She had offered friendship, and he had welcomed it. It had been a pleasure to ride beside her in friendly companionship. He had not seen any danger.
But of course! That was it! That was the explanation. She was a friend, and naturally, when danger threatened, he immediately sought to protect his friend. There was no need to think of this as romantic or sentimental or any of that sort of nonsense.
Assuredly she was an attractive woman, but that was beside the point. He noticed this because she was his friend. If he noticed that her eyes were a particularly vivid blue, sparkling with excitement at every new discovery, that was of no more significance than the fact that Oliphant had dark eyes. He thought for a moment. Oliphant did have dark eyes, didn’t he? Yes, he was almost certain of it.
N’importe.
She was a friend. That was all there was to it. And as for that rather embarrassing way his body had reacted—that had nothing to do with Emily. It was just that she was a woman and he was a man. One’s body had these reactions, after all. It was just nature. There was no need to think there was anything else to it.
He heaved a sigh of relief. She was a friend, and in a month or so, she and her family would depart, and he would be on his way to distant places. He would travel the ancient Silk Road. He would go to Samarkand, Tashkent, Kashgar, and on into China through the Pass of the Jade Gate. He would continue on his adventures.
But he did not return to the tent.
*
Inside the tent, Emily joined her mother and Julia in making light of the attack. Poor Papa looked so upset that they could hardly do anything else. At least it provided a distraction, and she sorely desired a distraction.
What had happened earlier? Lucien was her friend. She liked him and enjoyed his company, but she didn’t understand quite what had happened.
Well, of course she knew what had happened. Those ridiculous Kurds had fired shots at them, and Lucien had thrown her to the ground and thrown himself over her to protect her. It had been very brave and gallant.
But then something else had happened.
She should have been feeling bruised and crushed under him, but she didn’t. She had liked the feel of his body lying on hers. She had liked it very much. She could not remember ever having liked anything quite that much, certainly not in quite that way. It felt right somehow. In fact, she had wanted to pull him closer.
His mouth had been just above hers. She could feel him breathe, and she could have sworn he was about to kiss her. Or she was about to kiss him. Perhaps both.
Then David had startled them into awareness by shouting at the captain. She did not know whether to bless him for that or curse him.
All she knew was that when Lucien sprang away so abruptly, she felt bereft. She had lost something she had not even known she wanted.
Seven
Someone must have been watching for them, because when they arrived in Mosul, Mr. Rassam, the British consul, was at the dock to greet them. It was one of the odder moments of their journey. Mr. Rassam was a native Assyrian, an olive-skinned gentleman sporting the kind of fiercely exuberant black mustaches Emily had seen on many of the Ottomans. At the same time, he was dressed in perfectly proper morning clothes, complete with a black frock coat and a black silk hat.
He was the only one so properly dressed.
She and Mama and Julia were all still wearing their Turkish garments and were enveloped in the blue robes that seemed to cover all the women in this part of the world. Those robes were beginning to feel a bit stifling under the hot afternoon sun, but Lucien had warned that the robes were necessary any time they were out of doors, and that the black veils would be a good idea as well. The men had left their heavy cloaks behind with the cold in the mountains and were wearing loose brown jackets, trousers, and boots, along with low-crowned broad-brimmed brown hats to protect them from the sun. They looked thoroughly relaxed.
Nonetheless, Mr. Rassam greeted them with punctilious formality, and Lord and Lady Penworth responded in the same manner. It was amusing, really. Her parents might have been at a diplomatic reception at Buckingham Palace for all the attention they paid to their somewhat disreputable attire. Emily hoped that this did not mean that the restrictions of society were closing in once more and the adventures were over.
However, it was probably just as well that Mr. Rassam had come to meet them. Mosul was far larger than any of the other towns they had seen after leaving Constantinople, much too large for Irmak to simply wave his firman and expect everyone to jump. And David Oliphant had never been here before. Without Mr. Rassam present to meet them, they would have had to rely on Lucien to guide them, and Emily did not want to rely on him—or have her family rely on him—at present.
She was feeling decidedly ambivalent about Lucien at the moment. Ever since that—that what? That rescue? That half embrace? That almost-kiss? Ever since that whatever-it-should-be-called, he had been avoiding her. True, she had tried to avoid him at first, but by the time they stopped for the night, she had gathered together her courage and her manners and tried to thank him for protecting her. But he had brushed her thanks aside as if it embarrassed him.
Did he regret almost kissing her? And if so, why? If he regretted it because her father was a marquess and he was just an adventurer, well, that was foolish of him. Admirable, perhaps, but foolish.
If, on the other hand, he regretted it because he thought she was too forward and was trying to trap him, then she was thoroughly insulted. She was Lady Emily Tremaine and while she might not be the most beautiful young lady in English society, she had more than enough suitors already and certainly had no need to entrap anyone.
At the moment, what she wanted most of all was some privacy to think about all of this. She was uncertain about his feelings, but also about her own. She had never felt quite this way before, and she needed time to think about it all. One would think that desolate mountains and wild rivers would provide not just privacy but solitude, even isolation. But no, they had all been thrown together so completely on the journey thus far that a thought could not cross her mind without someone noticing and commenting.
“Are you not feeling well?” Papa was looking down at her in concern.
That was precisely what she meant. Could she not even ignore her surroundings for a moment without comment? She put on a cheerful smile. “I’m fine, Papa. Just a bit tired.”
He patted her on the shoulder. “Well, there is no need for you to worry anymore. Mr. Rassam tells me that he has a house prepared for us, and we should be settled there in no time at all. All safe and sound. No need to worry anymore about Kurds.”
Kurds were the least of her worries, but she probably should not say so to her father. She managed to smile again, and noticed that Lucien was helping David deal with their baggage. Keeping his distance, as he had ever since the shooting. Well, if he could keep his distance, so could she. Was he as confused as she was? She certainly hoped so. She disliked this uncertainty, especially this uncertainty about her own feelings.
Everything was somehow topsy-turvy. No one was behaving normally. She was keeping a tight rein on herself while Julia was relaxed and laughing, Mr. Rassam, who was an Assyrian, was dressed like an ever-so-proper Englishman while Papa looked almost like a ruffian in his slouch hat and loose coat. People were shouting all around her, and she could not understand a word.
Nothing seemed familiar. Even the faces of the servants who had been with them all through this journey—Nuran, Safiye, and Zeki, who was Papa’s manservant—blended so well into the crowd that they seemed like strangers. Irmak was barking orders at his men as usual, but without his usual confidence. The troopers seemed to be swaggering, the way men do when they are unsure of themselves.
Emily felt unsure herself. She allowed herself to be bundled along, settled on a donkey, a rather odiferous donkey, and led through noisy squares where everyone seemed to be shouting and then down dark, narrow, silent streets—alleys, really. These were lined with buildings
protected by heavy doors and with mere slits for windows. Nothing penetrated here, not the clamor of the squares, not the glare of the sun. An unwelcoming place, but then every town they had entered had looked unwelcoming, built to defend the residents rather than to greet newcomers.
She was tired. It had been no mere excuse when she told her father so. Last night she had found it difficult to sleep. No, not difficult. It had been impossible to sleep, and it had been equally impossible to get up and pace around to relieve her restlessness. That would have had her parents hovering over her in concern and asking questions she couldn’t answer. So she had spent the night tossing and turning and reliving the attack. No, not the attack. She had to stop trying to hide from her own thoughts. What kept her awake was the memory of Lucien’s body. And the memory of her own body, reacting in a way she didn’t understand. What had happened to her?
She felt herself flushing every time the memory returned, and it kept returning. She didn’t know what was wrong with her. It wasn’t as if she had never been close to a man before. Well, not in that position, of course. Blast! She could feel that flush rising again, and she was grateful to be wrapped in the voluminous blue cloak that hid her face as well as her body.
Emily had been close to other men. Of course she had. When she danced, there had always been partners who pulled her too close. And there had been gentlemen who tried to embrace her—two gentlemen, anyway. One particularly vain peacock and one old friend who had decided it was time to settle down and thought they might suit, being old friends and all.
Those encounters had been tiresome and annoying. None of them had made her feel anything like the way she had felt with Lucien. She didn’t even know quite how to describe the way she had felt. She was a practical, sensible young woman. She was not the sort to get swept away on a tide of passion like the heroine of a romantic novel.
Was it a tide of passion? She wasn’t even sure. What was a tide of passion like? And why would it be called a tide if it was creating this heat, this fire inside her?
She came to herself abruptly and found herself no longer on the donkey. She was inside a house and her mother and Nuran were helping her out of her clothes. She tried to protest, but her mother shushed her as if she were a baby, and before she knew it, she had been washed, her hair had been plaited, and she had been inserted into a clean nightgown and tucked into bed even though it was not fully dark yet.
At least now she could think in privacy, she thought, just before she slipped into a deep, dreamless sleep.
*
Lucien arrived at a house a few streets away and was admitted by Hamiz, who ran the household. He promptly took charge of Lucien’s baggage, chattering a welcome and declaring the entire household ecstatic over his return. Too tired to respond with equal enthusiasm, Lucien asked for the whereabouts of M. Carnac. The information he brought was not what Carnac had hoped for, and he wanted to deliver it as soon as possible. What he would do then, he was not sure, and that uncertainty was vexatious. He was not accustomed to uncertainty.
“Lucien! Vous êtes de retour!” A young woman came flying down the staircase and threw herself on him.
He staggered slightly and laughed as he held her away from him. Speaking also in French, he said, “Yes, Mélisande, I am back, as you see.”
“We did not expect you so soon. Did you go to Paris? What was it like there?” She hung on his arm and gazed up at him, her face shining with excitement.
“No, no, only to Constantinople.” He patted her hand. “I will tell you all about it later, but run along now, little one. I must speak with your papa.”
With a flash of temper, her face settled into its familiar little pout and her grip tightened on his arm.
“Now, now, none of that,” he admonished, “or you will not have the journals I obtained for you.”
“The journals—you found some? Le Follet? La Mode Illustrée?” The pout shifted into excited delight.
He nodded, extricating himself from her grip. “But first I must speak with your papa.”
He crossed the courtyard and knocked on the door of the room Carnac used for an office but did not bother to wait for a reply. Carnac was always too immersed in his studies to notice anything as trivial as a knock on the door.
Sure enough, there he was, hunched over his desk, peering intently at a piece of clay. Light from the single window focused in on the desk in a narrow beam, leaving the rest of the room in obscurity. Tables large and small, cabinets and shelves all were covered with irregular heaps of what Lucien knew to be bits of clay tablets covered with cuneiform inscriptions. If Carnac had heard Lucien enter, the oblivious old man gave no indication. He sat immobile, his disordered hair and bristling beard so covered with dust that he seemed at one with his artifacts.
Although tempted to simply leave, Lucien forced himself to move forward until he could reach out and tap Carnac on the shoulder.
“Eh?” The old man lifted his head slowly, peering over his glasses. “What…? Ah, Chambertin, you are back. And so soon. That means good news, does it not? How much funding have they offered?” He smiled hopefully.
Lucien wished he had some way to soften the news. “I regret, the answer was no. There is no money.”
The look of dismay on Carnac’s face was everything Lucien had feared. “No money? They cannot mean that. You mean there is no money right away. There will be money later. That is it, no?”
Lucien shook his head. “I spoke with the ambassador several times. He regrets it, but there is nothing more he can do.”
The old man shook his head in disbelief. “I will write more letters. I will write again to the director at the Louvre, to the emperor himself.”
“The ambassador has written to them all himself, and he has had replies from them. The answer is always the same. There is no money to continue with the excavations here.”
“But the emperor—surely he can see the glory for France…”
“The emperor least of all. He is too busy with Mexico, with Cochinchina, with all the rest of the world. He has little interest in the distant past. What money they have at the Louvre goes to Greece or to Egypt.”
“Greece. Bah. Statues of pretty boys.” Carnac had managed to get to his feet and had removed his apron. He looked around and eventually found his coat draped over a piece of bas-relief. He snatched it up and pushed himself into it as he stumbled from the room. Lucien reached out a helping hand, but Carnac shrugged it off in irritation. “No, no. I must think. We will talk later.”
With a shake of his head, Lucien went off to his own rooms to collect some clean clothes. Then off to the baths, where he relaxed in the steam, had pitchers of water poured over him, drank coffee, gossiped with acquaintances, and tried to not think about Emily. He failed.
*
Dinner at the Carnacs’ no longer seemed bizarre to Lucien, any more than Mélisande’s costume did. She had managed to create for herself a voluminous skirt that seemed to have been cobbled together from several different garments, and her blouse was covered by a vest she swore was just like one she had seen in La Mode. She looked very like a child playing dress-up, which, he supposed, she was.
They sat on chairs at a table, eating with forks and spoons that Mélisande had discovered in the market a few years ago. The room, opening onto the courtyard, held not only the table and chairs, but also two padded chairs and a European oil lamp. That was really too much furniture for the small room, but it was the only one on the ground floor that had not been taken over by clay tablets and broken statues. Mélisande claimed that it was a French parlor, and it was her pride and joy.
The food, though, was that of Mesopotamia—rice with some vegetables and an occasional bit of meat. This evening, the rice had almonds and raisins as well as onions and lentils and a bit of mutton, all seasoned with a good bit of cumin, cloves, and a dozen other spices. Emily would approve. He smiled at the thought. Odd that this meal should now seem ordinary, when it was so different from the wine-lac
ed sauces and mustard-flavored dishes of Burgundy. He scarcely missed them, he told himself, though he did miss having wine to accompany his meals, and perhaps a brandy afterwards.
He especially missed the wine today.
Carnac brooded in silence at the head of the table, but Mélisande chattered away about the articles she had found in the journals Lucien had brought for her. There had been an account of a grand Parisian reception in Le Follet. “When I go to school in Paris, I shall see all these people when they promenade in their beautiful clothes in the parks and on the grand avenues.” She smiled blissfully. “And one day I shall take my place among them. You will see.”
Her father scowled at her and turned to Lucien. “Hamiz tells me that you traveled with an English party.”
“Yes, that’s right.”
“English!” Carnac said it as if it were a curse, and perhaps for him it was. He had not forgiven the Englishman Layard for the fame he had received, fame Carnac thought belonged rightfully to Botta and the French. Nor had he forgiven the English for the collection of Assyrian artifacts that Layard had sent to the British Museum, or for the ones Rassam’s brother Hormuzd had sent there.
He perhaps had a point there, Lucien acknowledged, since Hormuzd Rassam’s successful excavations had been conducted in the section allotted to the French. However, it seemed unbecoming for a man who claimed to be interested in nothing but scholarship to focus so much on fame. And also, Lucien had listened to far too many diatribes on that subject. They had already become boring months ago. He started to stand and excuse himself.
“Wait,” Carnac commanded. “These English, they plan to excavate?”
“Not at all. Lord Penworth is here at the behest of his government to consider the possibility of building a railroad from Basra and Baghdad to Constantinople.”
“He is not a scholar then?”
“No, though his wife is interested in antiquities.”
While Carnac returned to brooding, Mélisande perked up. “An English lady? She is fashionable, perhaps?”
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