Fortune's Flower (Passport to Romance Book 1)

by Anthea Lawson

  Lily nodded, but paused just inside the corridor that led to their suite. Glancing back, she saw Isabelle stop a servant, draw something from her reticule and pass it to him, then hasten to the dining room. What was she up to? Could she still be in communication with Lord Rowland?

  It would be difficult to slip the leash, but Lily had done it herself just that afternoon.

  “Here it is.” Isabelle hurried up, flourishing the silver bracelet.

  “Wait.” Lily turned to her. “What was all that business with the note?”

  “What note? I had to fetch my bracelet. Are you sure you’re feeling well? I’ll send the servant for a tisane.”

  “Tell me. It’s Lord Rowland, isn’t it?”

  “Heavens no. I am utterly weary of everyone bringing him up.” Isabelle linked arms with Lily. “Come, cousin. We both need our rest tonight. I’m so thrilled—we are heading out at last!”

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  They headed west from Tunis, traveling over a quarried stone road built by the ancient Romans. The city gave way to orchards—pistachios and dates, then groves of lemons, their starry blossoms scenting the air. James ranged along the party, encouraging the stragglers, keeping an eye on the riders and pack animals. It did not take long to notice that Lily became engrossed in conversation with her cousins or guided her horse away from him whenever he approached. She had not met his eyes all morning.

  Yesterday she had taken tangerines from his fingertips and shivered with pleasure in his arms. He had thought it so clear, the connection between them. Now it was as if a door had swung shut. She was, without a doubt, the most aggravating woman he had ever encountered.

  At least they were on the move. With a hundred small things to occupy his attention, he could retreat into the familiar rhythm of travel—a recalcitrant mule that balked whenever they had to cross a bridge, an argument between two of the drivers, a bundle gone missing. Still, no matter what occupied him, he was constantly aware of Lily’s presence.

  Just before luncheon, they gained the Medjerda River, swollen and muddy from the night’s rains. James called a halt by its banks in the shade of an olive grove. The men raised a small pavilion, and in short order the Strathmores were sipping tea and eating sandwiches, for all the world as if they were on a country picnic in Sussex. Lily had settled herself between Isabelle and Mrs. Hodges; the latter had produced a hank of brown wool and was knitting what looked to be a long stocking.

  “Off to a good start,” Sir Edward said. “Don’t you think, Huntington?”

  James accepted a sandwich and dropped down beside Richard on the patterned kilim. “We’re making decent progress, but at this pace I expect at least three more days of travel.”

  “Your calculations include time for botanizing, I hope. This is an advantageous time to be in the field.” Sir Edward suddenly set down his cup and stood. “I say, that is a most unusual flowering shrub growing over there. If you’ll excuse me.”

  Lady Mary shook her head as he disappeared into the grove. “My husband is in his element now. I fear we shall have to find him and put him bodily on his horse when it is time to depart. Edward does tend to lose track of time when he is collecting.”

  “He really should have a keeper,” Richard said.

  Isabelle laughed. “Remember when he got lost in Farmer Dobb’s fields? He missed supper entirely and returned home completely covered in burrs.”

  The siblings exchanged tales of their father’s single-mindedness, but James’s focus was on Lily. Her eyes were closed, her face tilted to the sunlight. He studied her features. High cheekbones and round chin, the slight downward arc of her nose, and full, lush lips. Passable enough features, by any standard.

  He found them beautiful.

  He ought to speak to her. Yesterday the words had left him. The feel of her, the scent and taste of her skin, the way she had shivered with pleasure at his touch, made conversation impossible. Words had been unnecessary. Everything important could be said with a kiss, a caress. It had seemed enough.

  But perhaps she needed more. Uncertainty might be the reason for her distance today.

  He finished his tea and rose. “Lily, would you stroll with me? We can recover your uncle.”

  There was hesitation in her eyes.

  Mrs. Hodges glanced over. “It’ll do you good, miss. You’ll be back on a horse again far too soon. We all will. Take the chance to move about while you still can.”

  “Go, my dear,” Lady Mary said. “Tell your uncle we are starting to pack.”

  Lily pressed her lips together, then stood. “Very well. I think Uncle Edward went this way.” She marched off into the grove, angling to parallel the stream.

  The light under the trees was silvery, and the tang of ripening olives filled the air. James let her lead the way—he needed seclusion before he spoke.

  “Oh, look,” Lily said.

  A great tree grew near the edge of the river, its branches hanging down like a pavilion. They walked beneath it, parting the low-hanging branches to stand under the dome formed by its boughs.

  “It seems as if it has grown here forever with its roots in the river.” Her voice was wistful. “Like a fairy tree out of a dream.”

  He placed a hand on her arm and turned her to face him. “Yesterday—was that a dream too? You’ve been so distant since we returned from the palace.”

  “No,” she said, looking at the ground. “Not distant, just thoughtful.”

  “And what thoughts are those?”

  “I’m not sure you would understand, Mr. Huntington.”

  “So I’m Mr. Huntington today?” He let his hand drop from her arm.

  “Isn’t it better that way?” She met his eyes. “We will not always be free as we are here. When we return to England, things will be different for us. There will be certain… expectations. My parents…”

  She trailed off, seeming on the verge of tears, but whatever those tears were for, it was clear that the “expectations” were that he would be Mr. Huntington to her. Of course she was right. She was the daughter of Viscount Fernhaven, and he—he was the orphan of a second son. Not exactly the match of the Season, at least not for her. Her truth stung, but he admired her diplomacy. After yesterday he had begun to entertain foolish notions about a future for the two of them. She had saved him the embarrassment of speaking those thoughts aloud.

  “What passed between us meant nothing to you, then?”

  “Nothing? No, Mr. Huntington. It showed how weak I am. It showed I am more susceptible to a grand gesture than is good for me. It means I must raise my defenses, or drop them altogether, and I have no way of knowing which is the right course of action—if there even is such a thing.”

  He could see the hurt in her expression, and softened his tone. “Then I have only added to your confusion.”

  “You are the confusion, you foolish man!” She laughed through her tears and gave him a most unladylike shove backward, but he caught her hands and held them, drawing her forward.

  “If I am to become Mr. Huntington when we step out from beneath this tree, then I will be James to you now, one last time.”

  Her eyes widened, but she did not resist as he pulled her to him, a hungry desperation rising. He dipped his head to fasten his lips upon hers. Gods, he would never get enough of holding her, of kissing her.

  She sighed and leaned into him, mouth warm under his. Her hands slipped up to curve around his neck, holding on.

  Everything else blurred except the heat between them, the urgent dance of their tongues, the press of two bodies close together. How well she fitted against him, soft and perfectly female. It made him wish to have her unclothed beneath him, her skin again his, their bodies moving together. He wanted to undress her, to kiss her beautiful, full breasts, to hear again the sounds of pleasure he had drawn from her yesterday, and to join her in that wave of ecstasy.

  She was as eager as he, it seemed. Her questing hands were tugging at his coat, pulling it down. Lips still
locked together, James shrugged out of the garment. He could not keep his own hands from skimming over the delicious curve of her breasts, circling, then settling at her hips and pulling him firmly against him.

  Their breaths mingled, fast and desperate as he deepened the kiss, as if he could claim her by making her senseless with desire. He would make her his own, the world be damned.

  She stiffened suddenly in his arms.

  Blast it. Someone was pushing through the branches. James stepped back, leaving Lily holding his rumpled jacket.

  “I say, what a marvelous specimen of a tree!” Sir Edward’s head appeared through the thicket, followed by the rest of him.

  “Ah, hello, Uncle,” Lily said, a stricken expression on her face.

  Sir Edward’s gaze went to the jacket in her hands. “Well. This is most irregular, my dear.”

  “No… not at all,” she said, cheeks still flushed with passion. “I thought I spotted some unusually shaped seed pods in the upper branches. James offered to climb up to obtain a sample and I, um, I offered to hold his coat while he scaled the tree.”

  “Seed pods?” Sir Edward squinted upward. “A pity I left my field glasses back with the horses. But they won’t be needed if we can obtain a sample. Capital idea, Huntington. We’ll make a botanist of you yet.”

  “No doubt,” James said, rolling up his sleeves and approaching the trunk. “Or a raving lunatic.” Why was it that the most tempting fruit was always just out of reach?

  ***

  The next day, the expedition followed the road beside the river. The Medjerda continued wide and swift, still swollen by the rains.

  “Mr. James.” Khalil pointed back down the road, to where sunlight winked off white cloth, illuminating a flurry of movement. James turned in the saddle, shading his eyes with one hand. Horsemen, riding fast.

  “What do you think?”

  The guide shook his head. “I do not know. They are riding swiftly. Perhaps they are being chased.”

  “Or chasing someone.” James looked over his own party. Large enough, certainly, but not prepared for violence. He glanced behind them. The figures were closing quickly, a band of about ten men, robes flapping. He could hear the sound of their hooves in the distance.

  “Off the road!” James shouted, pulling his horse’s head around. He waved the Strathmores into the surrounding field, then reached for his pistol. He prayed he would not be called upon to use it—but if they tried to touch Lily… He concealed the gun under his coat.

  The servants struggled to turn the mules—one animal balked at crossing the narrow ditch that ran beside the road. Its load swayed precariously as the men pushed and cursed. Finally it dashed ahead, spilling a clamor of canteens and pots onto the ground.

  Then the riders were upon them, the jingle of their harnesses cutting over the heavy thud of hoofbeats. James, last to leave the road, placed himself squarely in front of the Strathmores. He could smell the lather of the horses, hear the animals’ labored breathing.

  The band did not slow. They swept past, dark faces turned briefly toward the party. An unlucky pan, left behind, spun and clattered, crushed under the booming hooves.

  James’s scalp prickled. For an instant he had thought he recognized a familiar, black-haired form among the riders. There was something about the way the man sat his horse that native dress could not quite disguise. James blinked twice, but when he looked again he could see nothing that would distinguish one robed figure from the others, and then the riders reached a bend in the road and vanished.

  Could Reggie have somehow gotten word of their departure and followed them?

  The expedition collected itself and returned slowly to the road.

  “What the devil?” Sir Edward glared in the direction the riders had gone.

  James glanced at Khalil, but the guide shrugged. “I do not know, sir. None of them were related to me.”

  It felt like a close call, even though the riders had done nothing to threaten them. He uncocked his pistol. He needed to be more careful here outside of Tunis. The Strathmores’ welfare was his responsibility.

  “Khalil—take the rear for a bit. Keep a sharp eye out and warn us if anyone approaches. Everyone, if we’re threatened, form up close, with the women behind.”

  They were more vulnerable than he liked—a caravan of luggage and women and botanical equipment. Too many complications. He looked over to Lily.

  Far too many complications.

  They rode on for an hour more through orange groves and past wheat fields before coming to an ancient stone bridge spanning the river. A swarthy man in striped robes stood at the head of the bridge, casually holding an ancient musket. Behind him ranged five other men, with long, wicked blades tucked in their sashes.

  James raised his hand, halting the party. His horse shifted restlessly beneath him. “Move out of the way,” he said in French.

  The leader sneered. “For you to cross, one hundred dinar.”

  Behind him James heard Sir Edward’s sound of outrage.

  “Ridiculous.” Khalil had ridden up from the rear. “Even my father would not charge so much. This is the bey’s road, and you have his letter. There is no charge to travel. I will tell him.”

  The two natives spoke angrily in Arabic, their voices growing louder as they exchanged what could only be insults.

  “What is he saying?” James asked at last.

  A frown lined Khalil’s face. “I will not repeat what that flea-bitten dog says, except that he insists now the price is two hundred dinars.”

  James studied the ground in front of him. Fresh tracks led straight over the bridge and beyond. He bent low in the saddle to look, and then dismounted to examine something on the ground. He picked it up—the butt of a stubbed-out cheroot.

  “The ones who came before us,” he said to the man on the bridge. “Did they pay?”

  “No.” The bandit’s thumb stroked the gun barrel. “But you do not pass.”

  “On whose command? Yours or the foreigner?”

  His opponent shifted his eyes to one side and sucked his teeth. “Three hundred dinars,” he said. Behind him, the other men stepped forward, their hands gripping the hilts of their swords.

  James looked back. Sir Edward’s face was flushed with rage. “Huntington, we outnumber them four to one. It’s outrageous for them to stop us.”

  “It is—but consider what we have to lose if we try and force our way across.” His gaze rested on Lily for a heartbeat, then Isabelle, Richard, the men from Brookdale. Which one would he be willing to endanger? They were all here because of him. “We can’t afford to take risks. There must be another way.”

  “Yes,” Khalil said. “There is a ford, though it brings us some distance from our chosen path.”

  James swung himself into the saddle. “Take us there.”

  The men on the bridge laughed—a raw, harsh sound like the conversation of crows. James did not look back. It would be harder going off the main road, but the bridge was closed to them.

  The river path was overgrown with branches, and the party was continually molested by small black midges whose bites were painful all out of proportion to their size. James dropped back to listen every so often, but could hear no one following.

  Conversation within the party dwindled as the path rose and grew rockier and the animals labored. The underbrush made it hard to see the river, but he could hear it, rushing louder. Finally the path widened again, sloping down to disappear under the muddy wildness the Medjerda had become.

  Khalil sent a doubtful glance at the river. “It may be a difficult crossing. The rains.”

  “Oh my,” Lady Mary said, looking at the water seething before them. “It is quite a torrent.”

  James slung down from his horse to study the opposite bank. It would be possible—but not easy. The men and mules waited, as far back from the river as they could, and he could see the drivers were reluctant.

  “Fetch a rope—a long one,” he said, strippin
g off his coat. “I’ll go across and secure it to that tree.”

  “It is too dangerous,” Sir Edward said. “Have Khalil go instead.”

  The guide backed up, holding his hands in front of him. “Allah have mercy. I cannot swim.”

  “I didn’t expect you could.” James handed his coat to Richard.

  “Let me go,” the young man said, adventure lighting his eyes. “I can swim splendidly.”

  “I have no doubt.” James rolled up his sleeves. “You may have the chance to demonstrate your skills if the water is deeper than it looks, but stay here for now. I’ll need you to help guide the others across.” He took the rope and tied one end around his waist.

  Lily was looking at him. “Be careful.” Her voice was low.

  He gave her a wink. “I can swim splendidly, too.”

  His horse snorted as he urged it into the river. The muddy torrent rose to the animal’s knees and then its withers. The water was cold and swift, but he was nearly halfway across. The current was every bit as strong as he had feared. Each step toward the far bank also pushed them downstream. He could feel the animal struggling.

  And then it lost its footing as the bottom dropped away.

  “James!” He heard the shouts behind him. The horse lunged, and lunged again, the animal’s powerful muscles surging against the downriver pull.

  The rope was sodden and heavy around his waist, the length of it dragging behind them, and the water buffeted his hips. He could hear nothing but its angry rushing. Finally the horse’s feet found purchase, and a moment later they splashed out of the river.

  The watchers on the far bank let out a cheer, and he turned to wave, dismayed to see how far the current had pulled them. The others would have to start further upstream. He made short work of securing the rope and saw that Khalil had done the same on the opposite side. That would help.

  Richard did not hesitate to urge his mount into the water, and shortly the young man joined him. “That wasn’t so bad.”

  “It may be harder to convince them.” James nodded at the native men whispering together. “Stay here and help get people ashore. I’ll take the other side.”