by Anne Gracie
Rafe resolutely steered the conversation in a different direction. “I am curious—how did you come to know Alici—Ayisha?”
“It was five, maybe six years ago. She young girl, then, starving—I don’t like see any child be hungry. She follow me, follow the smell of my pies. I watch her from the corner of my eye. I feed her. I feed hungry children before, many times. But Ayisha, she is special. She repay me.”
He frowned. This was the crux of the matter. “How?”
“She collect fuel for my fire.” Laila spread her hands in a gesture of simplicity. “How can I turn away a child like that, starving, yet full of honor?” She gave a gusty sigh, remembering. “And so I let her sleep in the back.” She indicated the backyard.
“In the back? You mean outside? In the open air?” Rafe was appalled.
“You think is bad, but it safer for her outside than in. My brother, he think she is worthless boy, but he tolerate her sleeping in the yard because she good worker and help me with the baking. If he know she is girl . . .” Her eyes dropped and she spread her hands in the fatalistic gesture so common in the east. Rafe was able to fill in the rest.
“She wants me to buy her a house in Alexandria,” he told Laila, interested to see her reaction.
Laila’s eyes widened. “She tell you about that?”
“Yes.”
“But you not give it to her?” Laila asked anxiously. “She must go with you to England.”
“I won’t give her money. And she will go to England.”
“Good.”
“You won’t miss her?”
Laila’s eyes widened. “Of course I miss her. She is close to me like a daughter. My heart will ache without her.” She touched her heart. “But I know she must be with her own blood. She must become herself.”
Laila was nothing like he’d expected. He’d expected a conniving creature who would use Miss Cleeve as a bargaining chip. Not one who urged him to take the girl to England for her own good. Even though she clearly depended on her earning capacity.
“How did Ali come into the picture?” he asked.
Laila smiled fondly. “He another one like Ayisha. No family. She bring him home like a hungry puppy one day, and . . .” She shrugged. “It was a very small mouth to feed; there is not much to him, even now.”
The boy ate like a horse. “What if there was a possibility of a job for Ali?”
Her eyes lit up. “An apprenticeship?”
He shook his head. “I can promise nothing, but an acquaintance of mine will consider him for a job.”
“Who?”
“A man called Baxter.”
She nodded thoughtfully. “The Englishman who dresses like an Arab. I have heard of him. He is rich and has many fingers in many pots.” She eyed Rafe shrewdly. “Why you do this for Ali?”
“Ayisha will leave Egypt more easily knowing you are safe and the boy has future prospects.”
She nodded. “Yes, this is true. She worry about everyone, that girl. This Baxter, is he a good man?”
“I believe so, but I’ve only met him twice. I know his cousin well.”
She dismissed Baxter’s cousin with a wave of a hand. “When Ali’s mother died, his neighbor take the boy in, but he beat him too much and Ali run away. I not let Ali go to any man who is cruel.”
Rafe nodded. “Then come with me now, and you and Ali can meet Baxter together.”
She glanced at the door. “Not now, for my brother will soon be home, wanting his dinner,” she said. “But come back tomorrow, mid-morning. He will be gone then and we can go to speak to this Baxter.”
Rafe stood and bowed. He’d developed a real respect for this little woman. He understood now why Ayisha and Ali felt so responsible for her—loved her. She had asked nothing for herself. “Tomorrow, mid-morning then.”
In the doorway he pulled his boots back on, then turned back to Laila, asking casually, “Where did you say Ayisha was again?” She hadn’t actually said.
Laila shrugged. “The river, I think. Collecting greens.”
Seven
Azhar! Ho there, Azhar!”
Ayisha forced herself to turn casually. Gadi? For the second time in as many days? It was not a good sign. She was on the outskirts of town, almost at her favorite place for gathering greens. It was not one of Gadi’s usual haunts.
“Going to the river again, I see.” Gadi hooked his arm through hers.” Maybe this time I will come with you.” His hand closed around her upper arm.
“I need to go to the market, first, see what is available,” she said casually and turned. Gadi’s hold on her tightened.
He wasn’t looking at her, he was looking up ahead. To where a couple of men stood, loitering unconvincingly.
She stiffened and tried to pull away. “What do you want, Gadi? I have no money on me.”
Two more men stood on the way to the market, blocking her escape. One was thickset and stocky, and as he moved purposefully toward her Ayisha felt a sick certainty in her stomach. Gadi’s uncle.
She’d made it her business years ago to discover the owner of the filthy feet with twisted, horny nails, last seen when she was thirteen years old and lying under her dying mother’s bed, trying not to breathe.
It was Gadi’s uncle who’d said, Keep looking. She’ll be somewhere—she has nowhere else to go. A white child-virgin will bring a fine sum at Zamil’s.
Gadi gripped her arm with both hands. “I told you my uncle wants to meet you.”
She was no longer a child, but she was still white and a virgin. And trapped.
Without warning she twisted and kicked Gadi, aiming for his male parts. He doubled over with a howl. His uncle and the men behind her started to run. Ayisha drew her knife, looking desperately around her. The only way out was the river, but she could not swim. Still, it would be better than being taken as a slave. Maybe, she thought, thinking of crocodiles.
Gadi’s uncle and his men formed a semicircle around her.
“I’ll kill anyone who tries to touch me.” She brandished her knife and backed away, wishing desperately she’d brought the other one as well.
Gadi’s uncle grinned, showing broken yellow teeth. He said something and each man produced a knife.
“Don’t be foolish,” Gadi’s uncle crooned. “We don’t want to mark your pretty white hide, but we will if we have to. But I’ll sell damaged goods just as easily. I’ve been after you a long time.” He stepped forward. “I’ve never been able to work out where you got to that night.”
Ayisha edged back, feeling the river’s soft bank squishing underfoot. “Don’t come any closer,” she snarled. She was trapped. Her only alternative was to take on these men with her knife, or she could just turn and jump. The river would sweep her away. She might live . . . if she did not drown. If there were no crocodiles . . .
Gadi’s uncle edged closer with an expression of smug triumph on his face.
The river had always been her friend. Ayisha murmured a swift prayer, took a deep, despairing breath, and braced herself to jump.
A shout and the thunder of hooves caused her to whirl, startled. She stared, stunned. It was the Englishman on a tall black stallion, roaring with fury, riding as if the devil himself was driving him.
He drove the animal straight at the group of men and in panic they scattered. In the same instant he leapt from the horse, landing on one of the men. The man was knocked flat and lay gasping, his breath knocked out of him. The Englishman rose.
“Behind!” she shrieked, as another man came at him with a knife. The Englishman ducked, the knife missed by a hairsbreadth, but in one swift movement the Englishman seized his attacker and flung him bodily into the river. He screamed and splashed frantically.
Ayisha was not the only one who couldn’t swim.
The Englishman stood between her and the other three men. Only Gadi was out of his range. They came at him from three sides then, but Ayisha had no time to watch or help him, for Gadi came at her with a knife.
She twisted away and slashed him with her knife. He screamed and turned back on her. He slashed at her, once, twice, but she was more agile than he, and he missed both times.
She heard a terrible cracking of bone and from the corner of her eye saw another man go down under the Englishman’s fists, howling in pain. But she could not take her eyes off Gadi.
Gadi kicked out at her suddenly and knocked her knife out of her hand. She bent, lightning fast, and scooped up a large river stone. Her years on the streets had trained her to use what came to hand; she might be unarmed, but she could still fight.
She flung the rock at him, hard. It bounced off his forehead. He reeled, blood trickling from a small cut, but still he kept coming.
“I’ll get you for that,” he snarled and raised his knife, a deadly crescent blade sharpened to a razor edge.
She didn’t dare take her eyes off it, not for an instant. No time to grab another rock. He was too close. The best she could do was to dodge the blow, or at least minimize it.
There was another splash and a yell, and Gadi’s eyes flickered sideways as another man was hurled bodily into the river.
And in an instant the Englishman was with her, leaping at Gadi with a ferocious roar. Gadi’s knife flashed as he lunged, but the Englishman was too quick. He dodged the blow and followed it with a hard punch, then another. Gadi staggered, his knife flailing.
The Englishman landed a third punch hard in the side of Gadi’s head. Without a sound, Gadi dropped his knife and pitched face forward into the mud.
He didn’t move.
The Englishman turned to Ayisha. “Are you all right?” He was only slightly breathless.
Ayisha nodded.
He gave her a swift, searching look, smiled, cupped her jaw in a brief caress, and turned back, standing between her and the last man left. Gadi’s uncle.
He had a knife; the Englishman had nothing but his hands. But he’d already defeated four men with those hands. Gadi’s uncle hesitated, his face working.
The Englishman’s pale blue eyes blazed. “Just one piece of scum left now.” He stalked toward Gadi’s uncle with a strange, cold smile on his face. His big, bloodied fists were purposefully clenched.
With a yell, Gadi’s uncle turned and fled.
At the same time, Gadi, spluttering, wrenched his face out of the mud and crawled away on all fours. The third man, the one whose bones had crunched as he fell, picked himself up and tottered drunkenly after them.
The Englishman took no notice. He turned to Ayisha, scanning her face intently, running his hands lightly over her body, checking for injuries. “Are you hurt?”
She shook her head, wondering at the abrupt switch from savage warrior to gentle protector.
She was shaking. She could hardly believe it was over. The thing she’d feared all these years had finally happened, and she’d survived. She shivered.
He immediately drew her against him, wrapping his strong, warm arms around her, holding her against his chest. She leaned against him, feeling cold, despite the warmth of the day, and as his arms tightened around her she felt safer than she had in . . . years.
W hat were they after?” he asked after a while.
Ayisha stiffened. “I don’t know.”
He said nothing for a moment, then tipped up her chin, the better to look into her eyes. “They must have said something.
Was it some dispute? Had they discovered you were a woman? It surely couldn’t have been robbery.”
She couldn’t avoid those eyes. Something about the very blueness of them, their bright intensity under the sleepy-looking lids—if she looked into them, all her secrets could come pouring out.
And then where would she be?
Would he be looking at her with such tender concern then?
No. That concern was for Miss Alicia Cleeve, the legitimate daughter of an English lord and English lady. Not for Ayisha.
But a girl could dream. She closed her eyes and leaned her head against his chest. She could hear his heart beating.
He held her like that for a moment in silence. “Very well, I won’t ask you again. Shall we go back, now?” His voice was a little cooler. He didn’t like that she wouldn’t tell him.
He would like it less if she told him.
She gathered herself together and stepped out of the circle of his arms. She gave him a bright smile. “Thank you for saving me. If you hadn’t come along, so gallantly, like a knight from a storybook, galloping to save the maiden . . .” She glanced around. “I didn’t know you could ride.”
“There’s a lot you don’t know about me.” He followed her gaze. His horse was standing a hundred feet or so away, cropping grass, its reins dangling. “I hired it for the day.”
He walked toward it. It retreated a few steps away, looking wary. “Blast, I didn’t think . . . My own horses come when I whistle. We’re going to have to catch the brute.”
It was nearly an hour later by the time they’d caught the animal—Ayisha had managed to coax it with a handful of succulent leaves—and by then the fright of her attack had passed.
She stroked the muzzle of the big black horse as she fed it a handful of leaves.
“You like horses?”
She nodded. He mounted with a lithe movement, then held out his hand. He took hers in a strong, sure grip and on a count of three, swung her effortlessly up behind him.
She snuggled close, wrapped her arms around his waist, and laid her cheek against his hard, broad back. She could smell him, the scent of fresh masculine sweat, cologne water, and horse.
She felt strangely light-headed and almost lighthearted. The thing she’d always feared had now come to pass; Gadi’s uncle knew who she was.
She no longer had a choice. Her masquerade was at an end. She could not stay on in Cairo. Unmasked, too many people would know . . . Her only choice was to go to England.
With this beautiful, gentle, frightening warrior, a man she did not understand but could not resist.
They made me wash all over—again!” Ali greeted Rafe darkly when he arrived the next day.
“Yes, and what a fuss he made,” Ayisha added after she explained to Rafe what he’d said. She was doing her best to pretend nothing had happened the day before, but there was a shy awareness in her lovely eyes that warmed him.
He was, in fact, hard put not to haul her into his arms and check again that she was all right. He’d woken several times in the night, reliving the sight of that handsome young thug slashing at her, hearing the sound of his knife as it slashed through her clothing.
Clothing, not flesh, thank God.
He should have fed that fellow to the crocodiles.
Her eyes scanned his body anxiously. “Are you all right? You were bleeding—”
“A couple of scratches, that’s all,” he said curtly. He wasn’t used to being fussed over. “Cleaned up and forgotten.”
“Good. I can’t remember if I thanked you, but—”
“You thanked me. Several times.” The best thanks had been that moment when she’d come to him willingly, shivering with reaction and seeking comfort, knowing she was safe. And afterward, when they’d ridden back, her arms wrapped around him, her slender body pressed against him.
“Oh, that’s all right then,” she murmured. She seemed about to say something else, then closed her mouth and turned back to the boy.
He watched her fussing over Ali, and his chest tightened. No wonder that in two years of balls and country house parties he hadn’t found a woman to marry. He’d been looking in all the wrong places.
Rafe stared down at her, wanting to take her back in his arms, knowing it was too soon. Ali was not the only one looking unusually neat and clean, he saw, though she was still dressed as a boy. It was a tacit admission that her days of disguise were coming to an end.
As he’d imagined, her freshly washed complexion was very fine and clear. Like cream and roses. He itched to touch her skin, to feel whether it was as silky soft as it looked
.
She caught him looking and a delicate flush stole over the tender skin. “It is for Ali, that’s all,” she said, as if needing to defend her cleanliness. “We all wish to make a good impression. A person’s family is important.”
Rafe inclined his head. A person’s family? The daughter of an English baronet declaring she was family to a street orphan? And said with such dignity, such pride.
She was something special, all right. Most girls would be only too glad to drop shabby acquaintances in order to become elevated in the world. Not this one.
He’d seen more innate good breeding in this ragged little beauty than in a dozen dukes’ daughters back home.
Still, it wasn’t going to be easy for her in England. English society was a maze of fine nuances and traps for the unwary and ignorant, designed to sniff out and exclude those who didn’t belong. Her birth would ensure her entree into the ton, but not necessarily her acceptance.
Ayisha had spent almost as many years living in the backstreets as she had in her father’s house. When most English girls of her class were learning to play the pianoforte, embroider, paint watercolors, and dance, Ayisha had been learning the meaning of hunger and danger, learning to steal and fight, act the boy and survive.
No, it wouldn’t be easy, but he’d be there, every step of the way to help her. She had the courage for anything.
He would carry in his mind forever the sight of her, her back to the river, armed with just a knife, with a pack of local thugs closing in on her. That desperate glance behind her, at a crocodile-filled swift-flowing river. He saw it in her eyes, the decision to jump or stand and fight. A slip of a girl against five armed men.
Eight years at war and he’d never been so frightened in his life. Frightened he wouldn’t get there in time.
Finally Laila emerged from the house, veiled and dressed in an all-enveloping robe.
To Rafe’s astonishment, she took his hand and kissed it. “Ayisha tell me what you do,” she said, her eyes moist. “Anything I can do for you, Englishman, I will do.”