How strange to realize that now, when she’d discovered that was not who she was, that might be all she had left.
So, she’d done the only thing she could think of to protect herself from making that disastrous leap of faith, from heeding the tempting call of his honorable intentions. She’d thrown up between them the only barrier she knew he would not try to breach: Pomfrey.
He’d looked so shocked, so offended, when she’d told him she had no intention of telling Pomfrey they’d…had a physical relationship. But the assertion had served its purpose. And just to drive home the point that he must not press her, must not pursue the subject, must not play havoc with her resolve, she’d added the fantasy that she wanted the things Pomfrey could give her and he could not. She had expected him to be disgusted; she had never anticipated that he’d turn into this hard, cold-eyed stranger.
It was for the best. It made it easy to remember that he’d offered her an honorable alternative to being a “fallen woman,” not a passionate declaration of undying love.
Undying love. Perhaps she was a fool, but she knew such a thing existed. She’d been witness to one of the world’s great love stories: her parents. Was it too much to want the same? Perhaps it was, but she could not settle for less.
They rode far into the night. Though his possession had left her increasingly hurt and aching, she refused to complain. He stayed well ahead of her, silhouetted against the desert moon, so seamlessly melded with his gray stallion that they might have been a single creature. Finally, sometime after midnight, they came upon a copse of low-growing thorn bushes and he circled back to her side.
“We’ll rest here,” he said, dropping lightly from the Arabian’s bare back.
She tapped the camel with the riding stick, ordering it to kneel. For once, the cantankerous creature complied. Gingerly, Ginesse swung her leg over the saddle and slipped off. Her legs folded beneath her the minute her feet touched the earth, but she never fell. Jim was beside her, swinging her easily into his arms, his face set and angry once more.
How had she ever thought him enigmatic? She could read him so easily now. His frustration, his guilt, his concern. Surely there was love there? Why hadn’t he said so then?
“Why didn’t you say something?”
“Because it’s none of your business,” she said. Treacherous, unfaithful body, it melted against him.
His eyes glittered like hoarfrost. “Let’s get this straight, Miss Whimpelhall. Until I deliver you to Pomfrey, everything about you, everything is my business.”
He jounced her higher in his arms and she startled, flinging her arms around his neck to keep from falling. “Do you understand, Miss Whimpelhall?”
She swallowed, uncertain to how to deal with this cruel-seeming stranger. “Yes.”
“Good.” He carried her a short distance and eased her down, holding on to her arm as she sank gracelessly to the ground. He went back to the camel and unsaddled it, returning with the blanket from her back. He snapped it open. “Lie on this.”
She didn’t argue. She was sore, cold, and exhausted. She barely kept awake long enough to open the canteen he brought her and take a drink before she collapsed, asleep as soon as her head touched the blanket.
It was still dark when she came to and found herself once more in Jim’s arms. A faint light was sifting in from the east and the moon had set.
“We’re leaving? Let me down. I can walk.”
“No, you can’t,” he muttered.
He must have saddled the camel while she slept, for it was ready and waiting, the gray stallion tied behind. He deposited her sideways in the saddle and then mounted, drawing her onto his lap.
“This isn’t necessary,” she said. “I am perfectly capable of riding alone. I did so all last night.”
He closed his eyes briefly, as if to bring his temper under control. When he opened them, he sounded more composed. “I know that, and I regret it. I also know you must be in some pain and that last’s night ride only made matters worse,” he said. “You shouldn’t be riding astride. Not for a while yet. But the fact of the matter is that as much as I’m sure you don’t want to be anywhere near me, let alone in my arms, we don’t have the luxury of waiting for you to heal. I’m sorry.”
Heat rose in her cheeks. “How far are we from the garrison?”
He hesitated. “I’m not certain. The Tuaregs didn’t follow a straight trajectory. In the course of tracking them, I lost my reference points. We could be three days or a week.”
She heard a slight underlying tension in his voice. “Do we have enough water?”
He didn’t equivocate. “Probably.” He tilted his head. “You’re quite the pragmatist, aren’t you?”
She couldn’t hear any mockery in his voice, but she stiffened nonetheless. “I like to know where I stand.”
“Don’t we all,” he murmured and clucked lightly to get the camel moving. “Don’t we all.”
From his seat atop the stallion, Jim watched Ginesse swaying atop the one-eyed camel with some concern. She was ahead of him, and her head was bobbing a little too loosely. She looked like someone’s dirty bag of laundry. The once pristine robes had long since ceased to be white, her hair was knotted and tangled with bits of twigs, and her face was streaked with dust and sweat. And still he thought her the most gorgeous creature on earth.
He was undeniably mad. And it was a madness he doubted he’d ever recover from. Because as much as he wanted to, he could not deny how much she meant to him. He could not look at her without feeling a deep sense of recognition, of homecoming, of a long journey well-ended. Which had to be the definition of insanity when one was referring to a woman who’d told you she did not want you, that she would abdicate her sense her honor—and regardless of what she might appear to be, he knew her to be honorable—in order to marry someone else.
“How much farther do you think?” she asked faintly, swaying lightly atop the one-eyed camel.
His concern deepened. They’d been traveling for four days since leaving the Tuareg camp. Whenever he asked her how she was faring, she answered that she was fine. He didn’t believe her anymore. Because she would never have asked such a question unless she felt her strength waning. She never complained, never. She was as intrepid as she was stubborn.
Even though they’d spent the first day in terse silence, he should have realized it wouldn’t last. Not with her. Before the second day’s sunset, she was relating little anecdotes about dead kings and Tanzanian bipeds, Napoleon’s hygienic practices and the best way to serve cactus.
But they’d run out of food yesterday morning and spent the day beneath a makeshift shelter, hiding from the sun. Their water rations were quickly being depleted. If they didn’t make it to the fort by tomorrow, he’d have to kill the horse—a better fate than dying of thirst—so they could continue on.
“Soon.” He’d never lied to her, but then he’d never needed to.
“Oh.”
“Do you need some water?”
“No. It’s just…the sun is so hot. Does it seem hotter to you?”
“We’ll stop and rest.” It was still morning, vestiges of last night’s cold still keeping the heat at bay. If she found the sun overwhelming now, she would find it unbearable in a few hours.
“No. The longer we rest the longer it takes. We have to press on.”
He shook his head. “I’ll have to strap you to the camel in a few minutes.”
She gave him a weak, crooked smile. “Well, you can’t say you wouldn’t enjoy that.”
Good Lord, the girl was audacious. Audacious and gamine and utterly beguiling. He’d never met her like before. He never would again. He wouldn’t spend a day searching. He would settle for a memory of a three-week trip across a blasted desert taking the only woman he would ever love to another man, a trip surely designed in Hades for sinners.
They had an unspoken agreement that they would not touch on any “too personal” subject, in particular what had happened in the
Tuareg’s tent. Now, she’d broken that unvoiced pact.
He should have expected it. She would never play by the rules.
“I might at that,” he admitted wryly. “But you wouldn’t. We’ll just take a short break.”
“No. No…I’m just really tired. Perhaps…if you would just…hold me in front of you? I could sleep.”
This could be dangerous territory. Despite the slight formality with which she addressed him and her concentrated effort to avoid touching him, she could not hide her body’s response to his. He’d carried her on the camel in front of him after he’d realized what discomfort she’d been in. He’d noted the way she melted against him for the briefest of moments when he first took her up in his arms, how her eyes grew luminous when he looked at her mouth, the way her breath skittered when he brushed the hair from her eyes.
Just as she would have noticed his reaction to her. She’d have to be wearing armor not to. So after two days she’d announced she was perfectly able to ride independently. It had proved a double-edged sword. His relief was patent, but he missed her body close to his even more.
“Of course.” They reined in their respective mounts. He got off and tied the stallion behind the camel then climbed aboard the camel behind her. Without any hesitation, she relaxed back against him. Awkwardly, he looped his hand around her waist and took hold of the reins. She rolled her cheek into his chest. Her eyes were already closed, a faint wry smile playing about her cracked lips. “Don’t worry, Jim. I promise not to take advantage,” she murmured.
“More’s the pity,” he murmured.
He had taken advantage. And given any encouragement, he would again. But she hadn’t heard. She was already asleep.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
Colonel Lord Hilliard Pomfrey stood in the garrison’s lookout tower with his field glasses pressed to his eye. “I believe that there are two Arabs atop that camel, Jones.”
The fresh-faced lieutenant beside him made some adjustments to the field scope mounted on the floor and peered into the lens at figures a mile out and closing slowly. “Indeed, you are correct, sir. One of the men is carrying the other before him. Perhaps he is injured and they are seeking medical aid?” he suggested.
“An Arab seeking medical attention from the King’s Army? Not bloody likely. No, they’d seek help from their own people.”
“Unless they were travelers set upon by bandits?”
“Hm,” Pomfrey mused. “Perhaps. Though we are far enough from any of the main caravan routes that it would be surprising.”
Fort Gordon had been built on the remains of an ancient Roman fortress at the westernmost edge of what Pomfrey thought could only be an ironically named “New Valley,” an immensely long geographic ridge separating the northern sand dunes from the southern dunes. The site was significant only in that it was one of the few oases of any size that occurred before entering a virtual no-man’s-land of rock and sand and wind, and because it guarded a border no one was likely to try to cross. But, by God, if they did, they’d have His Majesty’s army to deal with.
Simply put, Colonel Lord Hilliard Pomfrey had the privilege of commanding England’s most remote continually manned outpost. He took pride in that fact. Few men were up to the challenge of facing down such extreme isolation; he was one of them. Like himself, his men were handpicked by him for this duty. And while he was rightfully proud of that strength of character that enabled him to endure, he was not too proud to admit it would be nice to share his isolation with a helpmate to support him in a domestic capacity.
He withdrew the binoculars from his eyes, frowning. Even allowing for a leisurely pace, Mildred and her escorts should have arrived a week ago. Were something untoward to have happened, surely Neely would have sent a man ahead. Besides, that is precisely why he had pressed Owens into service; the man was a ruffian and a scoundrel, but his knowledge of the desert and its peoples was unparalleled by any man he knew, at least any white man. He was confident Owens would keep her safe.
“Should I have the men open the gates?” Jones asked.
“No. We’ll wait and see what they have to say for themselves,” Pomfrey said. “Pick two of your best riflemen and have them keep them in their sights until we discover what it is they want.”
“Yes, sir,” Jones said, snapping off a smart salute before leaving Pomfrey alone in the tower, his thoughts returning to Mildred and her unexplained delay.
Perhaps he should have sent a better grade of men to serve as her escort. He had a full complement of brave, seasoned soldiers to choose from, but he’d sent an old campaigner one year from being discharged and a bunch of fresh recruits.
At the time it had seemed the obvious decision. Neely was there just to provide escort. He didn’t expect Neely and his men to engage in a battle. It was Owens’s express job to keep them out of any dangerous situations. But even if there had been hostilities, surely Neely, a career veteran, and his boys were up to the task. And he knew Owens was. The man had an absolute knack for surviving the unsurvivable.
Pomfrey had been leading a squadron on a reconnaissance mission deep in the desert along the Sudanese border when they’d spotted Owens. He’d been limping along, leading an all-but-dead horse out of the Libyan desert, with what Pomfrey would later discover were two bullet holes in him, a couple broken bones, a severe case of dehydration, and mild starvation.
Ever cognizant of his duty as a Christian, he’d order his men to a halt so he could rescue the poor boy. Owens just stood there swaying as Pomfrey had swung from his camel, barking an order for his men to fashion a litter. They jumped to comply as he’d asked the boy his name. While awaiting a reply, he’d taken the opportunity to shoot the poor horse in the head.
What happened next still amazed him. Owens had started as the horse collapsed, and before Pomfrey realized what was happening, Owens’s right fist had lashed out and caught him full in the face, knocking him to the ground.
“You bastard!” the young man had shouted. “You bloody bastard! I owed that horse my life.”
A couple of his soldiers roughly seized the boy, causing him to gasp in agony. Pomfrey took the higher road.
“Treat him gently, lads,” he’d said. “The sun and the wind must have driven him mad.”
The boy threw himself forward, but his soldiers kept a fast hold of him. Pomfrey climbed to his feet, gingerly working his jaw.
“I owed that horse a debt!” the boy sobbed. “He carried me faithfully, and this is how he’s repaid!”
Pomfrey had looked sadly his men. “See? What sane man could think himself indebted to a soulless animal?”
The boy’s last bit of energy had by then been expended. He’d staggered on his feet, unable to hold up his own weight. “Let me go,” he panted.
“You say you owed that animal a debt. What of the debt you owe me, young sir? Have I not saved your life? And yet you repay my conscious act of charity by striking me. Is that honorable? Is that noble?”
His words had the desired effect on the battered young man. He stopped fighting. He squinted as though having trouble focusing. “I’ll repay you,” he’d rasped. “I vow, I will repay you. I wouldn’t be beholden to you for any reason.”
And he’d fallen unconscious.
It was that episode which had convinced Pomfrey that he could trust Owens, who was, in his own primitive, heathenish way, an honorable man. If Owens felt so strongly about his obligation to a horse, he must feel ten times that to the man who’d saved his life. No, he had no qualms about sending Owens to protect Mildred. He just hoped he hadn’t overestimated Owens’s abilities.
He dragged his attention back to the two Arabs approaching the garrison. He wished they would just go away, but it looked as if they wouldn’t.
“Open the gates!” the rider bellowed.
Good heavens. He was English.
“Sir?” his young lieutenant called up to him.
“This is Mildred Whimpelhall, blast you to hell!” the man on the camel
shouted. “Now open the bloody gates!”
Mildred? “Open the gates! Open the gates at once!” Pomfrey called out, hurrying down the stairs. He arrived at the gates just as it swung open and Jim Owens rode in.
“Mildred? Good heavens, Owens, what happened?”
Owens carried her in front of him, bundled in filthy Egyptian rags, her face all but hidden by a swathing veil, only one long knotted rope of reddish hair falling over Owens’s arm. What he could see of her face was just as filthy as her clothing, encrusted with dust and sweat. Her eyes were closed, and he could not tell if she was breathing.
“Is she all right?”
Owens nodded. He looked just as wretched as the woman he held, his skin burnt beneath the coating of dust and salt whitening his lips. “She’s fainted. She needs water and food. And rest.”
His eyes fixed on the unmoving bundle, Pomfrey gestured to two of the nearest soldiers. “Get her down from there, and for God’s sake get her out of those rags,” he ordered.
They hastened forward and lifted their hands to take her from Owens, who with an odd appearance of reluctance shifted her gently to their waiting arms.
“Careful,” Owens barked. “Be careful. She has had a hard time of it.”
Those enlisted men’s wives “living on the strength” had arrived along with one of his junior officer’s wives. They divided their fascinated stares equally between Mildred and James Owens.
“If you would be so kind as to see to Miss Whimpelhall, Mrs. Bly?” Pomfrey asked. “A bath and some new clothing?”
“Water first and then food,” Owens counterordered. “Then you can worry about making her pretty.”
Pomfrey flushed. “That goes without saying.”
Owens slid from the camel’s back as they took Mildred away. The man was near done for, Pomfrey realized. His legs could barely hold him, but when one of the soldiers put out a steadying hand, he shook him off.
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