by Marie Laval
He let out a short laugh, shook his head. ‘I think you’re mistaking me for somebody else entirely, Miss Montague. I’m no philanthropist.’
Her lip took a scornful downward curve, her eyes became cool. He didn’t like it, but in the end, what did it matter? Let her believe what she wanted.
‘I see…I would like a few moments to myself, if you don’t mind.’ She pulled her sketch pad and pencil from her bag, sat down to sketch the scenery.
He stared at the line of the horizon, at the rugged mountain summits, the hawks gliding in the skies like spirits, casting their shadow on the plains below. His glance slid to Harriet who was drawing, with application, a view of the mountains and the valley. She was pale today. The purple shadows under her eyes were a sure sign that she hadn’t slept well. She was jumpy, emotional, and angry. He turned away, a satisfied smile on his lips. His plan had worked.
What he should do now was aggravate the rift between the lovers, find another woman or two for Drake to enjoy. He should be as obnoxious as he could towards her, unsettle her, and push her all the way back to Algiers.
Absent-mindedly, he lifted a hand to the shoulder which still bore the faintest trace of her teeth. The woman knew how to put up a fight, he’d grant her that. Other memories assailed him. The feel of her body against his, of her breasts pressed against his back and her legs encircling his waist when she had jumped to attack him down in the Algiers docks.
He loosened the collar of his shirt, feeling a rush of heat in his blood.
Drake was a fool. What did he need a dancing girl for when he had a woman like Harriet Montague to warm his bed?
They would be in Boggar in a couple of days. By then, if he played his cards right, Harriet Montague would be so confused about him and so mad at her fiancé that she would beg to be sent back to Algiers. No way would he risk her life, and the life of others, by taking her any further.
He clenched his jaw. There were other reasons why he didn’t want her to come to Tamanrasset. Her father was most probably dead by now and he wanted to spare her the ordeal of facing his killers. He knew all too well how that felt.
He pulled his hat down to shelter his eyes from the fierce sunshine and stood up to give the signal to pack up. Ahmoud and the others would join them shortly. Other dangers awaited in Berroughia.
Chapter Seven
They didn’t reach Berrouaghia. The mountain road was so busy, with soldiers on foot and on horses, carts, and wagons carrying ammunitions and supplies that it took all afternoon to ride down into the valley. The sun was setting, blood red, behind the darkened peaks of the Atlas mountain range, and the muezzin was calling the faithful to prayer when they rode through the gates of Sour Djouab, a fortified village lying at the entrance of the valley.
Saintclair led them into a maze of alleyways which reminded Harriet of the Algiers Kasbah. They might be safe enough for now, but it would definitely not be a good idea to venture there alone after nightfall. They left their horses in a small stable and carried their saddle bags with them to the nearby inn where an old woman dressed in a long white robe sat in the doorway. She led them into a shabby front room with stained, yellow walls and a dirty floor. Saintclair pointed at Harriet and told the woman something in Arabic which made her laugh whole-heartedly as she handed him a bunch of keys.
‘Do we have to stay in this fleapit?’ Archie pursed his lips as he looked around.
‘I stay with people I trust not to slit our throat while we’re sleeping,’ Saintclair said.
He grinned and added. ‘You’ll change your mind about this place later on when the dancers arrive.’
‘I really don’t know what you mean…’ Archie muttered, but the glint in his eyes didn’t escape Harriet’s attention.
She breathed in sharply. Surely he wasn’t planning on taking another girl to his room tonight?
‘The best room is for you, Miss Montague,’ Saintclair declared. He handed her a large brass key with a red tassel tied to it. ‘It’s your lucky night. They usually keep it for important dignitaries.’
‘Important dignitaries? In this place?’ Now it was her turn to look around the inn with doubt.
‘It’s also the furthest from the stairs. You won’t be disturbed by comings and goings.’
Her fingers gripped the key more tightly as understanding dawned. What he meant of course was that the men, Archie included, would be able to take girls up to their rooms and she would be none the wiser.
‘Very well.’
She lifted her chin and marched up the staircase, her bag on her shoulder, with as much dignity as she could muster. This journey was turning into a farce, with Saintclair and Archie obviously more concerned with sampling the delights of local bayaderes than rescuing her father from the Tuaregs. She stomped up the stairs, her nerves so raw she didn’t know if she wanted to laugh or cry.
A few minutes later, she was doing both at the same time. The key Saintclair had given her was stuck in the lock of the bedroom door and despite her best efforts it wasn’t shifting. No way was she going back downstairs to ask for help. Saintclair and the others would only make fun of her. She gave the door a kick and burst into tears.
‘Let me help.’
He was behind her. As usual, she hadn’t heard him approach.
She spun around, almost bumped into his chest.
‘I can’t seem to be able to…turn the…key.’ She bowed her head, embarrassed to be caught sobbing over such a trivial matter.
‘There’s no need to cry.’ His voice was surprisingly gentle. His eyes warm, almost kind, and for once he didn’t look as if he wanted to make fun of her. He wriggled the key in the lock a few times until finally it turned. The door creaked open.
He took her bag and carried it into the room.
She wiped her tears with the back of her hands, sniffled a few times, and followed him in. If this was the room reserved for dignitaries, she didn’t want to see what the ordinary ones looked like.
The large bed was partly hidden by a gold-coloured curtain that clashed with the gaudy red counterpane and cushions. The walls were covered with a red and yellow paint so garish it hurt her eyes. On one side of the bed was a full-length mirror and on the opposite wall hang the painting of a woman. A very nude woman, in a very unusual position.
‘It is colourful,’ she said quickly, looking away from the painting, conscious that her cheeks were probably as red as the bed covers.
She knew what this place was now. It wasn’t an inn. Why wasn’t she surprised?
‘You have brought us to a bordello, haven’t you?’
Saintclair arched his eyebrows as if he was shocked.
‘Miss Montague, I can assure you that—’ But his lips twitched and there was a glint in his eyes.
‘Never mind. Thank you for helping me with the door. That will be all,’ she said, not caring if she sounded like a queen dismissing a servant. ‘By the way, what did you tell that old woman when we arrived?’
He shrugged. ‘I made something up to ensure you would have the best room. It’s not important what.’
She narrowed her eyes. ‘What did you tell her?’
‘You don’t really want to know.’
‘Yes, I do,’ she insisted. ‘I want to know why she looked at me with a silly grin on her face.’
‘You won’t like it,’ he objected.
‘I insist, Monsieur Saintclair.’
He sighed. ‘I told her I abducted you from your father and was planning to ravish you later tonight. That’s why I wanted the largest, softest bed.’
‘What?’ She almost shrieked.
‘I did warn you.’ He walked towards the door. ‘Someone will bring you hot water and food in a short while. I strongly advise you stay in here and lock your door. Wandering out wouldn’t be a good idea.’
He looked at the key in the palm of his hand. ‘Actually, now that I think about it, it might be wiser if I kept the key, just in case you got it stuck in the door again, of course.’
; ‘You wouldn’t dare!’ She started towards him, but she wasn’t fast enough.
He was out of the room before she could reach him. She heard the key turn.
‘Saintclair! Open this door right now!’ She slammed her fists on the door pane, heard his footsteps down the corridor. He had locked her in. She banged on the door a few more times, but it was useless.
She walked to the bed and pulled the covers, her lips pursed in distaste. At least the sheets were clean, but she would have to block any thought of what had gone on in that bed before to be able to sleep tonight. She examined her surroundings in more detail. Her eyes skimmed over the painting, then came back to it. This time it wasn’t the woman’s nude body that brought a hot flush to her cheeks and dried her throat. It was her eyes—dark, full of surrender, desire and anticipation. She shuddered, felt a strange heat creep inside her. She crossed her arms on her chest and made herself look away.
She caught sight of her reflection in the mirror on the other side of the bed. Her lips parted and she breathed faster. Would she ever look at a man with the same feverish abandon? She swallowed hard and walked around the bedroom. Concealed behind a red curtain was a door she hadn’t noticed before. It led to a tiny bathroom, an unexpected luxury in this place. She walked back into the room, stood at the latticed window. The room overlooked a small courtyard where a couple of ragged palm trees stood in the grey-blue light of dusk.
The sound of a key in the lock made her turn round. Saintclair was back. She would have a word or two to say to him. He had no right keeping her locked up in this room.
But it wasn’t Saintclair who walked in. It was the old woman and a young girl. The girl carried two large buckets of water into the washroom. She kept her eyes averted and never looked once at Harriet. The old woman put a tray of food on the rickety dressing table, busied herself with lighting an oil lamp.
When she had finished, she smiled her toothless smile and walked back to the door.
‘Wait!’ Harriet cried out. ‘Give me the key.’ She pointed to the door and made the gesture of turning a key into the lock.
The woman shook her head and spoke very fast. There was a glint of panic in her eyes. She must be following Saintclair’s orders and feared he would be angry if she gave her the key. The last thing she wanted was for an old woman to be scared because of her.
She shrugged, defeated. ‘It doesn’t matter,’ she whispered, and she watched as the door closed again and the key turned in the lock.
Lucas toyed with the key the old woman had given him before slipping it inside the pocket of his waistcoat. At least he didn’t have to worry about Harriet Montague for now. She wouldn’t get into any trouble tonight. She would be safely tucked in that big, soft bed, probably cursing him all the way to the devil and back. Or crying. His eyes grew sombre. He hadn’t liked seeing her cry before. It had tugged at him, made him feel guilty, uncomfortable. And yet, he should be satisfied. Despite the brave face she put on, she was weakening. He only had to push a little harder for her to decide to give up this ridiculous idea she had to travel to the desert with them and go back to Algiers.
He sat at the table which had been set aside for him and his men in the darkest corner of the room, away from all the dancing and the gambling. They had finished eating and were sipping strong, black coffee. He lit a cigar, tasted the smoke, blew it out and looked at Drake. The Englishman was the only one drinking wine. He emptied the pitcher into his tumbler, gulped it down, oblivious to the men’s tense looks, their hushed voices. Lucas leaned back in his chair, confident that the laudanum he had slipped into the wine earlier would soon take effect.
Drake slouched on the table.
‘Damn this place,’ he muttered. ‘Where are the pretty dancers you promised me, Saintclair?’
He craned his neck to catch a glimpse of the dance floor where a woman moved and swirled to the wild tunes of tambourines, zurnas and flutes. ‘This one is way past her prime.’
‘What do you care about bayaderes when your lovely fiancée is all alone in that big bed, Drake?’ Lucas asked. Not that he had any intention of relinquishing the key to her bedroom to anyone, even her fiancé. His fingers tapped impatiently on the table.
Archie hiccupped. ‘Back off, S-Saintclair! You’ve no business f-finding Harriet lovely. She’s mine. All mine.’ He threw a black glance to Lucas. ‘And I tell you what. Yeah, she’s pretty, and clever, and wild too…Exactly what a man wants between the sheets.’ He chuckled, smacked his lips.
‘You’re a lucky man, Drake.’ Lucas tightened his hold on the cigar, so much it snapped in two. He cursed. That was a waste of a good cigar. It was none of his business if Drake and Harriet Montague slept together. Why then did he feel like punching the man?
Anyway, why was Drake still awake? He had a remarkable resistance to drugs. The dose he had slipped in his wine would have been enough to put an ox to sleep.
‘She’s wild and hot…and sh-she’s all m-ine,’ Drake repeated, slurring his words now. He burst out laughing then he muttered something unintelligible, dropped his goblet of wine and collapsed on the table.
At last! Lucas signalled to two of his men to take him away. He didn’t even open his eyes when they lifted him up and carried him upstairs to his room. He would be dead to the world until the following morning. To be on the safe side, he asked the men to lock him in his room too.
Drake and Harriet’s relationship was odd, certainly. Lucas frowned. The Englishman didn’t behave like a besotted fiancé. There was something callous about the way he had just spoken of her. Maybe he saw Harriet as a way to further his position at the British Museum. As for her… He narrowed his eyes. She seemed upset enough when she found out that Drake had bedded a dancing girl. One thing was certain. She wasn’t afraid of braving social conventions and following him across Europe and North Africa openly, as his mistress. She must be very much in love with him.
Ahmoud walked in. He looked around, nodded. Everything was in place. Lucas forgot all about Harriet and focused on the task ahead. He gestured to his men. They all got up but for one who would stay at the inn. All of them wore dark clothing and a grim, purposeful expression on their faces as they slipped out of the tavern through the back door and dissolved into the shadows.
Chapter Eight
‘The French took over the fort Abd-el-Kader built when he controlled the area.’ Saintclair gestured towards the cluster of buildings surrounded by a wall and fortification.
In front of them, the steppes stretched as far as the eye could see. They were the reason this region had been, and still was, of vital importance both to the rebels and to the French who sought to control the country.
‘Boghar overlooks the caravan trails used by the nomads from the Sahara when they come to the Tell,’ Saintclair explained.
‘What are these mountains over there?’ Harriet pointed to the faint outline of a mountain range in the far distance.
‘The Djebel Amour.’
‘What a beautiful, romantic name.’ Harriet smiled, dreamy.
‘There’s nothing romantic about it,’ he answered. ‘It’s just the name of the main tribe who live in the area.’
Her smile vanished, wiped by the sharpness of his tone. She stared at the landscape stretching in front of her. It wasn’t only the scenery that was breathtaking, with groves of pine, junipers and thujas trees, waterfalls and streams meandering between the rocks. The light was different here too. The sky was higher, bigger.
There seemed to be a lot going on around the French fort, with troops on foot and horses moving carts, cannons and weapons.
‘Looks like the French are getting ready for an attack,’ Archie remarked.
He rubbed his pale, unshaven face, pulled his hat down over his bloodshot eyes. He had hardly talked all day and even seemed half-asleep at times, about to fall off his horse. And he reeked of cheap wine. What had got into him? He didn’t behave like the Archie she knew anymore. Only a week before, she would never have believed
he drank so much or took tavern girls to his bed.
‘I guess we’ll soon find out,’ Saintclair said.
A small detachment of French cavalry was riding their way. Saintclair raised his hand, both in salute to the French chasseurs and to signal his men to stop. The French rode up to them, a hostile look on their faces. As soon as they halted, they put their hand on the sabres or the rifles they carried tucked in a harness on their sides. The officer in charge asked Saintclair for travelling documents in a tense voice.
‘Nobody’s allowed in the fort today,’ he said after checking the papers and handing them back.
‘Has something happened?’ Saintclair folded the documents and put them back in the leather pouch that hung across his body.
‘There was a jailbreak at the penitentiary last night,’ the French officer answered. ‘El-Berkani and three of his lieutenants escaped. There’s no trace of them.’
Saintclair raised his eyebrows.
‘They’ll be far away by now.’
The man tightened his lips, the resolve on his face plain.
‘We’ll get them. Lieutenant Mortemer has just arrived with his best trackers. If anyone can catch El-Berkani, they can.’
He bowed his head slightly, touched the brim of his kepi and turned around, followed by the rest of the chasseurs.
‘Who is El-Berkani?’ Archie asked as they set off again.
‘One of Abd-el-Kader’s most trusted men,’ Saintclair replied. ‘He was taken two years ago, along with the emir’s army.’
‘Blast! Things are getting more dangerous by the day!’ Archie pushed his hat back on his forehead and leaned over to Harriet. ‘That’s it, dear. Saintclair was right all along. This isn’t the place for you. I’m sending you back to Algiers, and that is final.’
Cold rage rose inside her, choking her.
‘Really? So you agree with Saintclair now…That must be why you have embraced his ways regarding drinking and women. Well, I know what your game is, dear,’ she replied, striving hard to keep calm. ‘You can drink yourself into a stupor and sleep with dancing girls every night if you want, but you won’t get rid of me so easily. I told you before, I am going all the way to Tamanrasset, whether you and Saintclair like it or not.’