Rough Surrender

by Cari Silverwood

  “I’m perfectly fine.” She gulped again though, and shivered.

  “Don’t look.” The man behind swung her away, forcing her to break off her examination of the arm.

  “I’m not–” A child. She put her hand to her clammy forehead. Ridiculous. She’d seen wounds before...only not on pieces of the anatomy that were bereft of their human owners. That thought was enough to remind her stomach. “Uh, no. Let me–”

  This time, with a gentle urging of his hands, he showed her to the gunwales. Water shone blackly a yard from her nose.

  To her relief, lunch remained where it was, though the surge and splash of the hull made her shudder yet again. All the while his large hand rubbed between her shoulder blades. By the time she’d recovered and wiped her mouth with a handkerchief, he’d stepped back. She turned.

  “Thank you, sir. I’m sorry to be such a trouble.”

  “Think nothing of it.”

  The depths of his rumbling voice, spoke to her at some primal level where animal logic ruled, where beasts prowled and mated as they willed.

  Sweet Lord above.

  She stared. The raw intensity of the man made it impossible to break away. At the edges of her vision, the crew gathered about the arm where it still lay on the timber plank of the boat–drained of blood, raw and lifeless. If only she could breathe normally, she might have felt some gratification at her success.

  She licked her lips. “And you might be, sir?”

  “Leonhardt Meisner, mademoiselle, at your service.”

  I doubt that. The steel-backed gaze of this man told her quite firmly, he was at the service of no woman, and possibly no man. For a moment, her heartbeat fluttered.

  * * * *

  Leonhardt wondered at the strength of this woman, Faith Evard. Recently ill, imbalanced, yet she glowed with vibrancy. Even in the night gloom, her hair shone, as if she’d spent the day polishing the ebony waves that gently swept back and gathered at her nape. If he put his hands out, he could easily place them on her shoulders–from the lightness of her dress, he’d feel the muscles beneath and her feminine frame.

  She still stared back at him. He allowed himself the smallest smile as he returned the examination. Wouldn’t do to let her think she held the upper hand.

  The quick lowering of her eyes satisfied him.

  He took a deep breath through his nose.

  Satisfied him in ways he’d not thought to allow himself since London. Damn himself to Hell and back. He’d come here to escape such impulses. The whores at the brothel had borne his whip, his obsession with binding them and his other whimsies... No, he sharply corrected himself...his aberrations, because he’d paid them to, even if he’d always picked those who enjoyed the affair. He’d never figured out why he needed his partner controlled and subjugated, but after the tragedy, he’d sworn to no longer let it rule his life. This young woman deserved the best of his manners.

  “Pardon my staring, mademoiselle.” He bowed again then held out his hand.

  With the smallest of pauses, she put her hand up for him to take. He took her fingertips in his, kissed the back of her knuckles very gently. At the brush of his lips she started and made as if to remove her hand. He firmed his grasp.

  As if to divert them both from his grip, she asked, “Are you French, sir? I would have thought Leonhardt to be Germanic.”

  “It is,” he murmured, noting the rasp in her voice and the surreptitious tug as she strove yet again to free herself...the parted lips, the small heave of her breasts. His feral urges resurfaced. This time, he let them stay. God in heaven, she entranced him. “I am from Luxembourg. We have all manner of nations in our blood–French, German and, of course, the main one, Luxembourgian.” He released her hand.

  “Er-em,” Jeremy cleared his throat. “You do realize we have a part of a man’s body at our feet? And, my word, I think I recognize that ring.”

  Chapter 2

  An Egyptian police officer met their felucca at the jetty, his white uniform standing out like a beacon. A small crowd of men, most of them dressed in the loose, long-sleeved gallibaya, surrounded the arm as it was brought ashore wrapped in cloth and cradled by the captain like a regal exhibit. Considering all the shouting when they’d docked, Faith was surprised more of Cairo’s population wasn’t waiting.

  Once she disembarked, Mrs. Willoughby rejoined her, steaming through the small crowd majestically, with the bustle of her outdated Victorian dress following her like the slipped hump of a camel.

  Faith smiled at the woman. The dust of the day’s travel on the bun of dark hair and the slumping lines of her face, made it clear her self-appointed chaperone was exhausted. Though she had no real need of Mrs. Willoughby’s protection, she’d not the heart to shoo her away. For the entire steamship journey the woman had made it her job to guard Faith from what she termed uncouth menfolk.

  “You should be in bed, Mrs. Willoughby,” Faith murmured.

  In their eagerness to see the arm, several of the crowd bumped at her elbows. The circle around the arm became more boisterous–some shouting what seemed curses. Again, if she knew the language, she’d know for sure. Being ignorant was frustrating.

  “In bed! And so I would be if you weren’t gallivanting off being Florence Nightingale.”

  “The man’s dead,” said Leonhardt. Coming unexpectedly from a foot above and behind her right shoulder, his words made the fine hairs of Faith’s neck rise. Mr. Meisner, for his size, had an uncanny way of sneaking up. “I don’t think even Florence Nightingale could’ve saved him, Mrs. Willoughby.”

  The flow of men close to Faith abated. By standing where he was, Mr. Meisner, with his towering and bulky presence, shielded her from further assault. She blinked. Was this deliberate? Strangely, the idea pleased her.

  Mr. Meisner was like a comfortable fire there beside her...no, she swallowed as she imagined how close he must be if she could feel his heat... He was more a well-restrained volcano. She closed her eyes for a moment. Why was she breathing as if she’d run a race? Men did not affect her. It must be the Cairo air.

  Mrs. Willoughby sniffed. “You think not, Mister Meisner?” She adjusted her broad-brimmed hat. “Miss Nightingale could do anything.” A single electric lamp dangled above the jetty. Against the light, insects batted and whined. The middle-aged woman’s eyebrows angled up like poised daggers. “And now, Miss Faith and I shall retire to our hotel, away from these dad-blasted mosquitoes and sweaty men!”

  Jeremy pushed between two men. “Not intending to aim that insult at me, I do hope? I’m neither mosquito nor sweaty!”

  Nor a real man. Jeremy, despite being only a few inches short of Leonhardt’s height, didn’t seem to cut the mustard. Am I being hasty? She never could seem to see him as other than a jovial friend–a man, no. Thin and overly cheerful summed up his attributes. Faith frowned, thinking over Mrs. Willoughby’s remark about retiring to the hotel.

  No matter how tired she was, she had to see to her airplane. Had to. After traveling thousands of miles as cargo on a dratted little ship to get to here, her aircraft needed her. Three days only to the start of the Great Week of Aviation. What if a crate had been smashed or something else awful had happened? Wherever this warehouse was situated, she would find it...already would have been there if not for this unexpected problem of a man being eaten. She blinked.

  “Whatever am I thinking?” She glanced from Jeremy to Mrs. Willoughby to...Mr. Leonhardt Meisner, who regarded her with those eyes that dissected her into miniscule pieces, as tiny as Mister Einstein’s atoms. “Does anyone know who this man was? The one who was eaten?”

  “Ah.” Jeremy shifted on his feet, wiping a finger across his brow as if to collect perspiration. “As I came to say, the police officer wants me to accompany him. Seems they’ve found another, ah, portion of this corpse, and it may be one of my underlings–a Mr. Green, poor man, who also works for the Egyptian Antiquity Service. As I said, the ring is familiar.”

  “Mr. Henleyson!” T
he police officer waved above the crowd.

  “Ah. Must go! Leonhardt, will you see the women to their accommodation? Ladies, I’d trust Leonhardt with anything and anyone. Pardon me, Faith. I’ll contact you tomorrow.” At that Jeremy turned and left, worming his way between the people around them.

  “Ladies.” Leonhardt inclined his head. “This way to my motor vehicle.”

  A motor vehicle? Intrigued, wondering what model he possessed, Faith followed him, and a man in a peaked cap and dark driver’s attire joined them carrying a lantern. They emerged onto a quiet, packed-earth street where Leonhardt’s machine did indeed await them–green, with its cylindrical bonnet shining like a beetle’s carapace under the wavering light, and two brass-framed circular lights at the front. She paused, mouth agape, eyes devouring. Modern machines always did that to her.

  Motorcycles, automobiles, airplanes, they all grabbed her by the heart and squeezed.

  “Impressed, Miss Evard? It’s a Thomas Flyer. I brought it with me from Paris.” Leonhardt stood by her side. He raised an eyebrow. Curiosity and apprehension curled inside her.

  “Somewhat, sir.” She attempted a cool, distant tone but from the twitch of his lips, she fooled no one.

  “Oh,” said Mrs. Willoughby. “Do we have to go in that? Have you not a proper carriage?”

  “I’m afraid this is it.” He stepped over to the car, snicked down the handle and opened the back door. “Please.”

  Mrs. Willoughby sashayed in and slid onto the seat. “Don’t go too fast, sir. I wish to arrive in one piece.”

  “Of course. Your luggage should already be at the Hotel Orient. I would have recommended the Palace Hotel at Heliopolis, myself. Very new and very luxurious. Miss Evard?” He made as if to touch her elbow to guide her but drew away at the last second. She looked at his hand then his face. Only his eyes seemed alive. The rest of his face was so taut he might have been a statue. What have I done to so upset this man? Is this anger?

  Unsettled, she went around to the opposite side where he ushered her into the back seat.

  The servant cranked the engine while Leonhardt waited at the steering wheel.

  “I must go to see my airplane first, Mr. Meisner. My Bleriot. Can you do this, please? I believe it’s at this address.” She repeated the address Jeremy had given her.

  “That’s at Heliopolis. Well past where your hotel is situated.” He didn’t turn his head and his voice was emotionless. Had the man turned into an automaton?

  She frowned. Was that a no or a yes?

  “Heavens, no, Faith.” Mrs. Willoughby fidgeted at the clutch purse in her lap. “We both need our rest, as, I’m sure, does Mr. Meisner.

  “I must go. If you will not take me, I’ll find other transport. There must be something reputable here, sir? Unless you think this business will have closed its doors?”

  “Faith!”

  Again, without turning, Mr. Meisner replied. “I couldn’t possibly allow you to go by yourself. If you must, I will escort you. I...can get you entrance to this building. Afterward you’ll have to go to the Palace Hotel for the night, though. Heliopolis is well past the center of Cairo.”

  “Thank you, sir. I’d heard the new town was next to the aerodrome. You may leave Mrs. Willoughby at the Orient, however.” She looked at the woman. “Jeremy said he’d trust Mr. Meisner with–”

  “Never!” Mrs. Willoughby sat up indignantly. “I shall come with you also.”

  “Ah.” Faith frowned. She didn’t want to put the woman out, though no doubt it was far more respectable to have a chaperone at the late hour. Indeed, the thought of being alone with Mr. Meisner made her strangely uncomfortable. “Thank you.”

  “You’re welcome.” She leaned back, the heavy fabric of her navy dress rustling against the leather as she moved to get comfortable. “Only do be a dear and don’t take too long.”

  When the engine cranked into a stuttering roar, the servant dashed back and got into the front passenger seat. Leonhardt steered the vehicle onto the narrow road between the immaculately straight buildings. The acetylene headlights carved a path through the night.

  The crowd’s shouted curses resurfaced in Faith’s mind. “Mr. Meisner.” She sat forward to be heard over the engine. Fine dust clouded into the car. Though she lowered the veil on her hat it helped very little.

  Dash it. Goggles–next motor vehicle ride, I shall bring my goggles.

  “Mr. Meisner!”

  “Yes?”

  “What were the men saying back there...about the arm?”

  As if he weighed up his words, he stayed silent a while. “They said that the arm had been bitten by a dead thing...by a mummy from the tombs, Miss Evard. Pure superstition! Don’t concern yourself.”

  Slowly she sat back. The car bumped and shuddered over the uneven road. A mummy. How strange. Now I really know I’m in a foreign country. This would never happen in England, or Australia.

  * * * *

  Leonhardt’s grip on the steering wheel tightened as they neared their destination. The roads here were newly built over the past five years–like the rest of Baron Empain’s visionary city of the future. With all the wealthy and upper-echelon Egyptians and Europeans flocking to Heliopolis to buy land and build their private mansions, he had some very rich neighbors.

  He swung into the carriageway and drove up to stop a few yards from the long roll-back doors at the front of a wide redbrick building.

  Though merely a box shape, the embellishments of the nearby house echoed the gables and flat rooftop of this building–with variegated zebra stripe arches above a colonnade to each side of the doors–his house, his property, of course. He’d not revealed that vital clue to this curious woman who seemed to like defying society’s conventions. Why, he’d withheld that information, he wasn’t sure himself.

  When Jeremy had asked him to take delivery of the crated aircraft he’d thought little of it–a whimsy of some too-wealthy lady with time on her hands.

  Now, though, he wasn’t sure who or what sat in the back of his vehicle.

  Snoring arose and he swiveled in his seat, wondering with some amusement and anticipation if Miss Faith Evard had been overcome by fatigue.

  The light reflecting off the building revealed Mrs. Willoughby asleep, head lolling, her lips parted.

  Faith folded up the veil of her boater hat and stared back. As before, her soul seemed to shine in the darkness of her wide eyes. If he stretched himself beyond the strict boundary he’d set that last time in London, what would happen between them? A pointed chin, rounded cheeks and delicate nose...somehow all balanced to perfection. Her skin beckoned him. He ached to touch her.

  No. Restraint was called for here. At that thought the other, more interesting, meaning of restraint sprang to mind.

  If he spoke, Mrs. Willoughby might wake. Perhaps, considering the thrumming in his blood, that would be safer.

  “I see your chaperone is asleep.” The snoring continued. He added the next words despite knowing he risked stirring something in himself he might not be able to hold back. “Do you still wish to see your crated flying craft?”

  Her teeth gleamed white between her lips like some small predator in the dark. Lions ate smaller predators on occasion. He’d always liked the meaning of his name.

  “Yes. I do. Why do you ask? I was told I could trust you. You said, I could.” She spoke matter-of-factly, as if checking the terms of a contract.

  A self-assured woman. What would it take to shake her world off its foundations?

  “And you can. I would never do anything a woman didn’t want me to.” He eyed her but in the poor light could tell nothing of her reaction. Enough word games. He turned. “Mawson.”

  His manservant had been waiting patiently in the passenger seat, but then Mawson had been with him for many years, and could be quiet as a mouse if need be. “Sir?” He touched his cap. In the reflections from the headlight, Mawson’s craggy and well-wrinkled features were shadowed in sharp relief.

/>   “Stay and keep Mrs. Willoughby company. We won’t be long.” He switched off the pulsating engine and it chugged then clicked to a stop. The electric headlights dimmed to nothing.

  “Of course, sir.”

  When he opened her door and held out his hand to help her from the car, she hesitated.

  That, and the tiniest of flinches when their hands touched, made him wonder, did he daunt her? The possibility made him search her face but, alas, the darkness shielded her.

  They strolled to the twin doors, the earth crunching underfoot. The moon had risen fully and silvered the back of her coiffure as well as the tiny jewels on her hairpins.

  “Are you sure there’s someone to let us in, Mr. Meisner? It seems quite empty.”

  He rummaged in his coat pocket. “I have a key. I am the owner of this property. Jeremy thought that being close to the aerodrome this would be an ideal place to bring your craft.”

  Silence stretched a moment and he imagined he could hear her thoughts ticking over.

  “Oh. I see.”

  The key scraped against metal as he searched for the right spot in the lock plate. “Does that bother you, Miss Evard?” The key slid home. He turned it and pushed the door open far enough to walk inside. “You’re not afraid of me, are you?”

  “You didn’t say this was...”

  “You didn’t ask. Are you?”

  “Afraid?” She gave a small laugh. “No...Yes. You’re a very imposing man, and it is night time when they say things prowl.”

  The mixture of truth, daring and wit made him smile. Then he looked down at her–saw the hint of mockery in the angle of her full mouth and those wickedly arched eyebrows. The lub-dub of his heart swelled louder as if the moon above called to him. His cock pressed hard against his trousers. “Perhaps I am indeed a creature of the night. Will you come into my lair?”

  “Ha! Stuff and nonsense, sir.”

  She stalked past him into his workshop shed, hips swaying, heels going tock tock on the concrete floor. Her sweet perfume came to him, and he marked that scent. If nothing else happened he would remember it. If nothing else happened. He followed her in, felt for the light switch and flicked it on. Without turning, he reached back for the door and slid it across until it butted against the other door with a curt clock.