by Marie Laval
‘I told you it would be hard, my dear,’ he said when he caught her staring with dismay at the room. ‘It isn’t too late if you want to turn back, you know. Saintclair told me only this morning that he will spare two of his men to ride back to Algiers with you.’
‘Did he, now?’ She tightened her mouth.
‘In fact, he has a bet going with his men that you will turn back before we reach Boghar at the end of the week. For once, I happen to agree with him. I’m really not happy about you being here, Harriet.’
He stepped towards her, took her hand in his. ‘This isn’t like our archaeological digs in Greece or Italy. There are tribes fighting for their land, bandits planning to ambush us along the way to steal our gold. Further south there will be the Sahara, the Tuaregs—’
‘I am staying and Saintclair had better get used to the idea,’ she said, pulling her hand. She turned to one of the straw beds. ‘Would you mind if I shared your room tonight?’
He opened his eyes wide and she added quickly, ‘I would feel better if you were close by. After all, you told Saintclair that we are … you know… engaged, and we did share the tent last night.’
‘Of course, dear,’ he said. ‘It’s a good idea, for your own protection.’
There was colour on his cheeks now. He cleared his throat and gestured to the beds.
‘Pick your side and get ready. I’ll wait until you are settled for the night.’
She unpacked a wash cloth and a bar of soap and proceeded to the washroom at the end of the corridor. There she splashed water on her face and performed a quick toilette. Back in the room, she slipped into her nightgown and untied her hair. She brushed it until it fell, shiny and silky on her shoulders. Wrapping herself in the musty woollen blanket, she got into bed, turned towards the wall and closed her eyes. She was fast asleep within seconds and didn’t even hear Archie come in.
She didn’t know what woke her late in the night. Was it Archie’s snores, the gushing torrent nearby, or the snorting and stomping of horses under her window?
She sat up, filled with panic and her heart beating fast and loud. For a few seconds she couldn’t remember where she was. As her eyes got accustomed to the darkness, she made out Archie’s body stretched out on the bed opposite, their bags and boots scattered on the beaten earth floor.
There were people out there, talking with hushed voices. What if, contrary to what Saintclair had claimed, the Mouzaias had decided to rob their gold? Or if a gang of raiders had followed them from Blida?
She had to find Saintclair and warn him of the danger. She sprang out of bed, pulled the curtain, and walked into the corridor. A couple of oil lamps hung from the low ceiling gave out a weak light. All the curtains were drawn. She hesitated. Which room was Saintclair’s?
There was a noise near the front door. A tall figure stood in the doorway, outlined by the cold moonlight. She froze and held her breath. The man moved, fast and silent towards her, his hand to his side. The glint of a blade shone in the silver moon rays.
‘Miss Montague? What are you doing out of your room?’ Saintclair grabbed her arm.
‘I could ask you the same question.’ She tried to shake him off but he held her too tightly.
‘I don’t want you wandering at night, especially not dressed like that.’ He looked down to her bare feet and his eyes travelled slowly upward. She was cruelly aware that only the thin linen nightgown stood between him and her naked body.
A violent heat burned her face. He extended his hand towards her pendant.
‘Fatima’s hand…’ His fingers brushed against her good luck charm. She felt their warmth against her skin. ‘That’s sweet, but I think we’ll need more than that to keep us alive, darling.’
‘Don’t call me darling, and let go of me,’ she snapped.
‘What are you doing up?’ He dropped his hand to his side.
‘I came to warn you. I heard men’s voices outside.’
He smiled. ‘Why didn’t you wake Drake? You’re in the same room.’
‘I don’t know,’ she answered, confused. The thought of waking Archie had never occurred to her.
‘There’s nothing to worry about. I was outside with a few friends.’
‘In the middle of the night? What were you doing?’
‘That’s none of your business, darling,’ he said with a mocking smile, emphasizing the last word. ‘Now run along back to bed like a good girl, and next time you venture out of your room, make sure you’re dressed properly. You don’t want to give my men—or me—any ideas.’
He turned round and went back outside. She waited a few seconds before following him. When she got to the door, he was already climbing up the ravine trail along with a dozen other men all dressed in black.
Where were they going?
She tiptoed back to her room, lay down on the straw mattress, and pulled the rough woollen blankets over her head.
Of course.
How could she have forgotten what Slimane, the inn-keeper, had said earlier? Saintclair was on his way to meet a woman—probably Djamila, the bayadere pining for him in Blida. Didn’t he say he only cared about drinking wine and having a beautiful woman by his side?
Chapter Four
A piece of flat bread, half a dozen candied figs and a cup of bitter tea may not have been Harriet’s ordinary choice of breakfast, but that morning in the pink and blue dawn rising over the Chiffa gorges, it tasted like heaven. She gulped down her hot drink, licked the sugar off her fingers and bit hungrily into the bread. Outside, Saintclair barked orders as he supervised the saddling of the horses and the loading of bags and supplies. It was his voice, brusque and bad-tempered, that had woke her up half an hour before. At first she had tried to ignore him and pulled the scratchy blanket over her head. Her body ached so much that even the prickly straw mattress was more agreeable than the prospect of spending a day in the saddle or scrambling up and down a mountain track. Then, groaning with pain, she’d had to get up and get ready.
Saintclair sounded positively rugged this morning, not at all like a man who had spent the night in his lover’s arms. But had he? Perhaps the bayadere hadn’t welcomed his return with the enthusiasm he had expected. Perhaps he hadn’t been able to make her sing? It would almost be funny if it wasn’t so infuriating. How could he be irresponsible enough to abandon them in the mountains to chase after a woman?
She went outside, looked up towards the peaks and snuggled into the wool burnous she wore over her layers of clothing—trousers tucked in riding boots, two cotton chemises under a thick blue tunic, all of which should have been more than adequate to keep her warm. Holding her sketch pad and a couple of pencils, she wandered away from the caravanserail. She had decided to keep a record of their journey, and now was the only chance she would have to draw the gorges.
Archie stood apart, cradling a cup of tea, a morose expression on his face. He had been short with her earlier when she asked about the arrangements for the day ahead.
‘I am as much in the dark as you regarding Saintclair’s plans,’ he had replied, sitting on his bed and pulling his boots on.
Better let him sulk on his own for now. The problem, she decided as she made her way to the torrent, was that Archie was used to being in charge. Here, he had to comply with Saintclair’s orders, rely on their guide’s experience and knowledge of the terrain, and he didn’t like it.
Shivering with cold despite her thick clothing, she walked across dew-covered grass, wild thyme and coriander before choosing a boulder near the water to sit on and start sketching.
‘We’re leaving soon.’ Saintclair’s abrupt voice behind her made her jump.
She closed the cover of her drawing book.
‘Fine. I’m ready.’ She stood up to face him.
He looked just as rugged as he sounded. His eyes were weary and slightly bloodshot as if he hadn’t slept. He rubbed his bristly cheeks and raked his fingers in his dark hair.
‘Come on then.’
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�What’s wrong with him?’ She pointed to one of the Tuareg men whose hand was wrapped in a thick bandage.
‘A card game which got out of hand last night in Blida, that’s all. Gambling, wine, and women…Always a recipe for a good fight.’
Gesturing towards the injured man, he added with a shrug. ‘Hakim will be all right in a couple of days, don’t worry.’
Harriet looked at him, wide-eyed. He had just confirmed her suspicions.
‘You are telling me not to worry when you sneak out at night to play cards, drink liquor and chase after women instead of safekeeping the ransom money and working out a plan to get my father out of the Tuaregs’ clutches?’
Blood rushed to her face. Filled with an anger she couldn’t control, she stepped forward and jabbed a finger into his chest.
‘Why should I worry indeed, when my life is in the hands of a second rate Casanova and his band of merry men? What if you were injured, or killed, in a tavern brawl? Where would we do then?’
She was about to poke his chest again when he caught her wrist.
‘Don’t do that, Miss, I find it irritating.’ He bent down. ‘Let’s get one thing straight. You may have a claim on my days, but you have none on my nights.’
He lowered his voice, cocked his head. ‘Unless, of course, you’re jealous of the dancing girls I sleep with and you’re offering to share my bed.’
‘How dare you talk to me like that? You are nothing but a…a…’ She almost choked with righteous outrage.
Still holding her wrist in his iron grip, he pulled her a little closer until she felt the heat, the hardness of his body.
‘If my presence is so odious to you, you can always return to Algiers.’
The absolute ice blue of his eyes struck her like a physical blow but she held her ground.
‘I am going all the way to Tamanrasset, Saintclair, whether you like it or not.’
He released her wrist.
‘Then take care of your horse instead of drawing pretty flowers.’ He pointed to her sketch pad before turning round and marching towards the caravanserail.
She stomped her foot and let out a cry of frustration. What she really wanted to do was pick up a stone and throw it at his back. Crouching down near the torrent, she dipped her fingers in the icy cold water and dabbed some on her face and throat which felt like they were on fire.
Never had anyone made her so angry before. She had every right to scold Saintclair for failing his duty, for leaving them during the night to go gallivanting. Yet somehow he had managed to make fun of her.
‘Harriet! Hurry up!’ Archie called.
Men and horses were lining up on the patch, ready to depart.
The third day of their journey had started.
They walked all morning to a pass from where they could see all the way to the Mediterranean sea to the north and to the Alfa plains to the south, which Archie said were known for mirages.
‘Travellers have reported seeing fortresses with golden walls, mountains or oases which aren’t on any map, even strange animals no one’s ever seen before.’
They were enjoying a rest and a frugal lunch before walking down the other side of the mountain.
‘I would like to see a mirage.’ Harriet broke a piece of flat bread almost as hard as the sole of her boots into tiny pieces to make it more palatable. Archie gave her a gourd filled with fresh water and she drank a long sip.
‘You seemed rather upset with Saintclair this morning. What were you arguing about?’
‘Nothing. He was just being his usual charming self.’ She was reluctant to tell him about the guide’s nocturnal escapade and add to Archie’s worries. He had so much to think about already.
‘I know, dear.’ He leaned towards her to take the gourd. ‘You have to remember that he isn’t like us. He was probably brought up in a hovel in one of those Saharan garrison towns. I bet his father was a soldier, his mother a cantinière, or worse…’
Ahmoud approached them.
‘Are you ready? We have to leave now if we want to be in Medea by sunset.’ It was the first time he had spoken directly to Harriet.
‘Is that where we are spending the night?’
Ahmoud gestured towards Saintclair. ‘He decides.’
Archie’s mouth hardened. ‘I don’t see why our stopover is such a closely guarded secret.’
‘Maybe it’s because of the ransom gold,’ she ventured. ‘Saintclair wants to keep marauders guessing about our whereabouts.’
They started down the mountain, on a track so narrow they had to pull their horses behind them. The track overlooked vertiginous precipices covered with prickly bushes and small, twisted pine trees. By mid-afternoon, Harriet’s legs were weak and shaky. She almost wept with relief when Saintclair gave the signal to stop on the bank of a small lake that mirrored the bright blue, cloudless sky above. Goats roamed under the watchful eye of a shepherd who played soulful tunes on a flute.
She sat on the soft grass, stretched her legs in front of her and took out her sketch pad and pencil to draw. After a while, she untied her turban and closed her eyes to enjoy the warm caress of the sun on her face and listen to the shepherd’s tune, timeless and poignant, that hovered around her, carried by the breeze.
He watched her as she squeezed her eyes shut against the sun and sat so still it looked as though she was asleep. He’d been watching her since they left Algiers. Damn the woman. She was holding up much better than he had expected. He had banked on her turning into an hysterical female, complaining of the heat during the day, the cold at night, and demanding hot baths, feather beds and decent food. She had done none of that. She followed without complaining, ate what she was given—almost. Slimane’s spicy soup had been a touch too much for her, he recalled with a smile.
She was intriguing, unconventional…and courageous. Not many young women would follow their lover halfway across the world without a care for their reputation, and brave both danger and discomfort as she did.
She was also a distraction he could well do without. Her hair shone in the sun, the colour of ripe wheat. Her eyes were fascinating. He had always dreamed of the changeable skies of the Devonshire coast where his mother had grown up. Harriet Montague’s grey eyes were the colour of a storm cloud. They were cool and soothing, like a promise of rain.
The sound of the shepherd’s flute drew him back to reality. He shook his head, annoyed. He couldn’t let himself be distracted by a woman’s eyes, even if they were as captivating as Harriet Montague’s. It was time to up his game, change his angle. The woman had to go back to Algiers, for her own sake. They would stop at Safir’s tavern tonight, where a particularly beautiful dancer owed him a favour or two. And after last night, his men could do with a rest. It had been too close a call in Blida.
He walked to her, crouched at her side and picked up her sketch pad. Flicking through the pages, he saw portraits of the young shepherd and Old Chehani, drawings of the gorges and torrent. There were pages after pages of detailed sketches of Algiers houses, old carved doors and mosaics, and even what appeared to be a small cemetery. He smiled, pleasantly surprised. She had talent.
‘You’ll soon run out of pages at this rate,’ he remarked.
She jumped and opened her eyes. How could a man of his stature be so light on his feet?
‘I wish you’d stop doing that,’ she said, straightening up. She extended her hand to take her pad from him and held it against her chest.
‘Doing what?’
‘Sneaking up on me.’
He lifted the corner of his mouth in something which could pass as a smile. ‘I’m a scout. Sneaking up on people is what I do.’
Unsettled by his presence, she pulled her knees up to her chin and wrapped her arms around them. She pointed her chin towards the shepherd boy.
‘He is so young to be wandering the mountain alone. Where does he sleep?’
‘Here and there, under the stars, in a makeshift hut or in a cave. People are poor around here.’
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‘And yet, he plays his music and roams free…’
Saintclair’s face hardened. He picked up a stick and toyed with it.
‘He won’t be free for much longer if the French have their way.’
‘Aren’t they going to improve life here for people, bring civilization?’
He snorted, snapped the twig in two.
‘Civilization? What is civilization and who’s to decide what country needs to be civilized? Didn’t you see great palaces and artwork dating back hundreds of years when you were in Algiers? What about the well-tended farmland and orchards we travelled through yesterday? They have been there for a long time. Isn’t that civilization enough?’
He spread his arms as if to encompass the mountains, the lake. Then he narrowed his eyes and pointed to the shepherd.
‘And what about him and his way of life? Who’s to decide he isn’t civilized?’
He picked another twig, dug into the dusty ground.
She could feel the anger inside him, raw, burning. So he did care, despite what he had said earlier… Cautiously, she shifted the conversation onto more neutral ground.
‘Are we heading to Medea?’
He nodded.
‘Medea tonight. Berroughia tomorrow. Then we’ll follow the ancient nomadic route to the south, maybe even hook up with a caravan. ‘He smiled. ‘There is safety in numbers.’
‘And then where? Djelfa and Laghouat?’
He arched his eyebrows. She felt pleased to see he was impressed.
‘So it’s true, you can read maps.’ He carried on. ‘You’ll like Medea. I know a hotel where you’ll have all the comfort you women can’t do without.’
‘Meaning?’ She narrowed her eyes.
‘A hot bath, soft towels, a dressing table with a mirror to do your hair—those kinds of things.’
She realized she was clenching her fists and forced herself to relax her fingers.
‘I don’t need a hot bath or soft towels, Monsieur Saintclair. If I wanted a wash, I could easily take my clothes off, jump into this lake and stand naked in the sunshine to dry.’