Night of a Thousand Stars

by DEANNA RAYBOURN

  Sixteen

  Sebastian insisted upon taking a circuitous route once again, winding up and down the hills of the Anti-Lebanon until at last we reached Sidon, once the great Phoenician port with its citadel by the sea. While I kept my eyes properly downcast, Sebastian manoeuvered the horse through the teeming throng of townsfolk and passengers and merchants, all making their way somewhere. The bright salty tang of the sea hung in the air, and with it less savoury smells—oil and rotting fish and coal fires. Sebastian left Albi at a stable, paying out what seemed a substantial sum for the privilege.

  “Rashid will come and fetch her,” he assured me softly. I must have looked anxious, but he gave me a quick nod and a pat to the waist. I ought to have realised he wouldn’t have overlooked making arrangements for her. I stroked her neck in farewell and hurried after Sebastian, trotting obediently behind as he made his way unerringly towards a small steamer that stood rocking at its berth. Sailors hurried to and fro, doing various and important things with ropes and coal and ballast, while passengers stood around looking bored. I kept my gaze firmly on Sebastian as Demetrius had instructed, and I was impressed with his quiet authority. He paid the captain in cash for our fares, extracting a number of notes from a small purse at his belt, and apparently negotiating firmly, as any good merchant would do. We were shown to a small cabin with a leer from the captain, and I remembered we were supposed to be playing the parts of newlyweds. I could only guess what he was thinking, and I felt my cheeks flush as I turned away to follow Sebastian.

  The cabin was small and spare, and I looked around curiously. There were charts on the wall, and a few antique instruments on a shelf along with a photograph of a stern-looking woman and two extremely ugly children.

  “It’s the captain’s own cabin,” Sebastian told me. “He’s full up, but was willing to take us on when I pleaded a bride’s necessity for privacy.”

  “More like a bride’s necessity for a bath,” I corrected.

  He shrugged. “We can’t manage that, but at least there will be food. Ah, that’s it now,” he said as a knock came at the door.

  Sebastian admitted a cabin boy who brought in a tray of covered dishes. Sebastian gave him a generous tip, which seemed to thrill him, and he hurried away, ducking his head in a gesture of thanks and respect.

  “You’ve made a friend there,” I told him. I uncovered the dishes, nearly weeping as I saw meatballs and rice and dishes of vegetables, hot and savoury along with a whole fish cooked in a broth of spices.

  “What is it?” he asked, peering over my shoulder.

  I was already sticking a fork into the fish. “I don’t care, but if you wait any longer, there won’t be any for you,” I warned him.

  We settled down and dug into the food, not even speaking until every bowl and plate was scraped clean.

  “God, that was delicious,” he said at last as he pushed the last of the dishes aside. “You don’t often get proper fish in Syria, not like that.” I must have looked puzzled because he nodded towards the porthole. “This coast isn’t a gentle one. There’s a very narrow bit of ledge running alongside the land and then it drops off into very deep waters.”

  “And no shallow water means nothing for the fish to feed on,” I reasoned. “Ergo, not much fishing about.”

  “Compared to other ports? No.” He cocked his head, giving me an appraising look. “You’re a quick study, I’ll give you that.”

  I shrugged. “I like to learn. There’s nothing quite so exciting as finding out something you didn’t know before, don’t you think?”

  “I can think of one or two things more exciting,” he said with a flash of something wicked in his eyes. But his tone was bland and he looked again to the porthole. “Here’s something new for you then—did you know the first mermaid was said to have swum in these very waters?”

  “No! Tell me,” I urged, and he settled back into his chair, hands laced behind his head. With his long boots and elegant robes he looked like nothing so much as an Eastern pirate lord.

  He told me the story, his voice a lazy drawl as he recounted it. “Long ago, Syrians worshipped a goddess named Atargatis, the Great Mother, the source of all fertility and life. Her priests were so devoted they would work themselves into fits of ecstatic worship and emasculate themselves. But the goddess loved a mortal, an unworthy youth, who was untrue to her. When she bore his child, she flung herself into the sea in a fit of despair and shame, intending to turn herself into a fish. But so great was her beauty that only half of her body changed. She had the tail of a splendid fish but the breasts and face of a beautiful woman, the very first mermaid. Sailors who ply these waters still hope to catch glimpses of her on moonlit nights, swimming alongside their ships.”

  “Atargatis? I’ve never heard of her.”

  “You have,” he said with a smile. “Some call her Astarte, others mingle her myths with those of Aphrodite and Venus, goddesses born of the sea. They say the center of her cult was in Ashkelon.”

  “Ashkelon! That name does keep cropping up, doesn’t it? Sebastian,” I said, adopting my most winsome smile, “I don’t suppose—”

  “No,” he said flatly. “We’ve already discussed it, Poppy. The most dangerous bit is behind us. We’re at sea now. A few stops along the coast and we’ll be in Alexandria—just a short train journey from Cairo and my contacts there. I’m not changing my mind, and that’s an end to the matter.”

  “You can’t blame me for trying,” I pointed out cheerfully.

  “I should be greatly disappointed if you hadn’t,” he agreed.

  He rose and put the tray outside the door, locking it carefully, placing the single chair underneath the knob.

  “You’re very cautious,” I observed.

  “This wouldn’t have been my first choice,” he said soberly. “There are too many other people on board, but I didn’t dare hire a private boat. That would have attracted too much attention. I hoped by masquerading as honeymooners, we might persuade the captain to be discreet. Although, from the looks of that photograph, it’s been a while since he was a bridegroom,” he added with a flick of a glance to the captain’s wife.

  My lips twitched. “She might be a perfectly lovely woman,” I said with an attempt at severity. “Perhaps she takes care of orphans or nurses the sickly.”

  “Poppy, her whiskers are thicker than mine. Furthermore, she’s pinching the boy, and the girl looks as if her braids are so tight her scalp is about to bleed. Clearly the woman is a misery. No wonder the poor fellow seems so happy to be going to sea,” he said.

  “True enough. I wonder why he married her.” I took the photograph, scrutinizing the unlovely face and the severe expression. There was nothing about her that seemed kind or generous or loving, and yet she had a husband and a pair of children and a purpose to her life.

  I put the photograph back abruptly.

  “It was your choice,” he said, his voice oddly gentle.

  “What was?”

  “Leaving that lordling at the altar.” He removed the headdress that had confined him all day and ran his hands through his tumbled hair. “Christ, that feels better.” He eyed my gown. “You haven’t had that corset off in two days. You must be in misery.”

  “A bit,” I admitted.

  He slipped a knife from his boot and sat on the edge of the narrow bed. “Well, I’m no Circassian bridegroom, but I’ll do the best I can.”

  I hesitated. “How will I lace it again in the morning? I haven’t spare laces and I can’t fit into the gown without the corset.”

  “Demetrius anticipated that. There’s a set in my bag,” he assured me. I went to him, surprised to find that as I approached, he dropped his eyes. I stood with my back to him, waiting for the prick of the knife. It wasn’t that I didn’t trust Sebastian, but Demetrius had explained how delicate the cutting of the corset was,
and it was a measure of my discomfort that I was willing to risk modest disfigurement rather than let the corset stay on a minute longer. I opened the outer dress, unclasping the wide buttons and dropping it to the floor. Then off came the underdress, leaving only the narrow pair of trousers and the corset itself laced over a whisper-thin chemise.

  I took a deep breath, steeling myself, and Sebastian gave a little laugh, his breath warm on my neck. “That doesn’t speak much to your confidence in me,” he told me.

  Before I could respond, I felt a quick tug and heard the whisper of steel against silk and it was done. The corset hesitated a moment, then dropped to the floor, and I felt a flood of relief.

  “Oh, that’s bliss,” I moaned. I stretched my arms over my head and wriggled in pure pleasure. I turned to thank Sebastian but he was sitting with his eyes closed on the bed, waiting.

  There was an expression of such perfect resignation on his face that I thought of a painting I had once seen.

  “You look exactly like your namesake,” I told him.

  He opened his eyes slowly. “My namesake?”

  “Saint Sebastian. Suffering but prepared for holy martyrdom. Determined to do the right thing even if it kills you.”

  I was watching him closely, and that was the only reason I saw him swallow hard. His expression was calm and his voice was even. I wondered how much effort it cost him to choke down whatever emotion he was feeling and give me nothing but the patient martyr.

  “That is what Nanny taught me, you know,” he said softly. “‘Be good, think good, do good.’ Rather difficult to escape your cradle training.”

  “Sebastian—” I began. He rose to his feet, folding his arms over his chest as if to ward me off.

  “Unless you’re planning on planting an arrow in my chest and ending my misery, perhaps you’ll be good enough to leave off playing at torturing me,” he said.

  “Torturing you! I would never torture you,” I protested.

  “Then put your clothes on,” he said coldly. He moved across the small cabin and opened the porthole. The sun was shedding long golden rays over the sea, gilding it like a Renaissance painting as we left Sidon and turned down the coast towards Cairo.

  He watched the sea as I slipped back into the underdress. I couldn’t fasten it properly, but at least I looked respectable again, and when he eventually turned around, I was the very picture of propriety. I sat on the bunk with my knees firmly together and my lips prim.

  His mouth twitched in response, but he said nothing.

  I looked about the small cabin and spied something of interest in the corner. I darted over and dived to retrieve it. “Is this what I think it is?” I demanded.

  “It’s a hookah,” Sebastian answered. I had seen men smoking them in the coffee houses in Damascus, but none had seemed as fine as this one. It was a marvellous piece, fashioned of bright brass with a blown-glass bowl and a long, curving snake of a mouthpiece fitted with more brass.

  “Can we smoke it?” I asked.

  Sebastian seized it from me and put it firmly aside. “No, we cannot.”

  “Why not? If the captain has a pipe, he must have something to put into it. Where’s the tobacco?”

  I started to rummage through the various drawers and cupboards fitted into the cabin, but Sebastian put up a warning finger. “It mightn’t be tobacco.”

  “What on earth do you mean?” I found a small tobacco tin and seized it with a triumphant smile. “Here it is!” I opened it to find a collection of small blackish pebbles. “You’re right. This isn’t tobacco.” Realisation dawned and I held out the tin breathlessly. “Is this opium?”

  Sebastian peered into the tin and took out a pebble, rolling it closely between his fingers. He gave it a quick sniff and replaced it. “Yes, and rather good quality, too. They mix it with tobacco here to smoke in the nargileh. Quite a different process than the opium pipes of the East. Now be a good girl and put it back.”

  “I will not,” I told him squarely. “I’m smoking it.”

  He grabbed the box away from me and put it back into the cupboard, slamming the door firmly and blocking it with his own body. “You are not,” he told me sternly. “What on earth has got into you? I thought you were a respectable girl, and here you are trying to steal opium and smoke it!”

  I gave him a dark look. “I told you I wanted adventure. When in the whole of my life am I going to get the chance to smoke opium again?”

  “Anytime you like if you stay out here,” he returned. “But stealing the captain’s choice cache won’t win us any favour when he finds out. And he will find out. It smells, you know.”

  “No, I don’t.” I narrowed my eyes at him. “Do you?”

  He had the grace to look a little uncomfortable.

  “You do! You’ve smoked it,” I said.

  “You needn’t sound so admiring. Yes, most people do when they spend enough time in this part of the world. It isn’t so frowned upon as it is at home. It’s a Turkish custom, you know. And it’s spread rather widely.”

  “What was it like?” I demanded.

  He opened his mouth then snapped it shut again. “You are a maddening child,” he managed through gritted teeth.

  “Either you tell me, or I will just light up that pipe when you’re asleep,” I warned him.

  He crossed his arms over his chest, and the gesture pulled his shirt open a little to show a tantalising peek of firm muscle. Fine for him to talk about me torturing him, I thought darkly. He certainly had no idea the effect he was capable of creating.

  If my eyes lingered on the strip of bare chest he was showing, he didn’t notice. He was thinking. He rubbed at the beard along his jaw. “The smoke smells like ripe fruit, ripe to the point of bursting, almost but not quite beginning to rot. The nargileh tempers it, makes it softer as the smoke filters through the water. It’s an easy draw, easier than cigarettes,” he added, clearly remembering the ride in his motorcar when I had borrowed a cigarette from him and hadn’t been able to bring myself to light it.

  I stared at him, suddenly remembering what he had said. “You told me the day we met that you had vices—other vices than smoking. Did you mean opium?”

  “From time to time,” he admitted. “It isn’t something I do regularly. It’s highly addictive,” he warned. “But it’s effective if you want to dull the senses and forget for a while.”

  I wondered what he had to forget, but I didn’t like to press. His tone was gentle.

  “That’s why I don’t want you smoking, Poppy. You never know how the first time will take someone, and if you are overcome, you won’t have your wits about you when you need them.”

  It was a reasonable, responsible explanation, and it made me furious. I kicked the corner of the captain’s desk and went to the bunk, stretching out on it and taking up as much room as I possibly could.

  Sebastian blew out the lamp, and I could hear him moving about the cabin in the darkness. Only a little starlight shone through the porthole, reducing him to a shadow. I heard his boots hit the floor with a dull thud, first one and then the other. And then the edge of the bunk gave way under his weight.

  “Shift over,” he ordered. “I’m not sleeping on the floor.”

  I huffed out a sigh and moved as far as I could. The enforced intimacy was really a bit much, particularly after he had cut off my corset and I had got those tempting little glimpses of chest beneath his shirt. I put out a tentative finger and touched something unexpectedly firm and long.

  “That’s my shin,” he said tightly.

  “Your shin? What on earth—do you actually mean to sleep with your feet in my face?” I peered into the darkness, but all I could see was a great long lump where Sebastian lay next to me.

  “I do. Now lie down and keep your hands to yourself,” he growled.

 
I pulled my finger back as if I’d been scorched. “I was just wondering,” I muttered.

  “What’s the matter?” he asked nastily. “Sex-tides running high?”

  “Oh! You are vile,” I began, but he gave me a quick shove.

  “Hush now and go to sleep. You can abuse me in the morning,” he ordered.

  I subsided back into the bunk, nursing my wounded pride and complaining under my breath. “The most unbelievably nasty mind,” I said at one point. “Prim as a virgin,” I said at another. He gave no sign he was listening until he surged up and put one firm hand to my shoulder, pinning me to the bunk.

  “I said, go to sleep,” he told me, his voice tight.

  He released me and lay down again, but I still felt the pressure of his hand, firm and warm through the chemise that covered my shoulder.

  I lay quietly for a while, my mind whirling. He was not asleep. I could hear him breathing, uneven, frustrated breaths that told me he was as restless as I was.

  “I’ve figured out what your trouble is,” I said finally. “You’re repressed.”

  He gave a snort of laughter. “I assure you, I am not the least repressed.”

  “You are,” I argued. “I should know. I took a course in psychology. The Freudian sort,” I added loftily. “Tell me about your dreams.”

  “I am not going to tell you my dreams,” he said flatly. “But I can assure you I am entirely and wholly without repression, at least as much as any proper English gentleman can be,” he added wryly.