“This is Makeen,” Harry said, his voice soft with pride. “I’m told that means ‘strong’. He’s an Arabian: intelligent, spirited, fast as the wind.” He scratched the horse on its forehead, between its large, liquid eyes, and the animal snickered in delight. “I bought him in Alexandria, and I don’t think I can bear to sell him again. I’m going to have to find a way to get you back to England, aren’t I, my handsome boy?”
Hester’s own body prickled in awareness as she imagined Harry’s strong, sensitive hands stroking her the way he caressed the horse.
She forced herself to exhale. “The Bedouins certainly appreciate fine horseflesh. They have a saying: ‘My treasures do not chink or glitter. They gleam in the sun and neigh in the night.’ And when they gift a horse to someone, they say, ‘I give thee flight without wings.’”
Harry’s smile made her heart miss a beat. “I like that. Flight without wings. That’s very apt.”
He mounted in one swift, easy movement, a move he’d obviously perfected over a thousand instances in the Horse Guards, and they set off.
They lapsed into a companionable silence as Hester led them out of the village and found a barely-discernible trail that led off into the hills. Harry would have thought it was nothing more than a goat track, but she seemed confident of their bearings, and he had enough confidence in her abilities to allow her to lead.
For now.
After a while she glanced sideways at him. “You ride very well.”
Harry fought not to smile at the grudging compliment.
“You were in the Horse Guards, were you not?” she prodded.
“Yes. I love horses, so it made sense to join a cavalry regiment. It was a stupid mistake, in hindsight. I hated seeing them killed.”
Harry frowned, amazed that he’d said such a thing. He never would have admitted to such a weakness back in London, but Hester was so easy to talk to, and they were in the middle of nowhere. Maintaining a stiff upper lip seemed rather pointless.
He shrugged. “I learned not to get too attached to them. It was less painful when I lost one, that way. Some died of battle wounds, others from not enough to eat.” He stared straight ahead, concentrating on the stony trail they were following.
“I had a horse shot out from under me at Badajoz. It fell and pinned me, and I couldn’t escape. The French came to finish off the wounded, but I was saved by darkness falling. I managed to crawl back to my own line.”
He noticed the look of pity and concern on her face and sent her an easy smile to lighten the tone. “You, too, ride very well. Although I can’t quite picture you riding that monstrous beast down Rotten Row. You’d give the ladies of the ton heart palpitations.”
He smiled when she snorted in amusement.
“I’m not sure my reputation would recover from the scandal. An unattached heiress can be forgiven a great deal, but riding a dromedary in Hyde Park might be taking it too far.” She sighed, as if the thought of being back in London depressed her. “I suppose I could always learn to drive a curricle and pair. I do enjoy acquiring new skills.”
Harry glanced at her profile, at the lush perfection of her lips, and his mind—naturally—wondered whether she’d extend that enthusiasm to learning new sexual experiences. God, the things he could show her.
Her fair skin had been caressed by the sun’s rays, and he found her freckles ridiculously attractive. He wanted to lick them, like cinnamon sprinkles on an iced bun. In London she would be decried as a sun-browned heathen, but compared to the semi-transparent watery misses of the ton, whose skin was so pale you could see their blue veins beneath their sallow skin, Hester was a vibrant, sun-kissed goddess.
Why should the sun be the only one to kiss her? Harry’s eyes roved the curve of her jaw, the straight line of her nose. Was she that beautiful peachy color all over? Or did she have paler areas on the places that seldom saw the sun?
He readjusted his position in the saddle.
“Napoleon was a dreadful rider, by all accounts,” he said, to give himself something to think about other than his hands on her skin. His voice held a telltale roughness, but he hoped she’d ascribe that to a parched throat, rather than to a terminal case of lust. He patted Makeen’s neck. “He had an Arabian too, a grey named Marengo.”
“You saw him?”
“A few times, but only from afar. He slouched in the saddle and never kept his heels down. Rumor has it he was always falling off.”
Hester frowned. “Perhaps if Drovetti gives him the necklace, he’ll be able to ride as well as—” she stopped suddenly, and Harry had the distinct impression she’d been about to say ‘as well as you’ but then decided she didn’t want to flatter him and amended it to, “—as if he was born in the saddle.”
They entered a rugged gorge and started following a rocky riverbed in a vaguely southerly direction. Harry glanced upwards at the towering hundred-foot cliffs that rose on either side. It was starkly beautiful. They hadn’t seen another living creature for the past hour, save a few goats, but at least it was shady.
A couple of birds of prey that looked rather like vultures drifted lazily in the warm air currents above them, and he wondered if they were some kind of ill omen. They reminded him of the fortune hunters back in London, making a tour of the ballroom, circling toward their prey.
Hester, with her fortune, had always been in their sights. He’d had a hard time of it, steering them clear of her without her noticing his interference. He hadn’t wanted her hurt, trapped into a marriage with someone who only wanted her money and couldn’t appreciate the vibrant, headstrong woman he knew her to be.
After another mile or so, she pulled her mount to a halt and unrolled her precious map. She squinted out at the horizon then back down. “Not far now.”
Harry couldn’t resist teasing her. “Admit it. We’re lost.”
She rose perfectly to the bait. Her cheeks flushed pink, and her eyes flashed with temper.
“We are not lost.”
“Are you saying mapmakers never get lost?” he pressed. “I find that very hard to believe.”
She sent him an exasperated glance. “Everyone gets lost at some point in their lives, Tremayne. But I usually don’t get lost again.” She tilted her head and then sent him a smile that made his heart thud heavily in his chest. “Actually, there’s something quite nice about getting lost sometimes. One finds all manner of exciting things.” She waved the parchment at him. “After all, what is a map if not the potential for adventure, a chance to discover new worlds? It is freedom.”
He decided to argue, just to be contrary. “A map is a lie. Think about it. Every map is subjective; you select what to put on it. Only the information that is essential to fulfill its particular purpose is included—here in relation to there. It doesn’t tell the whole story. It is the world reduced to points, lines, and textures.” He shook his head, as if he found her view of the world woefully lacking.
As expected, she glared at him as if he’d just kicked a kitten. He bit back a smile. What he wouldn’t give to have all that righteous fury in his arms, in his bed. He cleared his throat and sent her a smile sure to irritate.
“There’s nothing for it,” she said. “I shall have to strangle you.”
He bit back a laugh. “Oh, you will, will you? And how do you propose to do that? I’m bigger than you. And stronger. And far more versed in hand-to-hand combat.”
She sent him a serene smile. “Oh, where there’s a will there’s a way, Tremayne. The gods of poetic justice will surely grant me victory.”
Harry decided he’d be a fool not to check his socks for scorpions and his coffee for arsenic when they stopped to make camp. He wouldn’t put it past her to poison him, the ungrateful wench.
It was just as well she had no idea of the power she held over him. He’d probably let her strangle him, if only to feel those hands on his skin. It would be the work of a moment to hook his legs behind her ankles and sweep her feet from under her. She’d fall to the
ground—he’d cushion her fall with his body, of course—and then she’d be in his arms, with those glorious curves he’d glimpsed beneath her wet undergarments pressed against him—
She clicked her tongue and said something in Arabic. The dromedary, Bahaba, sank to the ground, folding its legs beneath it with a deep grumble of annoyance. She dismounted with far more grace than Harry imagined he would manage in the circumstances. He fanned himself with his hat and tried to cool his errant thoughts.
“If my estimations are correct,” she said, “which I assure you they are, then we should catch up with Drovetti first thing in the morning. It will soon be too dark to continue, however, so I suggest we camp here for the night.” She raised her brows at him in blatant challenge. “Unless you have any objection?”
Harry shook his head and kicked his boot out of the stirrup. “No objection at all, Lady Morden. I bow to your superior knowledge of the terrain.”
She sent him a suspicious look, as if she couldn’t decide whether he was being sarcastic or not, but she decided not to argue. Many men of his acquaintance would have been loath to let a woman take charge, in any situation, but he spoke nothing less than the truth. Not only did he trust her competence, he found it irresistibly attractive.
Chapter 10
Hester couldn’t stop herself from sneaking glances at Harry across the fire, even though she tried not to. With a spurt of self-directed irritation, she picked up a handful of pebbles and tossed them, one by one, towards a larger stone she’d designated as a target.
She was restless and impatient, and she didn’t know why. No, that was a lie: she did know why. It was the presence of the man sprawled on a blanket across the fire from her, stretched out on his side like a sated Roman senator, his elbow resting on his saddle, his long, lean body relaxed and yet still curiously alert in the flickering shadows.
They’d pitched her tent on one side of the rocky gorge and eaten a selection of cold foods she’d brought from the oasis. Olives and dates, figs and honey. The Ancient Egyptians had eaten the same in honor of Ma’at, the goddess of truth and balance, to remind themselves that the truth is sweet.
Hester forced herself to be truthful. Watching Harry eat had been an exercise in self-restraint. Her eyes had been constantly drawn to his tanned fingers, to his mobile lips as he placed a morsel into his mouth. The fascinating muscles that flexed at the side of his jaw as he chewed. The sinews of his forearm as he took a sip of water from his pouch.
What was wrong with her? She’d found the man attractive before, in the formal eveningwear of London’s ballrooms. He was devastating in a black jacket and white cravat. But she found him even more attractive here, beneath the milky starlight, ruffled, unbuttoned, and sexily disheveled. Her fingers itched to touch the hint of beard that had appeared on his cheeks. Would it be soft, or prickly?
The remnant of a poem told to her by one of the Bey’s wives flitted through her brain, an echo from some ancient text or other.
* * *
Man of my heart, my beloved man,
your allure is a sweet thing, as sweet as honey.
You have captivated me,
of my own free will I will come to you.
* * *
Hester threw another stone. She was pathetic. Yearning for a man who didn’t want her. He might have offered to marry her two years ago back in London, but that had only been because society expected it of him. He’d acted recklessly, kissing her at that fete, and as tempting as it had been to say yes, she’d known that only heartbreak could come from such a rashly issued proposal.
He would have come to resent her, to hate her for trapping him in a loveless—or, at least, one-sided—marriage. He didn’t love her. He might find her amusing and a tolerable, if eccentric, companion, but he certainly didn’t cherish any deeper feelings for her.
She was a realist. She’d seen plenty of examples of marriages of convenience in the ton. An arrangement like that was not for her. It would have broken her heart to watch Harry take a mistress mere months after the wedding.
If only he weren’t the embodiment of her ideal man.
She’d been aware of him beside her all day, sure and effortless in the saddle. He never tried to rule his mount with brute strength, but urged it onward with masterful control like the Berber tribesmen of the desert. The sight of his hands on the leather reins made her stomach give a funny little flip.
It was impossible not to notice the way his breeches outlined his narrow hips and thighs, the hard ridges of his muscles clearly visible through the fabric. He was so vital, so exhilarating. Just being near him caused her heart to catch in her throat.
This was what she’d been missing, she realized. Uncle Jasper had been a wonderful traveling companion, but she’d been lonely without someone her own age. She’d missed Harry and his easy banter, his lazy smiles and his infuriating teasing. She felt more alive when he was in the vicinity.
Her spirits drooped. For months now she’d had a niggling sense of dissatisfaction, a feeling that she was searching for something elusive that kept evading her, no matter where she looked, how far she traveled.
She tossed the last stone and missed the rock. She’d be expected to marry when she got back to England. Was it too unrealistic to expect friendship, security, even love from a marriage? A partner with whom to have adventures, not someone who would barely tolerate her presence?
Impatient with herself, Hester stood and searched for more pebbles. It was hard to see the ground beyond the warm glow of firelight, but she persevered. She’d just collected a suitable handful when she felt a sharp stabbing sensation in her ankle, just above the protection of her boot.
“Ouch!”
She leapt sideways and caught a flash of movement as a scorpion scuttled under a nearby rock.
“Damn and blast. I’ve been stung!”
She scowled, furious at herself for not paying closer attention. She half hopped, half hobbled back to her rug by the fire. “Owww, it hurts!”
Tremayne had jumped to his feet at her shout and rushed forward to help her sit.
“What was it? A snake?”
“A scorpion,” she gasped, hastening to unlace her boot. “I need to remove this before my foot starts to swell.”
With an impatient sound he pushed aside her fumbling fingers , cut through the laces of her boot, and yanked it off.
“What kind of scorpion?” he urged. “Did you see it? Was it black or brown? Someone told me that the dark ones are less poisonous than the light-colored ones.”
Hester winced against the pain. “It was hard to see in the darkness. But I think it was the dark kind.”
He bent and took hold of her ankle, pushing up her skirts to expose her stockinged leg.
“A scorpion sting is rarely fatal for an adult, Tremayne,” she said breathlessly. “It just hurts. Like a bee sting. Or a hot needle in my leg.” She tried to push her skirts back down, but he ignored her struggles.
“Don’t be missish, Hester. I’ve encountered scorpion stings before. A fellow in my regiment was stung in Portugal. We need to extract the poison. Take off your stocking, and I’ll suck it out.”
“You’ll do no such thing!” The flush that seared her cheeks was nothing to do with the effects of the sting and everything to do with the thought of Harry Tremayne’s mouth on any part of her—even somewhere as innocuous as an ankle. “There’s a medicine kit in my saddle bag. Get that.”
Harry shot her a look of pure frustration but went to do as she commanded. He rummaged around in her leather satchel and withdrew the box of medicines.
“You look very pale.” A frown creased his forehead as he opened the leather case. “God, these all look the same.” He squinted at the small bottles. “I can barely read the labels.”
Hester managed a weak smile. “Uncle Jasper’s handwriting was never very legible. Look for the one called ‘Brown’s Linctus.’ It’s a tincture of Laudanum. It should relieve the pain a little.”
Ha
rry angled the bottles toward the firelight, selected one, and unstoppered the cork. Hester took a deep swig and sank back against her bedroll with a sigh.
The pain in her calf was a sharp throb, and she felt nauseous and shaky. She sucked in a deep breath. Thankfully, the tincture began to work almost immediately. A wonderful feeling of calm washed over her, and the pain lessened considerably. She became warm and languid, almost drowsy.
Hester frowned. She’d taken this medicine before, when she’d fallen from Bahaba and bruised her bottom. She didn’t recall feeling quite so . . . relaxed. She lifted the bottle Harry had given her and tried to decipher Uncle Jasper’s execrable scrawl.
“Oh dear.”
Tremayne glanced at her sharply. “What is it? What’s the matter?” He placed his palm on her forehead and pushed her hair back from her face.
His features swam in her vision. Hester waved the bottle in his direction and tried to summon up a proper sense of outrage. “Tremayne, you great idiot! You’ve given me the wrong one!”
Chapter 11
Harry frowned down at Hester in alarm. “What do you mean, the wrong one?” He grabbed the bottle from her unresisting grip. “Brown’s Linctus,’ you said.”
“Exactly! That’s Blue Nile Lily!”
He sat back on his haunches. “Oh, hell. What does Blue Nile Lily do?”
“The Bey’s doctor gave it to Uncle Jasper. He said it was primarily a painkiller—”
Harry expelled a relieved breath. “That’s good then—”
“It’s definitely working. My ankle doesn’t hurt so much now.” Her eyelids started to droop.
“You’re not fainting are you? I can’t stand women who faint.”
The Promise of a Kiss Page 6