Fortune's Flower (Passport to Romance Book 1)

by Anthea Lawson

  James just smiled, a reaction she found infuriating. Didn’t he realize what a serious problem this kind of vandalism was? Why, one might just as well condone cutting up the paintings of the great masters into postage-stamp-size souvenirs. Selling the tip of the Mona Lisa’s ear, or a bit of shell from Botticelli’s Birth of Venus.

  “Something must be done.” She thrust forward in her chair. “They need to post a guard. The mosaics must be in tatters if the locals are selling pieces to tourists.”

  James was still smiling. “Lily, he was lying.”

  “Lying? How can you possibly know that?”

  “The mosaics are in the bey’s palace.”

  “But I thought…”

  “They were moved so that people like my friend in the street couldn’t get to them.”

  Lily picked up her napkin. “They aren’t in Carthage any longer, then?”

  “No. They are well protected in the palace.”

  “Oh.” She bit her lip. They could easily go to Carthage, but it was unlikely she, as a woman, would get an invitation to the palace. “I wish…” She stopped in mid-sentence. She should be relieved that the mosaics were protected from thieves, even if it meant that she would not have an opportunity to view them.

  Aunt Mary set down her teacup. “We should see to the unpacking.”

  “Certainly, my dear.” Uncle Edward rose and pulled out his wife’s chair.

  James did likewise for Lily, then offered his hand. She took it, her fingers sliding beneath his. He gave her that particular smile, the one that lit his eyes with warmth and carved a line in his left cheek. They walked together, allowing the rest of the family to go ahead.

  “Lily—you started to say something at the table. That you wished for something. What was it?”

  She shrugged. “It’s not important. I was only going to say that I wished I could view the mosaics. I’d imagined we would see them when we visited the ruins. I was disappointed, that’s all. I’m glad they are protected.”

  “It is disappointing. I’ve heard they were marvelous examples of ancient Roman art.”

  She smiled at him. “No matter. There is so much to see and experience here. Really, I have nothing to complain about.”

  “Nevertheless.” He paused. They had come to the top of the stairs. He bowed and lifted her hand to his mouth, and she felt a thrill of longing at the brush of his lips. There was that smile again, and something else—something playful and mischievous dancing in his eyes.

  ***

  James walked the morning streets of the medina, making his way through the narrow lanes of the old city. The dwellings here stood tall and close, forming walls that overshadowed the street. Their tiled windowsills and brightly painted doors spoke of a secret life inside.

  He had come early to hire mounts and pack animals for the expedition. In India, the best time to walk the city had always been in the early morning, when the air was still cool. Old habits died hard. Besides—he smiled to himself—he had plans for the afternoon.

  An arch piercing the wall yielded a glimpse into a sheltered courtyard where children played games with balls and counters. They stopped their game, whispering and giggling as he passed. Further down, two old men wearing robes and white beards studied him silently from where they squatted in the early sun, drinking coffee from tiny cups. A tantalizing whiff of cumin and mint drifted from an open doorway.

  It was temping to linger here, but there was no time to waste—not if the arrangements he had made over the last three days were to amount to anything.

  He continued to the caravanserai, located just outside the city walls. Here he would find the mounts and pack animals they needed for the expedition, and men to handle them. James searched for the best animals, and when he found them sought out their owner, a fat, round-faced old merchant who seemed to enjoy the ritual of negotiation as much as he did striking a profitable deal.

  “Camels also, yes, sir? You must have camels. Their strength and endurance is superior to horses and mules, and my nephew and his sons are the finest drivers in all Tunis.” The merchant waved for more tea—the mandatory minty blend, served in hammered metal cups—then resettled his bulk more comfortably on the piled rugs.

  James shook his head. “We are heading west, not into the southern desert, but I will remember your nephew and his camels should I need them in the future.”

  His host nodded. “But even if you travel west, you still lack a guide, yes?”

  “Perhaps. If he is familiar with the area along the Wadi Medjerda.”

  The merchant’s smile creased his eyes behind his wide cheeks. “A moment.” He turned his head and bellowed into the tent behind him, “Khalil! Come here!

  “You are in most fortunate luck, sir. My own son by my second wife has spent much time in that very place!” He paused. “Of course, so knowledgeable a guide commands a high fee.”

  A man ducked under the hangings, his nose a prominent beak, his face weathered by the sun and wind. James was glad to see he was lean and agile, lacking his father’s impressive girth. The man listened as his father spoke in Arabic, then turned to James and bowed. “My name is Khalil,” he said in French. “My father says you are heading west. I know the Medjerda valley well.”

  “And the mountains above it?”

  “Not so well.” His answer was quick and honest. “But I have hunted there on occasion and know the tribes that hold sway.”

  “The Berbers. Perhaps I will hire you.” James thought of his grandfather’s tragic adventures in those mountains. Had the Englishman employed a guide, or had he struck off optimistically in search of rare blooms with just his companion Mercer and a few bearers?

  Khalil smiled slowly. “Be warned. My father will try and empty your purse for my services.”

  The merchant grunted and glared at his son. “To leave your family, your ailing child? No. It will not do.”

  “My ‘ailing child’ is already begging to go out and play with the other children.” Khalil glanced at his father.

  “Very well.” The merchant waved a large, fleshy hand. “Bargain for your own fee, if you wish to remain a pauper. I only am trying to see to your welfare.”

  And to his own coffers, James thought as he and Khalil quickly settled on a price. “We will be leaving soon—two days, perhaps. I’ll send word.”

  “All will be ready, sir.”

  At the entrance of the tent, James turned. “Have you seen a dark-haired Englishman about in the last several days?”

  Khalil shook his head. “No, I have not.”

  The old merchant looked at the wall of the tent, but then, he had said almost nothing since his son had insisted on negotiating his own fee.

  Inside the city walls once again, James pulled out his pocket watch, the burnished weight of it comfortable in his hand. It had belonged to his father. The bargaining had taken longer than he’d intended—he would have to hurry if he was to make it back in time.

  He looked at the roads branching through the city from the gate. If he took that one along the city wall, then cut back through the marketplace, he could make up time. The huge dome and towers of the central mosque would provide a consistent landmark.

  The street he had chosen followed the wall then branched and branched again, each time becoming narrower as it entered an area of dilapidated houses and shops. Paint peeled from around doorways, and he had to negotiate his way around piles of debris in the street. Men sitting on the ground outside shops and rundown coffee houses ceased their conversation as he passed, their gazes hard and unsmiling. Hostility hung in the air. James quickened his pace, trying to catch a glimpse of the central mosque between buildings.

  The street branched again, neither lane looking more promising than the other. He stopped and looked back the way he had come. There was no one there, no one following him—it must be his surroundings that made him feel so edgy. He reached instinctively for his pocket watch, then stopped himself. This was not the kind of neighborhood wher
e it was advisable to display wealth of any kind, and besides, he didn’t need his watch to tell him that too much time was passing.

  He selected one of the two equally unlikely paths and started down it when from afar he heard the tower-flung cry of the muezzin calling the faithful to prayer. The mosque! It came from the left. Following the sound, James turned down a narrow track between two buildings—a path that grew wider and more traveled as it approached the market. He breathed deeply. It was a relief to emerge into the busy souq.

  He stepped nimbly around a spice merchant’s wares—vibrant powders heaped in metal bowls, curls of cinnamon bark, kernels of fenugreek and gnarled knobs of turmeric root adding their pungent smells to the air. Women wrapped head to toe hurried past, clenching their headscarves between their teeth to leave their hands free for bundles. He halted as a young boy ran past, chasing an escaped chicken.

  But there it was again, that premonition that someone was watching him. He turned slowly, but nothing seemed out of place in the busy market, except—had that man in the dun-colored robes turned away too quickly?

  James forced himself to slow—meandering, stopping to look over a display of brass trinkets, a rack of scarves. Yes, there could be no question. The man was following him. Bloody hell. He didn’t have time for this. James turned and looked him directly in the eye—the game was up. The man in the dun-colored robes started forward, reaching into his robes as he came in a motion that screamed danger. Another man that James had mistaken for a beggar followed.

  Unarmed, James turned and ran, hot anger flaring inside him as the market crowd parted before him. Not today. He would not be stopped today.

  He wove a path through the booths, darted down the street of the cloth sellers, then turned into the area where the leatherworkers displayed their wares.

  Ducking into the door of a shop, James crouched behind a rack of tanned hides, heart pounding. The sound of running footsteps approached, then stopped outside. James looked for something—anything—he could use to defend himself. Supple leather hides, soft boots, sheepskins. Why couldn’t he have concealed himself in a knife maker’s shop?

  Voices sounded outside, questioning. He could not hope that his hiding place would go undiscovered for long.

  Then he saw it. Lunging to the wall, James snatched the coiled black whip from its peg. This chase would have to end sooner or later. He stepped back into the street. Sooner was better.

  “Were you looking for me?” He let the whip uncoil at his side.

  The two men spun and charged together. Before they could close the gap, James slashed forward with the whip, sending it snaking around the legs of the dun-robed man. Yanking with all his strength, James sent the man down hard on the street, then stepped forward to meet his remaining attacker. The man was on him in an instant, hands reaching for his throat.

  He twisted aside and jabbed the handle of the whip into the man’s stomach. The ragged man let out a whoosh of breath and James grabbed a handful of the man’s robe, pushing him hard against the plaster wall of the leatherworker’s shop.

  “Why are you following me? Who sent you?”

  His captive squirmed, his dirty turban knocked askew. “We mistook you for another man.”

  James shook him. “Try again—and this time, the truth.”

  A shift of the man’s eyes was the only warning. James released him and whirled as the other man lunged, the knife in his hand glinting in the sunlight. There was the sound of tearing cloth. James caught the man’s wrist and twisted. With a cry, his attacker dropped the knife to clatter against the cobblestone pavement.

  His assailants exchanged a look and took to their heels. James followed for several steps before reason tethered him.

  Cursing, he opened the tear in his sleeve to assess the damage. Just a scratch, but it stung like the devil. He bent to pick up the whip and coil it. Handy, that. If he had been caught unarmed… Sweat trickled down his back. He would have to heed his own advice and be more careful when he went out.

  A thin, nervous-looking man stuck his head out the door of the leather shop and eyed first James then the whip.

  “Dr. Jones?”

  James handed him the whip. “No—you must have me confused with someone else.”

  An hour later, changed and freshly shaven, James knocked at the door of Lily and Isabelle’s suite. Lily opened it immediately, smiling.

  “You’re late. After three days of plotting and secret arrangements, you’re late! Won’t you tell me where we are going? Please, James.” She gave him her most winsome look. In her gown of gauzy white cotton, she looked deliciously beautiful.

  “Just a little longer, then all will be revealed. The carriage awaits, and I am here to escort the lovely Misses Strathmore.”

  Lily’s smile faded. “Isabelle has decided to join her parents and Mrs. Hodges for tea with the Fentons this afternoon. She asked me to convey her regrets.”

  “Still avoiding me? I’d hoped her feelings would have softened by now.”

  “Give her time—and don’t worry. There’s no need to let Isabelle spoil your surprise. Let me fetch my parasol.” Lily stepped back into her room then joined him in the corridor.

  “Don’t forget your sketchbook.”

  She patted the small case that contained her sketchbook and pencils. “Why? Are we going somewhere picturesque?” Her blue-green eyes sparkled at him.

  “Perhaps.”

  Her eyes widened.

  “Or perhaps not. Let’s collect Richard and be on our way—the carriage is waiting outside.”

  It was a perfect afternoon—the sky a dome of turquoise, a light breeze stirring the palm leaves, and Lily beside him in the open barouche. James felt like a boy setting out on a merry picnic to the seaside—carefree, joyous. The anticipation in Lily’s eyes only added an extra keenness to his pleasure.

  “Where are we going?” Richard leaned forward from the seat opposite. “Surely you’ll tell us now?”

  “You’ll just have to wait and see.” James grinned.

  “Lily, I can’t believe we’re keeping company with such a scoundrel.”

  She twirled her parasol. “I couldn’t even get the secret out of Uncle Edward. He knows, doesn’t he?”

  “Of course,” James said. “And your aunt, and Mrs. Hodges. It’s a grand conspiracy, really.”

  Richard leaned out of the barouche, trying to see where they were headed. “Do you think he’s taking us to the grand mosque?”

  “Could it be?” Lily turned to face James. “I didn’t bring any veils. Perhaps you would be kind enough to snatch a bedsheet off a clothesline for me. Something that matches my eyes.” She covered her face with her sleeve, but even then her eyes spoke her smile.

  He loved her in this mood, the easy banter between them. James raised a brow and said in his most unctuously flattering voice, “Something that matches your eyes? How is that possible? Can one match the color of the sky? Can one match the color of the sea at dawn?”

  “Well, actually, with a good grasp of color theory and the right paints—”

  Richard gave a snort of laughter. “I think brown muslin. Mud brown.”

  “You don’t mind converting, then?” James said. “It is the only way they will allow us to enter the mosque.”

  Richard looked thoughtful. “It has advantages, you must admit. We can take several wives each.”

  “Ha,” Lily said. “Richard, you can begin with Anne Riding. That would keep her from chasing you about the dance floor, at any rate. And for James…” She tapped her lips with one finger. “Someone equally troublesome, I would think.”

  “How about Isabelle?” Richard said. “She’s been troublesome since birth.”

  James shook his head. “I don’t think Isabelle would have me.”

  “No, probably not.” Richard cocked his head and looked at the two of them. “Lily, then. Granted, she can be every bit as troublesome as Isabelle, but at least she chose you over a stultifying tea with the Fentons. Of
course, you will spend the rest of your days seated on a stool holding a pot of tulips while she paints you. Dreadful thought.”

  James fought to keep his expression light. It was not a dreadful thought at all. And if it were possible to take Lily Strathmore for his bride, he would make damn sure he held far more than a pot of flowers—he would have the artist herself right there amidst her brushes and paints. He looked at her, he couldn’t help it, and something of his thoughts must have shown, for she blushed and quickly glanced away.

  “Really, Richard, you do go on. After traveling all this way with two such troublesome females, I doubt James intends to set up a Moorish household with Strathmores as wives one and two. In fact—oh, isn’t that the palace?” Her attention focused ahead of them.

  “The bey’s palace?” James kept his voice neutral. “It would appear so.” The driver turned to the right, and they followed the street bordering the palace walls.

  “What was it like inside?” Lily asked.

  “Yes,” Richard said. “You and Father did not tell us nearly enough about your meeting there.”

  “Beyond the fact that we had permission to travel,” Lily said. “Are the floors paved in precious stones? Are there fountains flowing with wine?”

  “No, but there were silken carpets woven in deep scarlet, and the bey wore a ring with a ruby the size of a quail’s egg.”

  She sighed. “I wish we could have gone.”

  “Women are not allowed in the palace,” Richard said, giving her a smirk. “Unless you want to join the harem.”

  “Actually,” James said as the barouche slowed to a stop, “in some instances woman are allowed.” He vaulted lightly down onto the street and held out his hand. “This instance, for example.”

  Lily glanced at him. “James!” She set her hand in his, and he could see the excitement beginning to light her eyes.

  “Splendid,” Richard said. “I was disappointed when you and Father left me with the women the other day. You don’t suppose we’ll get to see the harem building, do you?”

  “No,” Lily said, her voice almost a whisper. “We are going to see… However did you manage it?” The joy in her expression nearly undid him.