“What now?” she asked, growing exasperated. The man was worse than a Dickens serial story. Just when you thought it might end, something else popped up.
“You’re a brave lass, Miss Whimpelhall,” he said, his voice thickening. “As thick as bricks, but courageous as I am not. I wish I could promise you I’d tell them where to find your sweet, valiant bones, but the truth is, I won’t. I’ll tell them Owens took off with you and bandits got the pair of you. And when the next ship sails out of Alexandria, I’ll be on it no matter what the outcome. So goodbye, Miss Whimpelhall. Don’t think too badly of me when you’re dying.”
As farewell speeches went, it wasn’t very heartening.
He swung up onto the camel’s saddle and with a final salute, kneed the great beast into a trot, his men following suit.
The heavy pistol slowly dropped against her thigh, and she sank down next to Jim’s unconscious body, watching them go until they were just small figures dissolving into the shimmering horizon. In a very short time it would be dark and then the cold would come, quick and dangerous.
She brushed her hand across Jim’s brow. It felt a little warm but not feverish. She didn’t even know if one became feverish due to head trauma. She studied him, worrying her lower lip. Should she try to wake him up? She couldn’t remember if her mother had ever roused her father after a similar injury. And if she had, how? Water? A slap? Jostling?
What if she hurt him even more than he already was? What if something she did loosened something already perilously close to breaking and she caused permanent damage? In the end, she decided Jim’s body would best know when it ought to regain consciousness. Gingerly, she cradled his head in her lap and forced herself to wait. She was not very good at waiting.
The thought that maybe they would die kept whispering through her imagination. If she did, no one would ever know. Even Neely’s lie wouldn’t help anyone find her; they’d be looking for Mildred Whimpelhall, who eventually would appear in Cairo and turn Pomfrey’s funeral preparations to matrimonial ones and his sorrow to joy.
Ginesse sighed. Maybe one day when the Pomfreys were toasting their anniversary, they would pause and cast a passing thought to the strange young woman who for some unknown reason had masqueraded as Mildred and wonder why she’d done so and who she was.
There would never ever be any reason to suppose that Ginesse Braxton, Miss Whimpelhall’s shipboard acquaintance, was the impersonator, especially since her great-grandfather would eventually read the telegram she’d sent and then everyone would assume she’d been lost somewhere in Eastern Europe, stolen to become some Asian prince’s consort or eloped with a Bulgarian count.
It was all very romantic, and she was feeling a mite better when her eye caught the sparkle of the emerald ring she wore. Her mother had given it to her on her sixteenth birthday. Her mother…
What have I done?
If she died, she would have condemned them to a life of fruitless searching because no matter how slight the chance, as long as there was even the faintest possibility of her being alive, her parents would never ever give up looking for her. Never. They would hunt until they found her bones, or they themselves died. Because they loved her. They loved her, and they would never find her bones because they would be looking in the wrong place.
The thought of them searching for her year after endless year filled her with horror and shame. She should have left a letter explaining her plans with some responsible person to be delivered if she never arrived. And if she ever got the opportunity to do anything as stupid as this again, she would remember to write down her plans. But…but she hadn’t thought she might die. She hadn’t planned on Neely, damn him!
She looked down at Jim’s bronzed, handsome face. His lashes cast a fan-shaped shadow over his high cheekbones, his hair tumbling in damp curls over his brow. He looked so much younger now, so vulnerable, the hard gaze extinguished, his expression relaxed, the implacable lines softened. She brushed the hair from his temple. She couldn’t have left him, and given the choice again, she wouldn’t. God, she hated Neely.
Why wouldn’t Jim wake up? It had been almost twenty minutes. A quarter moon was rising in an orchid-colored sky. Soon it would be night. Carefully, she slipped her hand beneath Jim’s head and eased it to the ground. There were preparations she needed to make before the frigid desert night arrived—
—he moaned.
She scrambled back to his side on her knees, bracketing his face in her hands. “Mr. Owens. Jim.” A tear fell on his cheek. “Are you all right?”
“No,” he moaned. He squinted up at her through one eye, grimacing. “What happened?”
“Don’t move. Neely hit you from behind with his rifle.”
He rolled to his side and pushed himself to a seated position, groaning. “Where…?”
“Don’t try to get up. They’re gone,” she said, wrapping an arm around his shoulders.
“Gone?” He looked around, his expression astonished. “They left you here alone?”
“No. You’re here. Now, stop. Your head is bleeding again.”
He put a hand to his forehead, breathing hard and wincing. “How long ago?”
“Quarter of an hour or—No! You’re in no condition to do anything about it.”
But he was already struggling to his feet. She wedged a shoulder under his arm, supporting his weight as best she could as he climbed painfully upright. He was heavy and unsteady, and she had to wrap her arms tightly around his waist just to keep him from falling.
“Please,” she said. “There is nothing you can do. You’re only going to make yourself worse. You need to—”
But her words fell on deaf ears, for as she was talking his legs gave out, and with her arms around him, he crumpled slowly to the ground, unconscious once more.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
“Mm. This is delicious. Do try a slice of the duck breast, Professor Tynesborough,” Sir Robert said, waving his fork invitingly at a piece of perfectly grilled meat enrobed in a rich pomegranate brandy reduction, little pearls of glistening couscous cozying up next to it.
The professor shook his head regretfully. “I dare not out of pity for my poor camel. I swear I’ve gained ten pounds since our trip began.”
“Haji, then you must help me out here,” Sir Robert said, turning to him. “I can’t do the cook justice by myself, and while he’s the most prickly, easily offended of chaps, he’s a dashed good cook and I should hate for him to give notice.”
Haji doubted whether this was likely; they were more than a hundred miles out in the desert. Nonetheless, he speared a piece of the fork-tender meat and transferred it to his plate. He admitted that the cook had extraordinary talents. Where Sir Robert had found him and how he’d convinced the Coptic chef to come along on their “rescue mission” was a mystery. But then, Haji conceded, maybe not so great a mystery: Sir Robert had probably offered him a salary he could not refuse.
Sir Robert had spared no expense on this trip. They were seated under a tented pavilion, the open sides covered with gauzy netting that kept the flies at bay and billowed prettily in the slight breeze. White linen covered the table, and crystal and silver sparkled in the slanting sunlight. Beneath silver domes, an array of exquisite dishes awaited their perusal, including traditional Arabian fare such as a refreshing salad of chopped tomatoes with coriander and mint, chickpeas stewed in garlic, lemon, and olive oil, and tiny grilled pigeons stuffed with grapes.
The indulgences didn’t stop outside the dining pavilion, either. Each day in the early afternoon two dozen porters and attendants set up a small town’s worth of tents, complete with mattresses and pillows, their striped awnings stretching out over the front and back flaps to capture any passing breeze and thus ameliorate their daily afternoon naps. Sir Robert dearly loved his afternoon naps.
Once the sun had sunk low enough, the fellahin packed it all up again and they’d mount their cantankerous camels and sally forth for another three to four hours before their reis,
Zayed—another of Sir Robert’s personal hires—called an end to the day’s progress. Then the fellahin would once more pitch the tents and set up camp as the chef prepared a final light repast for their dinner. After that they retired to their tents only to be woken before dawn with coffee and croissants followed by a few hours of travel before Sir Robert deemed it too hot to travel.
Needless to say, they were not racing toward Fort Gordon.
Nor would they be. Sir Robert was holding up extraordinarily well, but he was eighty-five. Even given the luxury of their accommodations, the quality of the food, and their easy pace, it was a rigorous journey, and no one, most especially Sir Robert, was going to test the limits of his endurance.
Except, perhaps, their reis, a Bedouin who had scant patience with his aged client’s insistence on so many lengthy intermissions.
Haji glanced out of the tent where Zayed stood, arms crossed, staring out at the desert, disapproval in every line of his body. Haji did not know where Sir Robert had found a Bedouin willing to guide them, but then, Sir Robert had a long history in this country, and over those years he had gained the respect and admiration of a diverse group of people, the nomadic Bedouins among them.
“Miss Whimpelhall?” Professor Tynesborough said. “Some claret, perhaps?”
“I don’t think I ought to,” she demurred.
“Why, there’s nothing wrong is there, my dear?” Sir Robert asked, all solicitude. Though the years may have depleted his endurance, they had not affected his idea of himself as something of a ladies’ man.
“No,” she said. “It is just all this rich food. I am loath to admit it, but I find myself pining for a simple slice of cold shoulder and perhaps a piece of cheese. Cow’s milk cheese.”
“Your stomach is nasty again?” Magi asked from her seat beside Sir Robert’s, where he was never out from beneath her ever-vigilant eye.
“A bit,” Miss Whimpelhall said, blushing. Haji had never seen a woman so given to blushing. Often just a reference to bodily functions could make her face flame bright red right to the roots of her brown hair.
Haji had thought Miss Whimpelhall as portrayed by Ginesse Braxton had been bad enough, but the real Mildred Whimpelhall was worse. She arrived late to dine every night. As soon as she spotted Magi and him, for a few telling seconds her brows shot up. She could not have made it clearer that she thought they should have been serving rather than dining. And in part, she was right. His aunt and he came from a caste far below the pashas and nobles. Miss Whimpelhall was always gracious, but the sort of graciousness that was meant to remind others of her superiority.
Not that anyone else seemed to notice, even Magi. But then Magi’s world revolved around Sir Robert. She would be no more likely to note Miss Whimpelhall’s prejudice than she was to note Haji’s discomfort with it. In other words, not at all.
“I am sure something can be arranged, Miss Whimpelhall,” Magi said and beckoned to one of the attendants hovering silently in the background. There had been a time when Haji might have been one of them. If not for Magi and Sir Robert.
“Tell me, Professor, where did Ginesse find this clue as to the location of Zerzura?” Sir Robert asked as they continued their meal.
It wasn’t the first time the subject of the lost city had been broached.
“Supposed clue, Sir Robert,” the young professor corrected gently. “Oddly enough, it was in a scroll found in Pope Urban the Second’s library.”
“Someone wrote in Demotic to the pope? Absurd! The language was last employed five hundred years before he was even ordained.”
“I didn’t say they wrote to him. I said they sent it to him. By a squire he’d sent to North Africa during the First Crusade, I believe.”
Fascinated, Haji sat forward in his chair. It had been a long time since he’d enjoyed a purely academic conversation, and both Sir Robert and Professor Tynesborough had filled a void he hadn’t realized he’d had. It was bittersweet to imagine what life would have been like had he had the means for a proper education.
“What would he have been doing in North Africa?” Haji asked.
Professor Tynesborough lifted a hand in apology. “I can’t say. The papyrus only came to me because of the language it was written in. I glanced at it and promptly forgot about it. It appeared to be nothing more than a bill of goods from a caravan written during Cleopatra’s reign, so not my bailiwick. Not ancient enough,” he added for Miss Whimpelhall’s benefit. “About five thousand years too young. I gave it to Miss Braxton to catalogue.”
The chef, a heavily bearded Copt named Timon with skin the color of teak and a big belly he carried straight in front of him like a pregnant woman, appeared in the entrance to the dining pavilion. He bore a domed serving plate before him.
“What fool asks for cheese?” he demanded. “How am I to transport cheese through a desert? There is no cheese.”
Miss Whimpelhall took one look at the contemptuous man and shrank in her seat.
“Ah, Timon,” Sir Robert hailed the cook. “Miss Whimpelhall here is having a bit of a tummy upset. Unused to such glorious food, I shouldn’t wonder.”
The cook’s dark eyes latched on to Miss Whimpelhall. “No cheese and no meat without spice or sauces.”
“Then what have you there, Timon?” Sir Robert asked.
“The ingredients for a dessert that will make you weep for joy,” he announced. “A tender crepe, orange liqueur, butter and sugar. I will prepare en table.” He did not wait for permission—he simply clapped his hands, and at once an attendant arrived with a small table.
“Good show! At least I know you like a sweet,” Sir Robert said merrily with a pointed glance at Miss Whimpelhall’s figure, “and you must admit, Cook is a dab hand with desserts, so at least in this you won’t be disappointed.” He chuckled, oblivious to Miss Whimpelhall’s embarrassed glance.
Haji was impatient to return to their previous conversation. “Pardon my curiosity, Professor, but why would a crusader send such a list to a pope?”
“Ah,” Professor Tynesborough gently waggled his finger, “because that caravan had come from Zerzura.”
The chef’s head snapped around. “Zerzura? Zerzura is nothing but a myth.”
“Probably,” Professor Tynesborough agreed, apparently finding nothing unusual about trading archaeological theories with a cook and an Egyptian con man. By heaven, Haji liked the man. In some ways, he reminded him of Jim. “Miss Braxton’s research suggests the Oasis of Little Birds lies in a mountain range deep in the southwestern part of Egypt. But no one has ever even seen this mountain range, let alone the city.”
“No European,” Haji said excitedly. “And while I have not heard of mountains, some men I have traded with have in turn traded with others who say they have been to the shoulders of the desert, a great plateau.”
The cook paused in the process of sautéing some citrus fruit in butter and sugar. He slid a thin crepe into the golden syrup, making a disdainful sound. “And I suppose the Ark of the Covenant is waiting there to be discovered?”
“Hardly,” Sir Robert said. “The Judeo tradition keeps careful track of such things. No, that was lost in Alexandria. But if there is a city that deep in the desert, it only makes sense that it would have been a primary center for the caravan trade as well as a cultural crossroads for the ancient world. Oh, there would be treasure there, indeed.” He smiled at the cook. “But no ark.”
“Now here,” Timon announced, “is a treasure.” He set the plate in front of Miss Whimpelhall before serving the others. Then, with the slightest of bows, he left the pavilion.
For long, appreciative moments, no one spoke as they devoured the dessert. Finally, Sir Robert shoved himself back from the table. “I do enjoy roughing it now and again,” he said, patting his stomach fondly. “Makes one appreciate the finer things in life, what? I say, I wonder how Ginesse is faring? Do you suppose they’ve arrived at Fort Gordon yet?”
“If not yet, very soon,” Haji said, thinki
ng of Jim. Haji would not like to be around when Jim discovered Ginesse’s masquerade. He was not a man who took being made a fool of lightly. Ginesse had best pray Jim remembered who her father was and then pray that he cared enough to let it make a difference. Haji wasn’t sure it would.
“Good. Good. I should hate to think she’s not having as fine a time as we are.” Sir Robert rolled his eyes toward Professor Tynesborough. “She was always a bully little camper, quite as at home in the desert as a Tuareg raider. Acted more like a son than a daughter.”
“That’s interesting,” Professor Tynesborough said. “I wonder if she found it a reprieve to come to London and be treated with the gentle regard and tenderness young ladies are generally accorded there.”
Sir Robert frowned as if this thought had never occurred to him. “I always thought she liked her life very much. Did she infer otherwise to you, Professor?” he asked.
“No,” the professor hastily assured him. “I was only wondering. She seemed mostly eager to get another degree, yet she was never one of those students who lived and breathed their studies. I thought perhaps she sought an excuse to stay in England and not return…here,” he finished weakly.
“Oh,” Sir Robert said, his brow furrowing and his lip stuck out in a thoughtful manner. He looked sad, Haji realized. He damned Tynesborough for dispelling one of the old gentleman’s fond illusions.
“I think she was quite happy in Egypt, Sir Robert,” Haji put in, winning a grateful look from Sir Robert. “I knew her well, remember. You gave me the role of nanny to her when she was allowed to visit the concessions where Mr. Braxton worked.”
“Nanny?” Sir Robert asked, perplexed. “Is that how you saw it?”
Haji made a slight, dismissive gesture and smiled to show he felt no rancor over it. “Well, wasn’t I?”
“No.” Sir Robert’s noble old face creased with hurt. “I considered you more like a big brother to her and asked you to watch over her in that spirit, not as a duty or as an employee, but as a family member. I thought that was clear.”
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