From Cairo, With Love (Timeless Romance Single Book 1)

by Nancy Campbell Allen

  “So cold,” he murmured.

  Throwing caution to the wind and realizing she was already ruined if anyone knew she’d spent so much time with Max, alone in his suite, she kicked off her shoes and stretched out next to him. She threaded one arm beneath his head and held him close with the other, as much of an embrace as she could muster around his wide shoulders.

  He shuddered and emitted a soft sound—relief?—and wrapped his arms around her torso, settling his head against her shoulder. She palmed the back of his head and rubbed his hair, murmuring as if to a child. A very large child, to be sure, but he was out of his mind and frightened. And she was his wife, after all.

  A hysterical laugh bubbled up in her throat, and she murmured apologies when he flinched. What on earth had happened to her uneventful life? One moment she was living with her family as an act of charity—on their part—and the next she was traveling the world, participating in sham marriages, and holding sick men in their beds. She was unsettled, uncertain, bewildered, and strangely happy. At peace. She’d been chafing against her provincial life at home, and had sought something different to shake loose some of the pieces that had seemed permanently placed.

  “Valentine,” he murmured, “you are the most captivating young woman I have ever met.”

  She smiled. Ah, again, if only he were in his right mind. He’d seen dragons in his stateroom a few minutes earlier. “Thank you, Octavian.”

  “It isn’t as though you would set society on its ear, necessarily . . .”

  She frowned. “I retract my thanks.”

  “But there is something about you . . .” He drifted.

  She raised one brow. “What is it about me, then?”

  He sighed. “Blast if I know. I do know this . . .”

  She waited.

  And still waited.

  She nudged his shoulder.

  He sighed. “For me, you are perfect.” His arms tightened, and he threw one leg over hers. His breath was warm on her neck, and she found it a cause for concern. Not because she didn’t feel he should be breathing on her neck, but rather that his breath was shallow. He sounded almost winded.

  Her eyes burned and a tear escaped, trickling down her cheek and dropping onto his hair. He thought she was perfect for him. They had time still to travel together. She was falling quite in love with him. And he had “married” her, after all.

  Under the influence of alcohol and opium.

  And now he could die, and she was desperately, frighteningly alone. Everyone who might have knowledge to help was either dosed with laudanum, passed out from too much drink, or having a bad reaction to seafood. She cradled his head close and allowed the tears to flow freely. She would be fine if he wanted nothing to do with her after their journey to Egypt, and she would be fine if all he ever wanted from her was friendship, regardless of her status as “perfect” while he imagined them besieged by marauders. She would not be fine, however, if he died.

  Please. Please, I shall give to the poor and read a verse of scripture daily. Please do not let him die . . .

  Max became slowly, simultaneously aware of several things. His head pounded as though someone beat it with a mallet. He was thirstier than he’d ever been in his life. His stomach was so empty he felt ill. And at some point in the evening he must have done something right because he held a very delectable form in his arms.

  He knew without opening his eyes that it was Valentine. There was something about her that had become very familiar to him—a scent, that really wasn’t even a scent. He just knew when he was with her. His heart jumped whenever she entered a room. She was witty and made him laugh; she was optimistic, slightly unconventional, and the farthest thing from jaded he’d ever met. To him, she was so beautiful that he simply wanted to stare at her forever. She was the only woman of his association to actually inspire a picture of domesticity that included him in it.

  And therein lay the problem. He opened his eyes and sighed lightly, ruffling a tendril of hair at her neck. She was special. She wanted her cottage by the sea and something about lady boarders and soap. She’d said it was a consolation prize, but he wasn’t certain that’s all it was for Valentine. There was a quiet strength about her, as if she was determined to smile and nod at everything society expected of her and then follow her chosen path anyway.

  She’d never actually said she would rather have a family. Or perhaps both. Couldn’t a woman have a family and a cottage by the sea and soap? He supposed the female boarders might get in the way. He closed his eyes. He could buy her a cottage by the sea. He could buy her a dozen cottages and enough soap to fill a department store. He knew she thought he was a man of some financial success—she didn’t realize exactly how much. And he preferred it thus. She had been genuine and warm with him, attracted even, all while believing he belonged to a comfortable, but not excessive class of wealth. She wasn’t his friend because he had a vault of money. She was his friend simply because she liked him.

  He had strange snippets of the night before. He heard himself saying “I will” when the captain asked if he would take Valentine to be his wife. There was the blurred memory of kissing her soft lips much too quickly—he had clearly not been quite himself—then staggering up to his room with Valentine, and the memory of dodging dragons. He wished he had better memories of their wedding, which, upon further contemplation, he remembered Chauncey Payne and the other two idiots putting into motion.

  Valentine defending him . . .

  Valentine ready to do battle with that widow woman . . .

  Valentine laughing . . . happy . . . smiling at him . . .

  If only it hadn’t been a sham . . .

  Knowing that the moments of bliss he was currently enjoying would soon come to an end, he nuzzled his nose lightly against the soft skin of her neck, just behind her ear. He needed to get her out of his room and into her own before the entire ship awoke. Light entered his cabin from outside, and he looked at the clock attached to a small mantelpiece. Five o’clock. Staff would be about, but, hopefully, all of the passengers who might traverse the first floor halls were still abed.

  He breathed a sigh and disentangled himself reluctantly from Valentine, slipping his arms out from around and under her. Trying to disrupt her as little as possible, he moved over her and off the bed and made his way to his water closet.

  By the time he returned, his second glass of water in hand and rubbing his face dry with a length of toweling, she had turned onto her side, facing him, and snuggled down into the bedding. She looked so very comfortable and at ease, he hated to awaken her.

  “Valentine.” He sat on the edge of the bed, keeping his voice down not only to rouse her gently, but because his head still ached intensely. “Val.” He rubbed the back of his knuckles along her cheek and then playfully, gently, tugged on a lock of her hair. “Time to get out of bed, darling.”

  Her eyelids flickered and she stretched. He waited, and then she behaved exactly as he’d guessed she would. Her eyes flew open fully, and she sat up, staring at him in shock. She laughed, then, her eyes widening even more, she put a hand over her mouth. He watched, bemused, as her eyes filled with tears.

  She clasped his shoulders and laughed again, tears spilling over. “I thought you would die!” She pulled him to her with surprising strength and wrapped her arms around him, squeezing tight. “How are you? How are you feeling?” She released him before he could return the embrace. She looked anxiously into his face and grabbed his shoulders again, embracing him once more.

  He nodded and took a sip of his water, setting it on the nightstand and out of harm’s way. “I am, indeed, alive. I cannot say I feel just the thing, quite yet, but I believe I am on the mend.”

  “Oh, Max.” She sighed and reached for the water glass he’d set down. She took a healthy drink, swished the water in her mouth, and swallowed, shaking her head. “You have no idea. Last night was the most insane of my life, and I was truly afraid you were done for. I couldn’t find anyone to help,
and all I could do was lie here and hope I wouldn’t awaken to find myself holding a dead man.”

  He stared. “Valentine, truly? You did not have to shoulder such a burden alone if you actually felt I was dying.”

  She shook her head again. “No, you do not understand. It was as though the whole blasted ship had come down with the plague.” She snapped her fingers, the expression on her face turning thunderous. “Chauncey! He proposed one too many toasts to it. He is the cause of all of the mayhem, the chaos, the reason for your illness. I shall wring his neck.”

  He swallowed a flash of disappointment. If his spotty memory served, Chauncey had been the reason for their sham wedding. And now she blamed the young man for all the bad things that had happened the night before. She likely regretted being part of something so ludicrous, something that involved marriage to a pugilist.

  He shook his head and forced a smile. “All’s well that ends well, yes? And at any rate, you must go before someone sees you leaving my room. Val,” he said as he grasped her hand, “I cannot thank you enough for seeing me through the night.”

  She flushed and ducked her head. “I didn’t do anything useful, I’m afraid.”

  “You were here.”

  She met his eyes, her smile a bit shaky. “Do you remember anything from the second class salon?”

  “You mean our wedding?”

  She blushed furiously. “I am so sorry. I was swept along, and everything was chaotic, and I couldn’t get you out of there. You kept falling all over, and I couldn’t leave you alone, and then Chauncey—”

  He put a finger to her lips. “You have no need to apologize, Valentine. None at all. It is I who owe you a tremendous debt. You’ve proven a better friend than any I’ve had. You have seen me through the nastiness of my nausea yesterday in the storm, and then last night you saw to my safety when nobody else could be bothered.”

  Her shoulders sagged. “I was so worried.”

  He smiled at her in sympathy. “Was it so very awful?”

  “You were seeing dragons.”

  He laughed. “I do remember that.” He sobered, then. “I also remember something about opium . . .”

  Her eyes flashed. “I say again, that Chauncey is the very embodiment of a plague! He dosed your wine with opium-laden whiskey in an attempt to 'relax' you enough to finally spar with him!”

  His eyes narrowed, and he envisioned knocking Mr. Payne to the ground with one well-placed punch. “He wants to spar, does he?”

  She nodded, eyes wide. “Yes, and you should oblige him! He didn’t know you have bad reactions to opiates, and you could have died.”

  “I told you about my earlier illness?”

  “Yes. We are very fortunate that you are strong as an ox.”

  He didn’t remember telling her about his childhood bout with opium. He wondered what else he’d shared. “Did I say anything in my delirium that might be . . . something I would regret in the light of day?”

  Her eyes flicked to the left and then back. She swallowed and affected an expression of befuddlement. “Not at all.”

  He sighed. Wonderful. He must definitely have said something. And it embarrassed her enough to keep it from him. “I hope I was not inappropriate with you in any way, Valentine. My humblest apologies—”

  “Oh, no!” Her eyes grew huge. “You mustn’t think that for a moment. You were very much a gentleman.”

  He nodded once, suddenly feeling awkward. “Well, then, off you go.”

  He stood and she scrambled off the bed, straightening her clothing and bending to put on her shoes. Her long, black hair fell all about, and when she stood, she shoved it off her forehead with impatience. It was glorious, framing her face in waves and hanging down her back and over her shoulders.

  He swallowed and stood back a step. She passed in front of him quickly, made her way through the sitting room, and paused at the door. “Max, I am so glad you are well,” she said with a smile.

  He lifted the corner of his mouth, hands in his pockets, and forced himself to stay rooted to the spot. “And you are the reason, Miss Valentine Baker.”

  She turned the doorknob, only to freeze as voices sounded in the hallway. The noise quieted and then disappeared as the people traveled the length of the corridor. Only when it was completely quiet did Valentine dare open the door a crack and peek out. Nothing. The hallway was empty. She glanced back at Max and then slipped out.

  He released a huge sigh. Deciding his first order of business would be to kill a young Englishman, he washed and changed his clothes. Feeling more presentable, if not wholly well, he went to the first class breakfast salon in hopes of finding The Trio.

  Captain O’Halloran stopped him at the double doors, looking a little bleary-eyed himself, but offered Max his hand. Smiling broadly, he said, “Mr. Maxwell, I hope you’ve recovered from last night’s mayhem.”

  Max nodded and returned the handshake, “I am a bit groggy, but well enough, thank you.”

  “Oh, very good. And allow me to congratulate you and Mrs. Maxwell. Don’t know that I’ve ever officiated such an unruly ceremony, but it will certainly live in my memory as the most unique. Take care and enjoy your day. We will disembark in Alexandria in a matter of hours.” The man smiled and gave a confused Max a brief salute before leaving him at the doorway.

  O’Halloran certainly knew how to play along with his passengers’ shenanigans. It seemed he was happy to see the joke through to the end. Max frowned and entered the salon, the smell of food turning his stomach even though he knew he needed to eat something. He made his way to the sideboard where dishes were only just being laid out and selected a biscuit without bothering to request it from a server.

  He looked around the salon as he slowly ate the biscuit, searching out Mr. Payne. The only passengers who had, so far, arisen for breakfast were of the elderly persuasion. Max could well imagine the bulk of the younger set sleeping well into the morning. He thought of Valentine and hoped she’d returned to her room before Contessa realized she’d not been there all night. The last thing he wanted was for her reputation to come to harm for his sake.

  Movement at the door caught his eye, and Mr. Creeves, one third of The Trio, entered, looking extremely pale. Max waited as the man’s eyes swept the room and then came to an abrupt halt on him. Creeves’ expression changed to one of alarm. Max raised a brow. Creeves swallowed noticeably and joined him, walking as a man to the gallows.

  “Creeves.” Max lifted his half eaten biscuit in welcome.

  “Mr. Maxwell.”

  “Are you hiding Mr. Payne, by any chance? Is he leery of showing his face this morning? He certainly should be.”

  Creeves swallowed again, “Chauncey does have a few regrets about last evening’s events.”

  “I wonder how his list of regrets compares with my list of complaints.”

  Creeves nodded. “He is prepared to offer his apologies and make whatever reparations he must because of the . . . opium . . . incident.”

  Max cocked one brow. “Does he, now? And how does he propose to accomplish it?”

  “Not entirely certain . . .” Creeves mumbled. He ran a finger under his collar. “We have larger issues at hand, sir, of which I must only surmise you are not yet aware. Chauncey doesn’t even know yet—I only just discovered it myself from chatting with the captain.”

  Max looked evenly at the young man. He crooked a finger to a server who had begun circulating with a tray of drinks and took a glass of juice. He sipped it, eyeing Creeves the entire time, assessing the young man’s reactions. The boy was terrified. It did not bode well, and Max felt his temper flare.

  “Of which issues am I not aware, then, Creeves?”

  “The wedding, sir.”

  “What of it?”

  “Captain O’Halloran was unaware that it was a mock ceremony.”

  Max raised his brows. “I’m sorry?”

  “He . . . he officiated it . . . officially. Signed the wedding certificate that you and Mis
s Baker both signed, and then affixed his seal to it. Filled out appropriate paperwork, sent it ahead with his first mate who was met not thirty minutes ago by a smaller steamer come to pick him up for advance preparations. For the passengers’ arrival in Alexandria.”

  Max’s head spun, and he leaned against the sideboard at his back. “What are you saying, Creeves?”

  “Sir . . . you and Miss Baker are legally wed.”

  Max stared at Creeves for several long moments, speechless. The young man finally nodded at him, miserably, and lifted a shoulder. Creeves was very much in earnest, that much was painfully clear.

  Max felt his chest tighten. He straightened, grasped Creeves’ arm, and hauled him out into the corridor. “Listen to me, you little cretin. Even if this does prove to be true, it matters not. The marriage wasn’t consummated. I won’t have you spreading word of this anywhere, do you understand? We shall have the marriage annulled immediately. No harm done.” Except for the harm that Max intended to rain down upon Mr. Payne.

  Creeves flushed atop his pallor, and he shook his head frantically. Max released his arm, and Creeves rubbed at it inconspicuously. “There’s more, sir.”

  “What more could there possibly be?”

  “The widow, Mrs. Willoughby-Glendale. She told Mr. Stewart and the rest of us she intended to see to your . . . uh . . . welfare approximately thirty minutes or so after you left with Miss Baker. Uh, Mrs. Maxwell. The widow returned to the salon, it must have been two hours later. Most everyone had begun clearing out, but we were still there, as was Mr. Stewart.” Creeves swallowed again. “We were attempting to convince Dr. Henry to retire to his stateroom.”

  “And?” Max’s hold on his temper was tenuous, at best.

  “Mrs. Willoughby-Glendale was ready to knock at your door when a steward left, followed soon after by Miss Baker. Uh, Mrs.—”

  “Yes!”

  “Your wife went to her own chambers, but when Mrs. Willoughby-Glendale tried again to rouse you, she was obliged to quickly hide in the corridor because Mrs. Maxwell emerged from her room. She returned to you, and . . . well, never came back out.”