesitated, then upturned the cup upside down on the saucer. Then she handed the cup to Laila. “Tell me.”
Laila examined the patterns of the drained grounds in her cup. It was all nonsense, of course, Ayisha thought. She wasn’t superstitious; she was educated, a Christian. Still, it was useful to know, just in case . . .
Laila frowned. “There is much happening here, many . . . contradictions. A powerful force will enter your life, and you will—” She broke off.
“What?”
Laila gave a careless shrug and put the cup down, “It’s not clear. Sometimes the coffee is like that.”
Ayisha didn’t believe a word of it. “Tell me.”
Laila sighed and took the cup back. “Some difficult—and very painful—choices lie ahead. I see danger. I see heartache. You are pulled in several directions, and the paths ahead are tangled and many. You cannot see which one to take and you will feel lost and afraid.”
Ayisha pulled a face. Nothing new then. She was already confused and unsure of what to do.
Laila continued, “There is a man and a question of trust. You must listen to your heart and follow it—even when it seems to be breaking.”
Her heart? Every instinct she had told her to get as far away from Rafe Ramsey as possible.
The man was dangerous. In all kinds of ways.
But there was Ali. She’d got him into it, she had to get him out. Laila called Ayisha her daughter of the heart. If that was so, then Ali was the little brother of Ayisha’s heart.
Follow her heart? The message was clear. Rescue Ali.
It had been a calculated risk, Rafe said to himself for the tenth time. Set her free, establish the beginnings of trust. He was a man of his word. He’d said he wouldn’t hurt Ali and she would see that it was true—if she came back. But if she cared about the boy—and he was sure she did—she wouldn’t leave him here. She would return.
If he was any judge of character.
Therein lay the rub. He could judge men, but women—now they were another matter entirely.
What the hell did she mean, Alicia was dead, there was only Ayisha?
Some kind of tortuous female logic, he presumed. Alicia Cleeve is dead indeed, when her own face looked back at her from Alaric Stretton’s drawing.
Rafe knew better than to try and unravel that thread of reasoning—if she wanted to be called Ayisha, he’d do it. He’d call her the Queen of Sheba if it got her to come with him to England without fuss and botheration.
But if fuss and botheration was what it took, he’d do it. He had no qualms about dragging her back to England kicking and screaming. And no doubt scratching and biting, he added to himself, gingerly touching the side of his neck where she’d scratched him last night. It still stung a little. The scratch of a she-cat usually did.
His valet, Higgins, had observed the marks this morning with pursed lips, too well trained to show his disapproval openly. He’d shaved Rafe very carefully, avoiding the long scratches, then applied one of his special salves, muttering that in Oriental climes it didn’t do to neglect wounds.
Rafe came downstairs. Ali was seated at the dining room table, stuffing his very clean face with toast, lamb sausages, and scrambled eggs. Higgins, who Rafe had appointed to watch over the boy, sat beside him, attempting, if Rafe were any judge, to teach Ali English table manners. He didn’t approve of Rafe’s order to have the boy served breakfast in the dining room. Such a boy, his demeanor indicated, should be lucky to eat in the scullery.
Higgins stood as Rafe entered.
Ali looked up and waved a fork at Rafe in a friendly fashion, clearly not intending to abandon his breakfast.
Higgins sighed and drew the boy to his feet by the collar. “Say, ‘good morning, sir,’ ” he said and demonstrated a respectful bow.
Ali, who’d grabbed a sausage in his hand as though he might be dragged off any minute, swallowed a giant mouthful of eggy toast and said to Rafe with a happy grin, “Goomorneesor, open sesameeee.” He gave an uncannily exact replica of Higgins bow that at the same time mocked it completely, then returned with all speed to empty his plate.
Rafe couldn’t help but chuckle. Cheeky little sod. “Thank you, Higgins. Sabaah el kheer,” he said to Ali. Good morning in Arabic.
Ali’s eyes widened. He responded with a torrent of rapid Arabic.
Rafe held up his hand. “Slow down,” he said. “I only know a little.” He filled a plate with scrambled eggs and sausages from the covered dishes on the sideboard. It was odd seeing the array of covered dishes set out on the sideboard exactly as it would have been in England, but this was a house that had been leased to various Englishmen over the last few years, and the handful of servants that came with the house had been trained accordingly. And no doubt if they hadn’t, Higgins would have seen to it. A man who knew just how things should be done, Higgins; he was more than a valet.
He bit into a sausage and an explosion of exotic tastes burst onto his tongue. It was nothing like an English sausage—made of lamb, not pork. It was highly spiced and fragrant with herbs, more like the sausages he’d eaten in Portugal and Spain. Delicious.
The important thing was that against all the odds he’d found Miss Cleeve. Alive and well. And not in a harem.
What the devil had possessed him to turn her loose?
If she failed to return this morning, he was back to square one.
A kitchen servant arrived with fresh coffee and poured Rafe a cup. “Higgins, has Miss Cleeve sent any message?”
“I couldn’t say, sir. I’ve been attending to this young savage. Wipe your mouth with the napkin, boy, not your sleeve,” Higgins told Ali, handing Ali a clean napkin.
Ali immediately pocketed it.
The doorbell jangled in the hall.
Rafe drained his coffee cup. Excellent, he hadn’t lost her after all. “Get the door, will you, Higgins? That will be Miss Cleeve.”
Rafe rose as his guest entered, looking around her suspiciously, the very image of a ragged street urchin poised to flee. Her gaze went straight to Ali to check he was alive and unharmed, presumably, then darted to each corner of the room, before returning to Rafe.
What did she think, that he would have half a dozen burly henchmen hidden, waiting to pounce on her? Her wariness sparked the flame of anger within him again: God only knew what she’d endured since her father died. He thought of her portrait at thirteen: the impression of a shy and vulnerable young girl.
Now, six years later, there was not a trusting bone in her body.
He took her hand. “Miss Cleeve, delighted you could rejoin us again.” Interesting, he thought. Her face was, if anything, dirtier than last night.
She snatched her hand back. “Don’t call me that. I told you, I know nothing of Alicia Cleeve; I am Ayisha.” She made her way to Ali and made a rapid inquiry in Arabic.
Rafe pulled out a chair and seated her beside the boy. She sat down absently, concentrating on Ali’s responses. The morning sun lit her skin. Rafe took the opportunity for a closer look.
As he thought, the dirt had been carefully applied. Along t
he chin she’d rubbed in a bit of ash, giving the faintest hint of the darkness of an incipient beard. An artist in dirt, Miss Cleeve.
“Yes?” She gave him a sharp look over her shoulder. Green eyes fringed with lush, dark lashes sparked a warning at him. Miss Cleeve didn’t like men standing too close, it seemed.
He was about to step back when he noticed a darker-colored patch on the other side of her jaw.
“Let’s just have a look at that,” he said and took her chin gently in his hand. She tried to pull away.
“Steady,” he said quietly. “I just want to look at the bruise I gave you last night.” He turned that side of her face to the light, and there they were, the marks of his fist clear and dark beneath the artistic layer of dust.
“I’m sorry,” he said as he released her. “If I’d known you were a woman . . .”
“It doesn’t hurt,” she said quickly and turned away.
Rafe signaled a servant to bring fresh coffee and as the man hurried off, Rafe placed eggs, toast, and sausages on a plate and set it in front of her.
She looked up. “What’s this?”
“Breakfast.” She was going to argue the point, he could see.
“But—”
“I always feed my guests, and since you’ve joined us at breakfast time . . .” He sat down.
She frowned at the plate. “Thank you, but I’ve already broken my fast.” She didn’t sound at all certain. Best not to push the point; if he tried to insist she would probably refuse.
He shrugged. “What can I say? The obligations of hospitality. A few morsels, and form has been observed. Ah, and here is the coffee.” He addressed himself to his coffee and ate another sausage just to make the point. Or perhaps not entirely to make a point. He was very fond of English sausages, but these spicy things were excellent. He didn’t look at her.
Ayisha stared at the plate. Two fat sausages, warm and plump and smelling heavenly. How long since she had eaten meat? And eggs, creamy and golden and smelling of butter and a hint of cheese.