The spices were exotic and strange. After she finished the first meatball, Mairin decided cautiously she could become accustomed to them. They were satisfying on the tongue. The meat was nothing she had ever eaten before, but it was meat. She thought it might be goat meat.
Three floury white biscuits wrapped in waxed paper and tied with string were her dessert. They tasted of almonds and were light and sweet.
The stationary stored in the side pocket of the valise had not been taken. Mairin sharpened her pencil with the knife from her boot, then wrote a short note to Aunt Anna, telling her what had happened since leaving Spain. She had written many such notes on the road from Paris, posting them when she could. She folded the letter and addressed it, then used the oil lamp to heat the end of the wax stick to seal the letter, for she had no envelopes.
She would mail the letter when she next had the opportunity. She didn’t know if any of her letters had made it home but wrote them anyway.
Her last task of the night was to drink the half-cup of wine remaining in the silver flask she kept in a pocket on her petticoat. It helped quench her thirst. Captain Boucher had warned her not to drink water unless she knew it had been well boiled.
Then she wrapped herself in the sheet, settled her valise as a pillow, put her pistol beside her and settled on the carpet for the night.
Tomorrow, she would go back to the Legion headquarters and enquire again about Iefan. She would see if she could get a better answer than Babin’s.
She slept deeply and well, reassured by the tiny window which no man could climb through and the locked and barred door. If anyone tried to come through the door, the scrape of bed legs upon stone would alert her, although the bed did not move through the night.
THE AIR THE NEXT morning was chilly—perhaps the only indication that it was winter, here. The cool breeze was refreshing. Mairin rose and indulged herself with another wash, before putting on her new clothes.
She wore her pantalets and camisole beneath, for they could be easily washed and she didn’t know how her new finery would withstand wringing and beating. She had bought a pair of the baggy trousers she had seen other women wearing, and a pair of pointed-toe slippers which were not made of carpet, but a sturdier leather. The tunic she brought for daywear had a large hood attached to the back of it and fell below her knees, disguising her shape with a loose layer of white linen. Over the top of that she added one of the colorful waistcoats—this one was made for a woman her size, for it was embroidered with flowers and flourishes in browns and muted greens.
The bright green sash she wrapped over the top of the waistcoat and tunic, to keep everything in place.
Mairin walked up and down the carpet a few times, examining her wardrobe. It was light and airy and she felt completely unrestricted.
Hot spicy food aromas wafted through the window. Her stomach rumbled. Mairin pushed the bed aside, then tucked her knife, her money and other items into the sash. She pulled the hood over her head so the deep sides hid her face unless someone was looking straight at her. Then she went to find breakfast, her heart light and filled with hope.
Chapter Nineteen
There seemed to be just as many people in the souk that morning as there had been yesterday. Many of them, like Mairin, were procuring breakfast. Most of the stalls had stoves set up and were boiling or frying various foods. The food was spooned into the middle of round, doughy disks, which they folded and handed to customers.
Mairin peered at a few of the pots, sniffing, until she found one with a scent she liked. Also, a woman stood behind the pot, holding her veil up against her cheek. Mairin smiled at her. “Do you speak French?”
“A little.” The woman glanced to either side and dropped her veil, which was apparently permitted when only another woman could see her. She was as young as Mairin and pretty, with large black eyes and thick lashes and brows. Her skin was the color of coffee with cream and just as smooth.
“May I have a small amount?” Mairin asked, pointing at the pot.
The woman nodded and picked up one of the flat disks from a pile beside the stove and spooned a small handful of the thick stew into the middle. Then she folded the pastry and handed it to Mairin.
Mairin gave her one of her last French coins, which were readily accepted here. The woman smiled shyly at her and lifted her veil back into place.
As she had wanted to do yesterday, Mairin found a place at the edge of the souk to sit and eat and watch everyone move about the souk. The boll was one of the thick, squat posts which separated the wharf from the town square. Between the bolls and the edge of the dock laid nothing but bleached stone.
The Didon had cast off and floated at anchor at the other end of the breakwater, just before the open sea. A smaller ship, a steam ship, was tied up at the dock, now. All the doors and windows on the ship were closed and the gangplank withdrawn. It was too early, apparently, to begin unloading and loading.
A pleasant wind blew across the water, rippling the surface. It skimmed over the stone dock and bathed Mairin’s face. As she finished the spicy stew, a strong gust caught the edge of her hood and flipped it back behind her head.
Mairin’s fingers were covered in the sauce from the stew. She couldn’t lift the hood back without soiling the white linen. She concentrated instead on licking her fingers to remove the last of the stew.
“Only harlots uncover their faces, here.” The male voice spoke accented French.
Mairin jumped off the boll and turned to face her accuser.
He was Algerian and tall. His face was tanned or naturally dark and he wore a trimmed, pointed beard. His eyes were angry as he considered her.
Mairin took in his polished leather boots, the good cloth of his garments and the silk sash. The knife shoved through it had a gold hilt and a great green jewel which twinkled at the top.
Her heart sank. This was someone important and she had offended him. She reached hastily for her hood and tugged it back into place. “I apologize,” she said. “The wind caught my hood, and my fingers were dirty…” She dropped her head the way she had seen other women do when they spoke to men, as if they were too bashful to meet their eyes.
Her heart hurried along, beating heavily, as she saw the man’s shiny boots move closer.
His fingers gripped her face and lifted it, making her look at him. Her hood fell back again.
His fingers squeezed, hurting her jaw and cheeks. His mouth sneered. “You are English,” he said, in good English.
Mairin swallowed. “My name is Lady—”
“An English whore,” he said, his tone speculative.
“I am a lady.”
“You are alone, your face uncovered. You welcome attention from men. What other conclusion is there? Although you have a comely face. Does it match the rest of you?”
With his other hand, he grasped her breast through the tunic and waistcoat.
Mairin shrieked in shock and outrage and struggled to free herself from his grip. His hand on her face tightened painfully.
There were people all around them. Everyone she looked at turned away, as if they had seen nothing.
The man fondled her, his brow lifting.
Running steps to her left made Mairin turn her chin as much as she could in the man’s grip, to peer in that direction.
All she could see was a flash of blue and gold and red. A fist smacked into the side of the Algerian’s face and sent him staggering. The Legionnaire rammed into the staggering man with his shoulder, taking him off his feet. The Legionnaire’s kepi was knocked off, revealing shaggy black hair.
The Algerian sprawled on his back on the white stone of the dock, breathing hard. He snatched at the knife in his belt. Iefan was faster. He pulled the man’s hand away and yanked the knife out of the silk. He tossed it so it clattered and skidded across the stone, to come to rest on the edge of the dock.
Mairin couldn’t move. She could hardly breathe. She barely noticed the ache in her jaw, for the pain of h
er heart throwing itself against her chest overrode every thought.
Iefan put his boot on the man’s chest and bent down to snarl at him. “Touch her again and I will cut off your hand. Do you hear me?” He spoke French as if he was born to it. “Tell me you hear, or I will toss you into the sea. Algerians don’t swim, I’m told.”
The man was having trouble breathing under the weight of Iefan’s boot. He coughed. “I will pluck out your eyes for this.”
“Tell me you hear, or you are not getting up,” Iefan said, putting more weight on his foot.
“I will not touch your English whore again,” the man ground out. “You are a different matter, though.”
“Davies. Captain. You know where to find me.” Iefan straightened, taking his boot off the man.
Then he turned to Mairin. His black eyes met hers. “Of all the places I might have expected to see you again, this is not one of them. Mairin…” He shook his head. “You came here.” Disbelief filled his voice and his face.
Mairin still couldn’t move. “I would have gone to the ends of the earth find you,” she whispered.
Iefan pulled her against him in a rough, hard hold. She thought that perhaps he was shaking. It was difficult to tell because she was trembling so hard herself. She closed her eyes and breathed his scent. She would know it anywhere, she realized.
Then Iefan released her and held her shoulders. “Are you hurt?”
“My…” She reached for her aching breast, then dropped her hand. “My chest, a little. And my face. It will pass.”
Iefan looked around the square. The souk was busy as usual. Many Algerians watched them with dark scowls on their faces. Iefan glanced behind him once more.
The tall Algerian had propped himself up on one elbow. When Iefan looked at him, he turned and spat. Fury filled his eyes.
“Come with me,” Iefan told Mairin quietly. He picked up her hand and drew her through the souk. Everyone stepped away from them, making room. It was as if they were tainted and the Algerians feared they would infect them.
Iefan headed directly for the Legion headquarters building. The windows which had all been open yesterday were now shut tight, the shutters painted a blue color similar to the tiles inside.
Iefan pushed open the door and gestured for her to enter. Mairin hurried inside, her heart still hurting from the speed it raced.
Inside, the air was cool and still. Lieutenant Babin was not at the desk. Another Lieutenant with an unshaved chin hurried over to Iefan. “Shut the door! Bar it! For goodness sake, hurry!”
Iefan glanced at him, then turned and picked up a stout piece of lumber and dropped it into two thick brackets, one on either side of the door. On the other side of the airy room, a pair of Legionnaires were doing the same to the other door.
The lieutenant wiped the sweat from his brow. “The major insists upon speaking to you at once,” he told Iefan. “The lady, too,” he added, his gaze sliding toward Mairin.
From the corner behind the door, Iefan picked up a rifle and bayonet and a pack. Both were dusty. Then he caught Mairin’s hand in his once more. “Come with me.”
He led her to the stairs she had seen the new arrivals use yesterday. The stairs were far wider than those in Afif’s house. They were stone and were worn in the middle from thousands of boots.
They rose, unbroken, to the next floor.
As they climbed, Mairin said, “I cannot believe you are here, Iefan. They told me you were in Sidi-bel-Abbés.”
“I was,” Iefan told her. “There is a telegraph line between the fort and Sidi-bel-Abbés. They sent a wire to my commander. I was told to report here and deal with you. I left just after sunset and I rode all night. I arrived a few moments ago—in time to see that oaf grab you. I dropped my rifle and ran.”
“All night!” she breathed. It explained the dust on his jacket.
“Traveling at night is common here, especially in summer. Although I was told not to dawdle.” He glanced at her. “Your name on the wire was enough to keep me riding at full pace. I’m glad now I didn’t dawdle.” His hand tightened on hers.
“They didn’t tell me anything,” Mairin said. “I thought I might have to wait here for weeks.”
His glance met hers once more. “There is much we must talk about,” he said, his voice low. “First, though, we must deal with Major Delacroix.”
At the top of the steps, the room opened out. There were not masses of smaller rooms on this floor. The front half of the floor was one large room, with rugs and desks and cabinets for paperwork.
More than a dozen Legionnaires were working at the desks. At the far end of the room was a bigger desk, which held no paperwork at all. A leather chair sat behind it. The chair was empty.
Standing by the only open window on this floor was a short, slender man with a sharp nose, a balding crown and stubbled cheeks. His insignia said he was a major. Delacroix, then. He wore round spectacles which flashed as he turned his head to monitor Iefan’s arrival.
He lifted his hand and beckoned.
Iefan rested his rifle and kit against the wall, tugged his tunic into place and moved through the desks. The men at the desks all looked up as they passed. They were not looking at Iefan. They were looking at Mairin.
She kept her gaze on Iefan’s back, ignoring them.
Delacroix blew out his breath as Iefan reached him. “Do you have any idea who you bested out there in the square where the world could see his humiliation, Captain?”
“It doesn’t matter who it was,” Iefan said. “I would have done the same for prince or pauper.”
“So?” Delacroix rolled his eyes. He glanced at Mairin. “You are Lady Mairin, I presume.”
“Yes, sir.”
He sighed and turned to face the window once more. “You’ll have noticed we have locked up the building.”
“I did,” Iefan said. “Who was the Algerian?”
“He’s no Algerian,” Delacroix replied. “The man you publicly shamed is none other than Abdul Rashid.”
Iefan frowned. “I am still learning the local politics, Major.”
“Rashid is the nephew of the Sultan of Morocco,” Delacroix said. He turned to catch Iefan’s reaction to the revelation and nodded. “Yes, you did punch out a prince, Captain. I should congratulate you. You have not been in Algeria for a month, yet, and already you have insulted the highest in the land.”
Mairin recalled the gold knife in the man’s silk sash, and his arrogant air. Her heart sank.
“Why is Rashid not in Morocco?” Iefan said. “Why is he stirring mischief in Oran?”
Delacroix turned away from the window, blowing out his breath. “Rashid lives here because the Spanish have a price on his head in Morocco.” He settled behind the big desk and waved toward the two chairs sitting before it.
Mairin sank into a chair. Iefan remained standing.
“What is the price for?” Iefan asked.
“A number of offenses against his Spanish overlords, which can be summed up as more mischief-making. His father sent him here, where the family have Berber cousins he can hide among.” Delacroix’s smile was wry. “He didn’t remain hidden for long. He has taken control of the tribes on the border and now they are demanding their share of the gold they believe we French have taken out of the Maghreb.”
“Is there any gold?” Iefan asked.
“Of course there is not,” Delacroix replied. “If there was, it would not be me sitting at this desk, but a full general, and there would be five times as many men patrolling the desert.”
“More mischief-making, then,” Iefan murmured. “The man sounds bored.”
“An apt description.” Delacroix fixed Iefan with a sharp look. “He is no longer bored. You just gave him a good excuse to confront the Legion. We have spent a year carefully stepping around him to avoid exactly this.”
“I would do it again, sir,” Iefan said flatly.
Delacroix considered him, then gave a sigh and a nod. “Just so.” He
turned to Mairin. “Lady Mairin, you have experienced a small sample of the trouble a European woman can find here, through no fault of her own.” His gaze flickered over her garments. “No matter how much you attempt to blend in, you are a stranger here. You do not understand the many ways it is possible to offend someone’s honor or dent their dignity.”
She swallowed. She could not deny any of it.
“Your mission here is over, is it not?” Delacroix asked. “You have found your cousin. You should therefore return home at all speed. I cannot order you, although I strongly urge you to return to Europe tonight on the Didon.”
So soon! She had just got here and now she must return and leave Iefan in this dangerous place. Mairin’s heart slammed against her chest. “I will consider your advice,” she said, as evenly as she could.
“You will also be on the Didon, Captain,” Delacroix said sharply.
Mairin caught her breath.
Iefan stiffened. “Sir?”
“Rashid may calm down again if we can explain to him you have returned to Europe in disgrace, where you will face a court marshal and severe penalties which include being locked in the Bastille for the rest of your life.”
“Major, I protest!” Mairin cried.
Delacroix rolled his eyes. “I said that is what we will explain to the princeling. I hope it will be enough to mollify him.” His gaze slid back to Iefan. “Of course, it is all a complete fabrication.”
“Except the part where I get on the Didon tonight,” Iefan said heavily.
Delacroix picked up his pen and dipped it, then tapped it carefully on the neck of the inkpot. “I will write a letter you will carry with you to Paris to Colonel Vouclain, who will see to your reassignment. Your service to the Legion here in Algeria is at an end, Captain.”
Both Iefan and Mairin stared at him. Mairin felt deflated and wondered if Iefan felt the same.
“Oh, and my last order, Captain, is that you and the lady remain indoors for the rest of the day, where you will bring no further danger upon the Legion. Dismissed.”
Iefan didn’t move for a moment. Then he saluted stiffly.
Season of Denial (Scandalous Scions Book 7) Page 19