Night of a Thousand Stars

by DEANNA RAYBOURN

  “Surely you don’t mean to lead me around like a sack of potatoes,” I protested. He didn’t bother to answer. He merely threaded my rein through a loop on his saddle and touched his horse lightly with his heels. Rashid followed us on foot as Sebastian gave a quick command in Arabic to the horse. She tossed her head, prancing on beautiful feet as she led us out of the alleyway and into the crowded streets of Damascus. At last, I thought, my heart rushing into my throat, it was beginning.

  * * *

  The trip through the city took longer than I would have imagined, but this was largely due to the fact that Sebastian took a route that included the busiest thoroughfares. At first, I was aghast, but I soon discovered it was a clever strategy. The authorities would never look for us to be travelling in native costumes, and a merchant leaving the city would not keep to tiny alleys and hidden byways. Rashid brought up the rear on foot, occasionally casting glances behind to make certain we were not followed. Tethered by the rein, my little donkey plodded on behind the beautiful horse, and since I was attempting to keep my eyes carefully fixed upon my “husband,” I had little choice but to study Sebastian’s posture. Something about wearing Eastern dress had changed him completely. Gone was the friendly, affable curate, and in his place was a man who wouldn’t have looked out of place in any royal court. His posture was perfectly straight, his chin held high with a stateliness that bordered on arrogance. He did not turn his head right or left, but kept it steady, expecting others to move out of his path, as any gentleman of wealth and power might do. From my perch behind, I saw the scurrying motions of people moving aside to let us pass, and I began to relax. Sebastian’s air of command was so thorough no one would have dared to question him. With him leading, we eventually reached the edge of the city, where the sprawling suburbs gave on to the countryside, orchards of lemon and pomegranate, and fields of melons. The earth smelled new after the odours of the city, and I breathed as deeply as the corset would let me. Sebastian clicked again to his horse and she shifted up into a trot, which my donkey immediately imitated.

  “Oh, dear God, no,” I muttered. I turned back to find Rashid had broken into an easy lope and was grinning at me. For the next few hours I was bounced around mercilessly as the donkey jounced after the brisk Arabian. I didn’t protest, partly out of pride and partly because I assumed it wouldn’t do me any good. Sebastian had shown he meant to be in control of our expedition, and since I hadn’t told him about Masterman, the least I could do was follow obediently. I felt terribly guilty about the omission, not least because I suspected Masterman would be frantic if she’d read the newspapers. I could just imagine her, breakfasting with her single boiled egg and the newspaper, reading the sordid details, going very white about the lips, perhaps spilling her tea.

  And then I thought of something truly horrifying: Masterman knew who my family were. I had persuaded Sebastian to travel to Cairo by way of Ashkelon by convincing him it would take some time for the reporters to make the connection between Poppy March and Penelope Hammond, stepdaughter of American millionaire Reginald Hammond. But Masterman could do it in an instant. One word in the wrong ear, and my story would be splashed from Damascus to Dubuque, and God help us both if Mother herself decided to come to Syria to find me.

  I nibbled the inside of my cheek, wondering how to break the news to Sebastian. He would no doubt be furious that I had kept the secret of Masterman’s existence in the first place. And in the second...

  I turned in the saddle to look behind us. Rashid still loped along behind, taking the distance easily as an athlete. Beyond him, Damascus lay like a postcard city, gleaming white in the late morning sun. She seemed to shimmer on the flat plain, a mirage that would prove heartbreakingly real if Sebastian decided to return me. And I knew he would. He had stated more than once and in painfully blunt detail what his course of action would be if he believed things had got too far out of hand. I would be handed over to the authorities. He had talked glibly of trussing me up and dropping me at their feet, but I knew that was nothing like what would happen. He had been bluffing to get his way. The truth was, if he had no choice but to turn me over, he would go as well, taking the blame for Hugh’s death and clearing me entirely. I had no doubt he would lie himself blue in the face to swear he had abducted me and killed Hugh. There was no other story the authorities could hear that would put me firmly in the clear—unless we knew and could prove who had really done it, and that would be like looking for a particularly nefarious needle in a very large haystack. Who knew what low types he had consorted with in Damascus? Hugh might have had an entire network of dangerous confederates who had turned on him. Or, I reasoned, he might have simply been the victim of circumstances, wrong time and wrong place. Damascus was a city in the process of remaking itself, and there were dangerous corners especially for foreigners. Who was to say he had not wandered into one of them when we left him?

  No, finding out who had killed Hugh would have been a Herculean task, one much better suited to the police, who could sleuth out his associates and question people thoroughly. I only hoped they would throw their nets further afield than merely looking for Sebastian and me. It would be tempting for them to insist we must be the villains of the piece—to begin with, it kept victim and killer from the same group of foreigners. It might reflect badly on them that it had happened in Damascus, but no real blame could be attached to them. If, however, it could be proved it was a Syrian who had killed him, they opened themselves up to an international incident when they could least afford it. Admitting one of their own had killed an Englishman, just when they needed English support in throwing off the French and installing their own king was unthinkable. Even if they found proof Hugh had been killed by a Syrian, it would be impossible for them to admit it. Far easier to put the blame on a pair of English fugitives. Who knew? They might even be able to parlay that into a bit of gentle extortion in getting the English to look the other way while they threw out the French.

  We rode on, and I continued to work it all out even as the donkey shook my bones to aspic. We were the best suspects in Hugh’s death, from circumstance and also from the perspective of the Damascene authorities. If nothing else, failing to present ourselves promptly would make us look thoroughly guilty. There was no way at all to explain what had happened with Hugh and why we had not come forward.

  Unless Sebastian fell on his sword. I looked ahead to that proud back, rising in the saddle at the top of the trot, strong legs working like pistons, robes flowing behind him in the wind. Something in him reminded me of Gabriel Starke, that same self-sacrificing nobility hidden by a veneer of deprecation and wry humour. They played at being villains, but there was some finer metal in both of them. Gabriel had sacrificed every bit of his own happiness for Evangeline’s safety, and although I was merely an acquaintance to Sebastian, I had no doubt he would do the same for me rather than allow me to be taken into custody as a suspect in Hugh’s death. No, in his version of events, I would be his victim, an innocent party, and that would be his story, no matter how long and how hard they pressed him to tell otherwise.

  I knew then that I had to keep Masterman’s existence a secret—but not for my sake. For his.

  * * *

  By the time the sun was high overhead, Sebastian stopped in the cool green shade of a pomegranate orchard. He drew his horse a little off the road—enough to be discreet but not suspicious. He dismounted lightly and did not bother to tether his horse as he slid the rein from mine out from the saddle. He flicked me a glance as Rashid trotted up, scarcely winded after his long run. His beautiful skin gleamed in the sunlight with the sheen of fresh perspiration and he smiled broadly. He at least was having the time of his life.

  Sebastian looked up at me. “Aren’t you getting off?”

  I blinked. “I don’t think I can.”

  “Whyever not?” He took the precaution of tying the donkey, but apparently trusted the horse not to bolt. S
he merely stood by, batting long lashes at Sebastian as Rashid stroked her nose.

  “He isn’t exactly an easy mount.”

  Sebastian grinned. “Shook you a little?”

  “Rattled my teeth like castanets,” I told him. “And now I’ve clung on to him so long, I don’t think I can get off.”

  With a smothered laugh, Sebastian strode to the donkey’s side, raising his arms. “Come on, princess,” he ordered.

  I turned stiffly in the saddle and tried to slide down, but somehow my boot got caught and I ended up slithering down Sebastian’s chest until he caught me. My legs were jellied, and he held me up a moment before I could support myself.

  I looked up to thank him, but he dropped my arms. “Walk it off,” he instructed briskly. “The more you move, the faster the blood flow will come back. Rashid, my friend, you need water.”

  He turned away to share his water with Rashid and attend to his horse and the donkey. I began to pace the orchard. I hobbled to the end of the row, but by the time I had turned and made my way back, I was moving a little more smoothly. When I returned, I found they had watered the animals, and Sebastian was murmuring endearments to the horse.

  Rashid approached then, smiling in triumph. “I have found pomegranates. The windfall from after the last harvest. These will be the last of the season,” he told me. He broke open one of the fruits and showed me the seeds, glittering like jewels.

  He gestured for me to turn over my palm and when I did, he tapped the skin of the fruit sharply, causing the ruby seeds to rain out of the soft white flesh. I ate a few and he smiled.

  “The Prophet Mohammad, peace be unto him, taught that eating the seeds of the pomegranate would purge hatred from the soul and sweeten the temper,” he told me.

  “Then feed her plenty,” Sebastian told him.

  I resisted the urge to put out my tongue at him.

  “And speak Arabic to her, Rashid. She’s appallingly badly educated.”

  That time I did put my tongue out, but I turned to Rashid with a smile. “He isn’t entirely wrong, though. I don’t speak Arabic and I ought to learn. How does one say thank you?”

  “Shukran,” Rashid replied.

  I repeated it, and Rashid took his responsibility seriously, repeating the phrase twice more as I mimicked him. He lifted his brows. “Very good, sitt.” He turned to Sebastian. “Her accent is better than yours, my friend.”

  Sebastian curled a lip. “It’s one word, Rashid. Let me know when she can actually put a sentence together.”

  Rashid and I settled down in the shade of one of the slender trees to enjoy our fruit. “You are Bedouin, is that right?”

  He lifted his chin proudly. “I am, sitt. My tribe is from the north, near Palmyra. Our winter pasturage is very close to the ruins of the great city.”

  “I should love to see it,” I breathed, thinking of the vast stretches of columned ruins, once the playground of the fabulous warrior queen, Zenobia, vanquished only by Rome and led through the city streets in golden chains.

  Rashid grinned. “Many ladies like Palmyra. It is because of the great queen.”

  “No doubt,” I mused. “And now you have a king. What of your own people? What do they think of Feisal?”

  He shrugged. “He is a Howeitat, a southerner. He is not one of us.”

  “I have heard others say the same. So, he does not speak for your tribe?”

  Rashid’s smile was patient. “That is not our way, sitt. A man is responsible for his family, and the family is responsible for the tribe. There is much discussion and much cooperation because the rules are not written. They are understood. As a man, I am answerable to my kinsmen, the men of my own blood. How can a Howeitat hold me responsible for my actions when they are not my kin?” He did have a point, and I thought it interesting that his views should be so similar to those of Armand. Rashid went on. “But the rule of an Arab over his own people is preferable to that of a foreigner,” he said firmly. “The French, the English, they have no place here except to help us become what we must be.”

  “And what is that, Rashid?”

  “Masters of our own fate,” he told me. We talked a bit longer, sharing fruit and chatting idly until he rose. “I will go and find more pomegranates. Take the last, sitt,” he insisted, pressing two of the fruits upon me.

  Sebastian was still murmuring endearments to his horse, stroking her long nose.

  “What is her name?”

  “Albi. It means heart in Arabic,” he told me.

  “She’s utterly gorgeous,” I said, holding out a pomegranate on my palm. She gave me a long look then snuffled her velvet lips over my hand, taking the fruit up as daintily as a princess.

  “She knows it,” Sebastian said seriously. “That’s her trouble.”

  She crunched on the pomegranate and I held the other out to the donkey. “And this one is an utter menace.”

  Sebastian shrugged. “I looked his feet over when you were playing with the pomegranates. He’s going lame.” He held out a goatskin full of water. “Drink up. We’ll have to get on again as soon as Rashid returns.”

  I groaned but did as I was told and in a very few moments Rashid appeared, carrying a bag stuffed with late pomegranates. Sebastian stowed the goatskin and together they looked the donkey over and discussed the options. Rashid seemed deeply upset, talking rapidly and sketching wide gestures of dismay with his arms.

  Sebastian soothed him down and after a long moment, took the rein from the little donkey and handed it to Rashid.

  Rashid bowed in a gesture of salaam. “We must part here, sitt. I am to return this worthless animal to the city.”

  Sebastian’s jaw was set—I could tell that much from the mulish expression of his beard. “If we push him onto the coast, it will only get worse, and he’ll hold us back. Better we travel fast even if we have to go alone.”

  I started to put out my hand, then remembered the customs of the land. “I am sorry to lose your company, Rashid.”

  He smiled his beautiful faun’s smile. “And I yours, dear lady.”

  He brushed his fingertips to his mouth and made a graceful gesture of farewell. I felt a little flutter in my stomach as I watched him go.

  “If you’re quite finished mooning over Rashid, we ought to be going,” Sebastian said, his words clipped and icy.

  “Oh, for heaven’s sake, I wasn’t mooning,” I protested. “But you have to admit he’s a beautiful boy. Besides he’s already got two wives.”

  Sebastian rounded on me. “How the devil do you know that?”

  I shrugged. “We chatted. He’s a trifle worried about the second wife. Apparently she’s expecting her first child and having a wretched time of it.”

  He gaped at me. “I’ve known Rashid for the better part of five years and he’s never mentioned a wife.”

  “What can I say? People tell me things.”

  He gave me a dark look and carried on. “Can you ride astride?”

  “Yes, actually, I can.”

  “Good,” he said, and as he had done before, he put his hands under my heel and tossed me into the saddle. This time the perch was much higher, and as I sat there astride the gorgeous horse, she bobbed her head a little, making the bells on her headstall ring.

  “I can ride her?” I asked in delight. He didn’t answer. Before I could protest, he shoved me as far back in the saddle as I could go, perching me uncomfortably on the very top ridge of it. “Sebastian, I don’t think—”

  As was becoming his custom, he ignored me and did as he pleased. He mounted Albi swiftly, careful not to knock me off as he did so, settling himself neatly into the space just in front of me. As he sat, I slid down off the top edge of the saddle and ended up wedged snugly against him, hip to hip.

  “Oh, you cannot be serious,” I
muttered.

  He turned his head slightly. “It’s either this or walk. And frankly, I don’t much care.”

  I sighed. The boots were gorgeous, but they were a trifle tight and I didn’t relish a long dusty walk to the coast. “Fine.”

  “Then mind you hold on. I’m going to give Albi her head and if you fall off, I’m not going back for you,” he instructed.

  He touched her lightly with his heels and gave a single command in Arabic. She sprang forward and I clasped my arms about Sebastian’s waist. It was smaller than I expected. The baggy clergyman’s suit he had worn in London had hid a multitude of things, I decided. Among them a pair of rather impressive shoulders and a narrow, athletic waist.

  I held him tightly as we rode, the wind blowing our veils behind us, the dust of the road billowing as we went. It was all I could do not to let out a whoop of sheer joy as we rode. This was adventure at last.

  Fifteen

  We stopped twice more, both times to rest and water the horse. Sebastian drank deeply but took no food although he forced me to eat.

  “You’re not accustomed to this sort of travel, and I won’t have you fainting like a Gothic heroine,” he warned me. “Try these.”

  He passed me a sticky paper twist. I stared into it suspiciously. “What are they?”

  “Raisins. Soaked in honey. If you don’t want them, give them back,” he ordered.

  I nibbled one and gave a little moan. “Oh, they’re heaven. I hope you bought enough for yourself, too.”

  He pulled a face but let me keep them as we set off again.

  As the afternoon wore on, the roads became smaller and narrower as we wended our way up into the Anti-Lebanon. The triple peaks of Mount Hermon stood guard to the south as we picked a path into the hills, turning slightly to the north and skirting the edge of Mount Lebanon. Albi’s brisk pace meant that a breeze fanned my cheeks under the veil, but I was thirsty and tired by the time we turned off the last road and onto a narrow track that wound upwards through a rocky landscape that seemed to lead nowhere.