Joan Wolf (3 page)

The other girls were pleased and flattered by what they regarded as the honor of their special status and they assumed Julianne must feel the same. Her Arabic was fluent and she made no attempt to tell her masters or her new companions that she was English. She remembered vividly the English expedition against Egypt that had taken place shortly before she and her parents had left for Africa, and she remembered as well the harsh anti-British sentiments they had encountered in Cairo when they first arrived. She had heard the stories of how Mohammed Ali, after defeating the British at Alexandria, had ridden through Cairo between avenues of British heads impaled on stakes and of British prisoners being exhibited in chains before being sold as slaves.

There was still no British embassy in Cairo to which she could appeal, and Julianne did not think her nationality would win her any sympathy from the Arabs into whose hands she had fallen. They thought she was Circassian and she left their misconception uncorrected.

The sale took place in the evening in one of the rooms of the house in which she had been kept for six days. They did not go out at all into the teeming, crowded streets of Cairo, where she might have flung herself out of a carriage and escaped. The elderly Arab woman who had been in charge of her regimen throughout the week made sure she was properly attired for the occasion. She was dressed in a silk shirt and Turkish trousers, and the lines of her body were clearly visible through the thin silk fabric. Her lips were artfully reddened and her eyes were outlined with kohl. Her long hair, shining as it had not done in five years, was worn loose to her waist with ribbons laced into it. The other girls were dressed in a similar fashion and then they were brought into a large room where about twenty men reclined on silken cushions.

It was the worst experience of Julianne’s life, worse even than the shock of being sold into slavery the first time. She felt the eyes of all those men raking her body, stripping her naked, and she was so outraged and humiliated she thought she would die. She could not look at any of them, but kept her eyes resolutely aloof, fixed on some point in space only she could see.
It
seemed to go on forever. They were bidding, she realized, and felt hands touch her shoulder, her breast, her hair.

After what seemed to her an eternity it was over and the girls were taken from the room. Julianne, however, did not return with them to her original quarters. “The lord wants you to be taken to his palace immediately, Shajaret ed Durr,” the black eunuch told her. Shajaret ed Durr was the name she had been given by the elderly Arab slave mistress. It meant “spray of pearls.” They put her into a sedan chair and sent her on her way.

It was dark but the streets of Cairo still streamed with people. Julianne looked out between the curtains of her chair, but what she saw did not reassure her. The people who passed around her chair were ragged and filthy. The dirt of the streets was incredible. And even if she had found the courage to try to make her escape into the twisting alleys and filthy lanes, the two armed men who walked on either side of her chair clearly showed her that escape was impossible.

She was taken to one of the palaces around Lake Ezbekiah. The dam had been cut a month before, and the great lake, filled now with the Nile flood, shimmered in the moonlight. The armed guards escorted Julianne inside and she was surprised to find she was being taken into the main part of the palace and not to the harem. A tall, grave turbaned man took her to a luxurious silk-hung room and left her with the information that “the lord will see you shortly.”

Julianne was not easily frightened. She had walked through the ominous silence of the African jungle with scarcely a qualm. She had shot a charging elephant to death as well as the lion that had killed her father. She had clubbed a crocodile and barely escaped an angry hippopotamus, and though her heart had quickened on all those occasions, and she had felt fear buzz in her veins, it had not been the paralyzing terror that washed over her now.

Out in the jungle she had been a part of nature, and death was all around. The animals killed each other for food. They killed when they, or their young, were threatened. Man too killed when he needed food or when he was threatened. It was all part of the vast, magnificent, beautiful reality of Africa, and she had accepted it.

But this was different. There was nothing clean and elemental about this silk-hung room or this low divan heaped with cushions. There was a sound and Julianne looked with fear-darkened eyes toward the door. She would infinitely have preferred to face a lion than the man who stood there on the threshold.

He was very tall, much taller than the ordinary Arab. He wore ankle-length cotton trousers belted by a long sash, a white shirt, and striped vest. On his feet were soft leather slippers that made no sound as he crossed the room toward her. “Greetings, Shajaret ed Durr,” he said in Arabic.

“Greetings,” Julianne replied breathlessly in the same language. She raised her chin and stiffened her back. No matter what happened she determined he should not see that she was afraid. He stepped a few feet from her and she forced herself to meet his eyes.

She was startled by the brilliant blue-green gaze that looked back at her out of that dark face. Then she remembered—of course, he was a Mameluke, a descendant of Christian slaves; he was not an Arab at all. Courageously she sustained that sea-blue blaze, her own eyes wide with the effort of it. His eyes left hers and thoughtfully looked her up and down. Julianne felt herself go white and then red.

“What nationality are you?” he asked, still speaking in Arabic.

“Circassian,” she replied firmly.

He raised a black brow and began to walk toward her again. Before she could prevent herself, she stepped backward. The wall was right behind her; she felt it press against her. He put his hands flat against it, on either side of her, and regarded her closely with narrowed eyes. His face was only inches from hers. “Then I was wrong,” he said in the unmistakable accent of Great Britain. “I thought you were English.”

Chapter Four

Wherein I spake of most disastrous chances,

Of moving accidents by blood and field;

Of hairbreadth scapes i’ th’ imminent deadly breach;

Of being taken by the insolent foe

And sold to slavery ...

—Shakespeare

The shock of his words caused Julianne’s breath to catch audibly in her throat. She stared up at him in astonishment, taking in his lean strongly planed face. He did not look at all English. He looked—dangerous. The blue eyes above her suddenly glinted with comprehension and amusement. “Well?” he asked inexorably. “Are you?”

Julianne bit her lip and shifted her gaze to his chin. It was dented by a distinct cleft. His voice had sounded cultured. “Yes,” she said. “I am.”

He stayed where he was for another moment, his face still very close to hers. Then he pushed himself away from the wall. “I thought so,” he remarked neutrally. “One doesn’t see skin like that in Africa.”

Instinctively she raised a hand to her cheek. “Circassians are fair-skinned,” she protested defensively. She could breathe more easily now that he had moved away from her.

“I was not referring to your coloring.”

“Oh,” she said blankly, not having the vaguest idea what he was talking about.

He didn’t enlighten her. His thick black hair had fallen forward over his forehead and impatiently he pushed it back. “Will you kindly explain to me what the devil a girl like you is doing in a slave auction in Cairo?” He sounded distinctly irritable.

“Being sold,” she returned tartly. She didn’t like his tone.

There was a long silence in which they regarded each other measuringly. Julianne felt her heart begin to hammer again. She was a fool to provoke him, she thought. He looked tough and ruthless as well as dangerous. Then, abruptly, he smiled. “So you were.” His voice was surprisingly mild—pleasant even.

The menace she had felt was suddenly gone from the room and she found herself looking at a charming, handsome stranger who sounded exactly like an English gentleman. The change left her feeling a little lightheaded with relief. “It’s a long story,” she said rather unsteadily, “and I think I need to sit down.”

“Have a cushion,” he said hospitably. Then, when she dropped down to the floor and bent her head for a minute: “Do you want a glass of wine? Are you going to faint?”

At that she looked up. “No, I am not going to faint.”

“Good.” He dropped to a cushion himself with an ease that bespoke long familiarity with the ways of the East. “I didn’t think you were the fainting type.”

“I’m not.” She sounded annoyed.

He nodded and there was a faint smile in the brilliant blue-green of his eyes. “Well?” he prompted softly. “I’m listening.”

Julianne took a deep even breath, conscious that the tension had left her muscles as well as the room. “My father was an English missionary here in Africa,” she began agreeably. “His task was to create a series of mission stations along the East African coast. He was killed by a lion a few months ago in Abyssinia, and the local king, a very unpleasant man who had refused to supply us with porters and bearers, sold me to some Arab slave traders. I was taken to Harar, where I was sold again to a trader who was bringing slaves to Cairo. He was the man who sold me to you.”

His face was expressionless. “Not a very pleasant experience,” he murmured.

“No. But I had it much easier than the black slaves. They suffered terribly.”

“For how long were you and your father
in
Africa?”

“Five years.”

“Five years!” There was profound surprise in his voice. “Do you mean you have been traveling throughout Africa for five years?”

“Yes.”

“Holy God.” He stared at her in open astonishment. “You can’t be more than eighteen.”

“I am nineteen.”

“How far did you travel? To Abyssinia?”

“No, we went south as far as Zanzibar.”

“On foot?”

“On foot. It is difficult to carry on missionary work from a ship.”

He smiled sardonically. “Were you very successful in spreading the Word?”

“We had very little success,” she replied serenely. “We did, however, see quite a bit of Africa.”

The sardonic note vanished. “I’ll bet you did. I’m sure you went where no white man has been before. I envy you.” There was no doubting his sincerity. “Who was your father?” he asked curiously. “For that matter, who are you?”

“My father was Lord Richard Wells. I am Julianne Wells.”

“Lord Richard Wells. Good God—wasn’t he the duke’s son who came out a few years ago?”

“Yes.”

He pushed the thick hair back out of his eyes again and looked at her with raised brows. “Well, well, well,” he said softly. “It isn’t often that one finds the granddaughter of a duke at a slave auction.”

“No, I suppose not,” she agreed evenly. “Nor does one often find an English gentleman on the purchasing end of such a market.”

His mouth quirked a little. “True.” Then, as she didn’t say anything but continued to regard him steadily, he grinned. “My turn, you think?”

“Yes, I think so.”

The smile left his face but still lingered in his eyes as he said, “My name is John Champernoun. I came out to Egypt fifteen years ago with the English expedition against Napoleon, and I have been here ever since. At present you might say I am an adviser to the pasha.”

“I see,” she said slowly. Then she frowned a little in concentration. Hadn’t she heard her father speaking once of some “renegade Englishman” who was training Mohammed All’s armies? “What do you do for the pasha?” she asked cautiously.

“For the past year I’ve been engaged in helping to put down the Wahabi uprising in Arabia. In fact, I haven’t been in Cairo above a week. It was just chance I happened to be at that auction. Khalil Derwish Bey, one of the Mameluke overlords, wished to go, and as I was dining with him I went along to be polite. When I saw you I was convinced you were English.”

It sounded very much to Julianne as if John Champernoun were indeed the renegade her father had condemned so roundly. She replied slowly, “I still don’t quite understand how you were so certain of that. No one else doubted that I was Circassian. I speak Arabic very well.”

“I told you your skin gave you away,” he said in his deep voice. Then, as she opened her mouth to protest again, he continued calmly, “I’m not talking about its color but about its texture. And then, too, there was the expression on your face.”

By now she was feeling extremely puzzled. “My expression?”

“Yes. Aloof, withdrawn,
noli me tangere.
You looked”—his white teeth flashed briefly in amusement—”like a snow queen dressed up as a houri. Not at all Circassian.”

The corners of Julianne’s mouth deepened in acknowledgment. “I was not enjoying myself.”

“No, I don’t imagine you were.” He rose to his feet with easy, animal grace. “Well, I suppose I shall have to see about shipping you home to England. You have someone to go to, I presume.”

“Yes, my grandmother.” She rose too and was again surprised by how tall he was—taller even than her father had been.

“One thing still puzzles me,” he said now. “Why did you conceal the fact that you were English? The pasha is anxious to remain on friendly terms with England. He would have had very good reason to see you safely restored to your noble relations.”

She looked at him skeptically. “The last time I was in Cairo, Mr. Champernoun, there was a great deal of alarming talk about how Mohammed Ali had beaten the English at Alexandria and then ridden his horse in a triumphal procession between the chained bodies of captive English soldiers who were waiting to be sold into slavery. I did not think my nationality would gain me any sympathy with the pasha or his supporters.”

His sunburned features looked grim. “Did you hear that story in Cairo or in London?”

“I ...” She frowned in concentration and thought back. “It was in London, I suppose,” she finally said slowly. “But there was an ugly anti-English sentiment in Cairo when we arrived. Of that I am certain.”