Authors: Connie Brockway
D
esdemona smiled in dreamy satisfaction, replaying the morning’s events in her mind … making only slight modifications to the romantic adventure and that purely for the sake of her muse.
The great pyramids pierced the earthbound cloud, ascending from the depths of that thick white sea of mist and climbing to the very seat of heaven. Two mortals voyaged in this unreal world, a broad young man and a girl on the cusp of womanhood. They approached the gilded pinnacle of this lost civilization silently, marveling at the spectacle
.
The man was handsome, his bold, hawklike features framed by a wealth of tumbled curls the hue of a … a raven’s wing. His step was panther sure on the uneven ground, his keen falcon’s gaze vigilant for any danger that might threaten the companion he tended with such exquisite care. He barked orders at their attendants, plotting their trusty donkeys’ course across the barren landscape in order to ensure that the brilliant sun was kept
from irritating the creamy pallor of the young blossom of womanhood by his side
.
She sighed and cupped her chin in the palm of her hand. Not only had the morning been wonderful but there was more to look forward to. In a short while Lord Ravenscroft and she would be dining at the palace of the khedive’s own secretary, Abd al Jabbar.
Absently she wondered if Harry would be present. With any luck, she decided, he’d have left for Luxor by now and would be gone a few days. Time for her and Blake to become better acquainted without Harry’s disruptive presence. Time for Blake to provide a much-needed tonic to Harry.
Harry
. She’d thought she’d known him as well as she knew herself. Better. Blake had told her that Harry’s hunger for position and acceptance, his yearning for the things Blake owned and Harry did not, his failure to achieve his desires in England had ultimately driven Harry to Egypt.
A week ago she would have discounted such a tale as nonsense. But these past few days she’d seen shadows in Harry’s eyes she’d never dreamed existed, heard in his voice something unrecognizable, seen something potent and desirous in his expression. Or had she imagined them? It worried her that she was once more spinning fantasies around Harry Braxton.
She frowned and caught a glimpse of the timepiece swinging from a gold chain around her neck. Little more than half an hour before Blake arrived. Hastily she went in search of something vastly becoming
in which to attend dinner. Something with yards and yards of lace.
She opened the giant, battered armoire and gazed inside with a sense of resignation. The few dresses that hung in lonely isolation within the vast expanse looked dowdy and outdated. Undoubtedly because they
were
dowdy and outdated. And there were no yards of lace. Clothes, nice as they were, were not high on her long list of priorities.
Closing her eyes, she thrust her hand into the wardrobe and grabbed the first dress her hand fell on. She peeked at it. It was the light champagne-colored muslin thingie, with a sweetly draped bodice and limp ruffles hanging from the demisleeves.
At least it would be cool, she thought, disrobing. Lord Ravenscroft seemed to have a passion for coolness. Several times during their excursion yesterday he’d remarked in awed tones on how fresh she looked. Poor Lord Ravenscroft hadn’t fared so well.
It would be difficult staying “fresh” all bound up in jacket, vest, shirt, tie, and trousers. Dizzy resolutely admired, while she wondered at, such a strict adherence to a personal dress code.
Whenever he was outside the city, Harry immediately shed his jacket. He went about in a shirt, trousers, and a
khafiya
, the nomad’s headdress, his sleeves rolled up over his tanned forearms and the loose edge of the headdress flipped over his shoulder. Harry always looked comfortable. And masculine. And casual.
Well, comfort wasn’t everything.
A light rap announced Magi just as Desdemona finished buttoning her bodice.
“Oh, good, Magi. You’re just in time to help me.”
“There is a problem?”
“This dress doesn’t want to fit. It looks all rumply. Not like a proper dress at all.”
“Proper.” The word came out flat.
“Yes. Ladylike. Smooth. Form-fitting.”
“Tight.”
“Yes.”
“Turn around. I will tie you in.” Obediently Desdemona presented her back. Magi took hold of the faded silk grosgrain sash and gave it a vicious tug.
“Ouch!”
Magi ignored her, pulling the sash tighter, grunting with her effort. “Why aren’t you wearing a corset? All admired English ladies wear corsets. You will never be admired by an admirable English gentleman if you do not wear a corset. Oh, yes. I forget. You
hate
corsets. Perhaps you are not such an English lady after all … hating corsets as you do.”
Desdemona would have answered this impertinence but she couldn’t breathe. With a snap, Magi finished the huge bow. “That man is here,” she said.
“Lord Ravenscroft?” Desdemona gasped, working her finger under the sash and loosening it.
“Yes.”
“Well, show him to the sitting room,” Desdemona said. “And get some lemonade for him. Tell him I’ll be down directly. Ladies never hasten to meet their gentleman callers … do they? Is there any lilac water left? Do you remember where I put it? Is my
hair tidy? Are my teeth clean?” She lifted her lip for Magi’s approval. The woman just stood there. “And stop glowering at me.”
“Desdemona,” Magi said, “you deserve a corset.”
“Wake up,
Master
Harry.”
He couldn’t quite accommodate the oily, familiar voice. He was hot, his head pounded, his side throbbed, and his shoulders burned as if—
He cracked open an eye and peered upward. He closed it again. Bloody hell. He’d been, strung up by the wrists like a side of beef in a pest-infested slaughterhouse. The buzzing wasn’t just inside his head, it came from hundreds of flies.
Not only had he failed to “fight his way free” of his assailants, he’d been clipped across the back of his head like the greenest tourist.
He swallowed. His throat was parched. He had no idea of how long he’d been out. The weak light washing the dingy surfaces of the walls suggested it was late afternoon. That meant he’d been unconscious at least a day. All he could do was hope that when he’d failed to meet Blake at the house, his aristocratic cousin had realized something was wrong and gone for help. Fat chance.
“Come now, Master Harry. I am waiting.”
He recognized the voice with a sinking sensation.
Maurice Franklin Shappeis
, one-time overseer for the Cairo Museum—until Harry had taken it into his head to make sure no more children died as a result of Maurice’s directives. The flies suddenly made
sense. Maurice was not a proponent of personal hygiene.
“Aren’t you supposed to be dead or something, Maurice?” he asked. “I thought your men had finally had enough of you and torn you—”
The rest of the sentence was cut off as Maurice’s fist hammered into Harry’s side, low, over his kidneys. Agony ripped through his body. He gasped, sagging forward. The sudden weight yanked his arms in their sockets, burning bright pain through his shoulders.
“What do you want, Maurice?” he gasped.
“To hurt you.” The man’s oddly feminine, casteless features broke into a sweet smile. Though he sported a French Christian name, it was impossible to guess his antecedents. Slavic, French, Italian, Turk … at one time or another he’d claimed them all.
“Well, you’ve achieved your goal. Can I go home now?”
Another blow, this one higher up, over ribs that felt as if they’d been mule-kicked. This time, however, Harry was ready. He rolled with the impact, absorbing as much as the blow as he could. It still hurt like hell. Maurice must have done some damage while he’d been unconscious. Harry wasn’t sure if he approved or not.
“Come on, Maurice,” he panted. “You may want to get some of your own back from me, but not unless you can make a profit from it. You’re too savvy a businessman to allow personal feelings to make you take such a risk. Remember?”
“What risk?” Maurice asked.
“I’m still a citizen of Great Britain and you …? Well, are you a citizen of any country?”
For a simple rhetorical question it had a nasty effect on Maurice’s temper. He backhanded Harry across the face. Harry’s head snapped sideways and his lip sliced open on his teeth. He groaned loudly, letting Maurice know his blows were working. No sense encouraging any extra effort on his behalf.
“Who hired you?” he croaked.
Maurice shrugged. “You are right. I work for another. Better pay than the chickenshit I got as Paget’s foreman. I could almost thank you for that, Harry.”
A tic started at the corner of Maurice’s eye. He didn’t look particularly grateful.
“Who?” Harry repeated, glancing around at the room. It was dirty and sparsely furnished with a stool, a chair, and a table covered with oiled paper. An earthen jug sat atop it and alongside that a fat satin pouch.
“My employer prefers to remain anonymous. And as for the money he pays me”—Maurice pointed at the purse—“I am to make; your life … uncomfortable.”
“Why?”
“You make many enemies, Harry. People do not like you to make fools out of them. Are you still making a fool out of the women?” he asked, studying him closely. “The fine Mrs. Douglass?”
“I don’t know what you mean.”
Maurice laughed. “Oh, I have learned much about you since our last encounter, Harry. I have made it
my
business
to learn. There does not seem to be anything you care about. But I, most especially, know this isn’t true. You mask your feelings well. Who, for instance, would have guessed you carried such strong emotions regarding the death of one little Arab brat?” Though his words were soft, virulence twisted Maurice’s small features. “So what is it you care about? Not the English widow who chases after you, Mrs. Douglass.”
Harry probed his lip with his tongue.
“Your artifacts?” Maurice suggested softly, his animalistic eyes intent on Harry’s face.
“Yeah.”
“Sir Robert or Miss Carli—” Maurice’s eyes grew round, gleamed with fierce perception. “Ah! Miss Carlisle! I see it. There. In your eyes, in the muscles that leap with the mention of her name.” He threw back his head and laughed. “Miss Carlisle! Most pitiful. She does not even know you exist.”
Harry couldn’t speak, he could only stare, sudden winter running in his veins. Fury choked him. He jerked savagely against the ropes holding him.
“Now, now, Harry …” Maurice clucked, backing up a pace.
“Don’t touch her. Don’t even look at her.”
“Oh, I look. Very delicious little morsel. But I have been paid to hurt you, not the pretty little Miss Carlisle. So”—he shrugged—“I will comply. But after I am done with you … perhaps someday, for my own sake, I will visit Miss Carlisle.”
Enraged, Harry surged forward, snapping to a halt at the end of the rope tethers. Straps cut into his
wrists, his tendons tore with his effort. He ignored the pain, wrenching again and again against his restraints, the blood pounding in his temples.
Maurice laughed. And then there were a lot of blows.
Desdemona convinced Lord Ravenscroft to walk the short distance to Jabbar’s palace. As they rounded the corner of the boulevard, they were greeted by the sight of the Nile, smooth tea-colored waters flowing beneath them as, in the background, the Great Pyramid sparked with sunlight, a tiny triangle shimmering above a veil of heat.
“I’m surprised you can see it all the way from here,” Lord Ravenscroft said, leading her along the railed promenade beside the river.
“Yes. Magnificent, aren’t they?” She pointed out at the pyramids. “Legend has it that the last Mameluke Bey, the one routed by Napoleon, signaled his wife Fatima from atop the Great Pyramid after he’d paid Napoleon’s ransom for her.”
“Such a pretty storehouse of knowledge.” Lord Ravenscroft picked up her hand and raised it to his lips. “I did not get a chance to thank you, Miss Carlisle, for this morning’s excursion.”
He pressed a lingering kiss on her knuckles, his gaze intent. His hand was large and pale, unmarked by scars or calluses, the hand of a nobleman.
“You are most welcome, m’lord,” Desdemona said, watching the way the setting sun caressed his black, glossy hair. “You seemed in something of a hurry when we parted company. I trust that there
were no extenuating circumstances demanding your attention?”
“Oh, no. No, indeed. It was all just rather overwhelming. I … I felt I needed some solitude in which to assimilate the experience.”
“I understand. The pyramids have that effect on me, also.” She nodded, pleased to find herself in such accord with him. “I hope I did not overwhelm you with too many details?” she added worriedly. It had crossed her mind once or twice during their tour that perhaps Lord Ravenscroft did not find the subject of ancient Egyptian customs as fascinating as she did.
“No, indeed,” he said, relinquishing her hand and leaning forward over the rail so that the breeze ruffled his long black locks. “You are an exemplary guide. So much information. So many facts. Your discourse on the embalming methods of the ancients was a revelation. And how conversant you are regarding eviscera!”
Desdemona laughed uneasily. “I’m afraid I sometimes get carried away. I’ve lived here for so many years that I forget what makes nice conversation. Forgive me.”
“Not at all, not at all. It was all most absorbing. Even the Coptic jars …”
“Canopic,” she corrected him. “Copt is a religion.”
“Whatever.” His gaze traveled over her face, her shoulders, her—
“Did you enjoy the sunrise?”
“Very much,” he murmured. She moved back a
step. There was a lazy, sensual quality to his regard that she was unused to and therefore uncomfortable with. His gaze played over her entire person whenever she spoke, not stopping at her face and eyes, but slipping down her body, making; her feel unclothed, aware, above all the things she knew herself to be, that she was
a
woman.
One of many
. She dismissed the traitorous thought.
“The first rays of light bathing the pyramids are quite the most arresting vision one might have in Egypt,” she murmured.