RUPERT KEPT HIS hands on the door. He’d meant to hold back, to wait. He’d had enough torture this day, and pursuing her, touching her, was begging for more. Still, for the moment, torture was delicious.
It was only a kiss. Merely the longest kiss in the world, a thousand kisses blossoming from one. His mouth played upon hers, and hers upon his, and in no time at all she’d set the moons and planets and stars whirling.
He kept his hands on the door. For balance. For strength. And to stop it from ending. He mustn’t move his hands, mustn’t let them touch her, or she’d shy away.
He could drink her in, though. He could inhale the scent of her, a hint of incense carried on the desert wind. And he could savor the taste of her, a strange champagne, light and fresh even while it made fire trails in the veins.
He could let his mouth tease hers, playing over the hint of a pout. He could brush his face against hers, skin to skin, hers like silken velvet, a softness that stabbed him someplace within, and left him weak-kneed and half-laughing inside at how easily a woman could bring a great lummox to his knees.
He feathered kisses over her creamy, heart-shaped countenance and traced her beautiful cheekbones with his lips. He found the sensitive place behind her ear, and the pulse point in her throat. He felt its quickened beat under his mouth, and heard his heart hammer an eager answer.
His hands slid down the door, and they were not quite steady, either. He brought them to her shoulders, because he had to stop. Enough was enough. He was no saint. He could barely resist temptation at all, and he’d already tested his limits and beyond.
And then somehow his fingers were sliding up the smooth column of her neck and pushing into her silken hair. Then he needed more of her mouth and the strange champagne and her tongue playing a wicked game, enslaving his.
Then it was all too easy to forget what he’d meant to do. She was warm and soft and so passionate and for the moment completely his. Every perfect, curving inch of her was close at last, and she fit exactly as she should in his arms.
He brought his hands down over her straight back to her waist. She felt so right under his hands, and the rightness swept him along. He forgot about slow sieges and getting round obstacles and winning her by slow degrees. He forgot that it was too soon and he mustn’t rush his fences or she’d be on her guard next time. It was too much to remember. He was drunk on her scent.
He was only distantly aware of the gasp that faded into a sigh as his questing hand moved over her breast. It was warm and soft and fit his hand as though made precisely for the purpose, bespoke for him from the beginning. And so it was the most natural thing in the world to need to touch skin and to reach for the bodice fastenings —
“Good grief!” She pushed him away, so hard that he stumbled backward. “What are you doing?”
“Taking off your clothes,” he said.
“No,” she said. “No, no, no.” She yanked the door open, staggered inside, and slammed it behind her.
Breathing raggedly, he regarded the closed door with narrowed eyes.
“You knew this would happen,” he told himself in an undertone, “and you did it anyway.”
But she had said it was wrong, and she’d done it anyway, too.
And so he left the passage and went out onto the open deck, softly whistling all the while.
Zawyet el Amwat, opposite Minya
MILES HAD PLANNED to row to the nearer and more thinly populated eastern shore, rid himself of the shackles, find a hiding place where he could sleep for a few hours and gather his strength, then set out at first light. The dinghy held the tools and weapons he’d taken as well as a basket of Egyptian bread. This, along with lentils, had made up the crew’s diet. It ought to hold him for a week, by the end of which — in a small boat, traveling by day, with the current carrying him — he should be back in Cairo.
All he needed — apart from getting rid of the curst shackles — was a disguise. It would be best not to attract anyone’s attention. He couldn’t play a ghost in the daytime, and he couldn’t travel under cover of darkness and risk colliding with another boat or a sandbank. Even experienced Nile navigators had accidents, sometimes in broad day. The sand-laden desert winds constantly reshaped the riverbed, and navigation was most difficult at this time of year, when the Nile was reaching its lowest point.
He wished he’d thought of stealing clothes before he fled the sinking boat, but he would deal with that later.
It turned out to be later than he expected.
It took him all night to rid himself of the shackles. By then his head and hands were throbbing. A wave of nausea and dizziness drove him to his knees. He vomited, but the nausea only worsened. His head was on fire.
The sun was coming up, the fierce Egyptian sun, compared to which the English sun was a lantern in the fog.
He couldn’t travel, sick with plague or whatever it was, under the baking sun. He could only conceal the boat as best he could, pack as much as he could carry, and drag his shaking, burning body across the narrow stretch of fertile land to the cliffs looming behind it.
Many hours later, when he woke up inside a tomb, he couldn’t remember how he got there. He wondered if anyone had seen him. He thought of Daphne, and hoped he’d live to see her again. Those were his last coherent thoughts. By nightfall he was delirious.
Wednesday 11 April
WHEN LORD NOXLEY’S dahabeeyah the Memnon arrived at Minya, Ghazi was at the landing place, waiting for him, along with two men.
Neither of the two men was Miles Archdale, a circumstance which caused a small frown to mar his lordship’s angelic countenance. While the expression seemed mild enough, those who knew him easily discerned the black thundercloud forming above his head.
Ghazi discerned it. He had, in fact, expected it, which was why he’d hurried to Minya as soon as he heard of the debacle with the kidnappers. He let the two men tell the master their story. It was short enough.
They were all that remained of the group Ghazi had sent to recover the Englishman, the friend of the master, they said. Everyone else was dead, including all of the kidnappers.
Had these two men been a trifle more intelligent, they would have pretended to be dead, too. Most certainly they would not have lingered in Minya, waiting to give their master bad news. But like many of those Lord Noxley employed, they had not been hired for their intellectual skills. Like most of the others as well, they’d dealt with his lieutenants, never with the Golden Devil directly.
“The kidnappers killed the Englishman?” said his lordship. “How odd. Why should they kill a valuable captive?”
The men were unable to explain this.
“I trust you recovered my friend’s body, at least,” his lordship said.
They looked at each other. Then they told him about the ghost who’d come after them when they were tying their small boat to the larger one.
Lord Noxley said little during the ghost story, merely nodding with what they took to be sympathy and understanding while the thundercloud they couldn’t see grew blacker and thicker. He dismissed them, telling them to make themselves useful aboard the Memnon.
Then he set out with Ghazi to visit the kashef, the pasha’s local representative.
On the way, Ghazi provided a less garbled account of events. “My men attack the boat. Someone cuts the mooring ropes and the boat drifts because everyone is fighting and no one steers. The boat strikes a sandbank. These men come last, a little after the others.”
“And run away from a ghost, ‘tall as a giant and pale as a shroud,’ ” his lordship quoted, shaking his head.
“It is your English friend, yes,” said Ghazi. “He did not know who my men were — thieves, perhaps, from one of the villages, he thinks. He wished to flee. He needed the boat. It was most cleverly done.”
“I should think so,” said his lordship. “Archdale is a genius, you know.”
“I came the instant I heard,” Ghazi said. “Duval has followers to the south. This i
s where Faruq goes. By now they will hear of the ghost, and Faruq will know, too, who it is, because he is no fool. I came to find your friend before Duval’s men do.”
The thundercloud lightened a degree. “Very wise,” said his lordship.
Encouraged, Ghazi went on, “This ghost is seen most often on the east bank, in places from the rock tombs near Zawyet el Amwat to those of Beni Hasan.” He gestured toward the east bank of the Nile.
“A range of about fifteen miles,” said Lord Noxley. He paused to gaze that way. “And the cliffs riddled with tombs throughout. Not to mention that most of the sightings have been imaginary. The Arabs are so credulous. One of them thinks he sees a ghost, and soon everyone sees armies of ghosts and ghouls. Doubtless Archdale will have appeared in several locations simultaneously. Finding him could take weeks.”
“It is true they see him everywhere,” Ghazi said. “But me, I think a clever man keeps away from the villages and stays close to the tombs. To find him is not impossible, especially if the kashef helps. He has many spies.”
“Then all it wants is baksheesh,” said Lord Noxley, walking again. “I’ll see to it.” He continued for a moment, thoughtful, then said, “I’d better leave finding Archdale to you. Faruq still needs to be caught.”
“He knows we follow him, and so he will change his plans,” Ghazi said. “I think he will not linger in Beni Hasan, to wait for Duval as they arranged. In his place, I would continue south. A large party of French is in Dendera. I think he will go there.”
“I know what that party of French is after, curse them,” said his lordship. “The brutes have got permission to carry away the magnificent zodiac ceiling from the Temple of Hathor. They shall not have the papyrus as well. I’ll set out as soon as we’ve dealt with the kashef.”
They walked on in silence. As they reached the official’s residence, Ghazi said, “Those two men of mine, the cowards. What is your pleasure regarding them?”
“Find Archdale,” said Lord Noxley. “Leave the cowards to me.”
THE WIND, WHICH had died down completely the previous night, revived the next morning, this time in their favor. To Daphne’s relief, it blew strong and steady, driving the Isis swiftly upriver. They made up much of the time lost previously, reaching Beni Suef in less than three days.
The sights beckoned, certainly. To the west of the village lay the remains of ancient Herakleopolis. On the east bank, a road through the desert led to the Coptic convents of Saints Anthony and Paul. It was impossible to pass the area without feeling at least a twinge of longing to explore.
It was no more than a twinge, though. Finding Miles was more important to her than any monument. After that they’d have all the time in the world to explore Egypt, together, as they’d planned, she told herself.
In the meantime, with a clear head if not conscience, she could pursue the discoveries she’d made recently. She needn’t worry about distractions. Mr. Carsington had evidently decided to be “dishonest.” He pretended, as Daphne had asked, that nothing of an intimate nature had occurred between them.
He reverted to the easygoing blockhead she’d first encountered. He stopped asking uncomfortably penetrating questions. He made no gesture or remark that in any way resembled an advance.
They had companionable dinners, during which they talked, much as she might have done with Miles, about the sights they glimpsed as the Isis flew along: the variety of birds, for instance, or the interesting rock formations, or the Egyptians’ agricultural methods, which had not changed, apparently, since the time of the pharaohs.
Clearly Mr. Carsington had no trouble interpreting the meaning of “No, no, no,” and a door slammed in his face. He had promptly and with amazing ease put their two embraces from his mind.
Daphne should have been pleased and relieved.
She was annoyed.
How easy it was for him, she brooded. To him she was merely one in a long line of forgettable women. At the next large town where they moored for the night, he’d probably go looking for dancing girls. It was all the same to him — except, perhaps, that dancing girls would not be as boring as she was, droning on about Coptic and cartouches and crowned falcons.
She knew that to men like him she was a freak, and a tiresome one at that. There were times when even she wished she hadn’t been burdened with a brain, times when she wished Miles had inherited the famous Archdale intellect. It would have been easier on their parents, especially their father, who’d spent so many years in turmoil about what to do with her: treat her like a normal girl and ignore the gift heaven had bestowed, or educate her as her intellect required, though it was unnatural?
It would have been easier on Daphne, definitely, had she been a normal girl. She would not have had to listen to Virgil’s constant correcting.
I am sure you meant to take into account…
No doubt you have overlooked…
Naturally, it did not occur to you…
Doubtless you were unaware of my wishes…
She could still hear his voice, so very gentle and patient and…infuriating.
He’d wanted a normal wife. She wasn’t normal.
And she didn’t want to be, not really, or she would have changed, as he wished.
She did not, really, want to be like other women. Her work intrigued and stimulated her and made her happy.
She knew men didn’t understand her. They didn’t like her, either, most of them. It was her well-rounded person, not her well-filled mind, that pleased them. This was true, certainly — and to her great shock and disappointment — of Virgil.
She knew Mr. Carsington’s interest was purely physical. And temporary. She knew it was right and reasonable for him to cease attempting her virtue.
She knew it was illogical and wrong of her to miss the pleasure and heat she’d felt, the sense that this was as it should be: without rules, without shame.
It was disgraceful and stupid of her, but she longed for more. When he stood near — on the deck of the boat, for instance, while they gazed at the swiftly passing scenery — she wanted, with something like desperation, to press her face against his cheek and drink him in. She wanted, with the same mad urgency, to feel his body crushed to hers.
It was a purely animal desire, as deep and primitive as hunger or thirst. But those needs were rational: food and drink were essential to life. Intimacy with him was not only not essential but not good for her in a hundred ways.
She knew this. She knew she should be happy that he treated her like a sister. But she was wretched.
This morning, as the boat passed Beni Suef, she was still trying to subdue the wild creature within. Small wonder she’d made so little progress with the cartouche in front of her. It was one of those she’d copied from Ramesses’ gigantic statue.
She gazed at the goddess with the feather on her head and wondered if all women became featherbrained in Mr. Carsington’s vicinity, or she alone.
A rap on the door and a familiar, impossibly deep voice called her out of the latest bout of self-flagellation.
She very nearly bade him enter. She was opening her mouth to do so, in fact, when she recollected the cabin’s narrow dimensions. Given her deranged state, inviting him into a confined space with her was an exceedingly stupid idea.
She rose, went to the door, and opened it.
And suppressed a sigh.
There he was: tall, dark, far too handsome for anybody’s good, and only half-dressed, as usual. Loose white Turkish trousers tucked into gleaming boots. An Arab-style shirt, called a kamees, with very full sleeves. Over this he wore a wine-colored English waistcoat, unbuttoned. He hadn’t bothered with a neckcloth. The shirt had no buttons, merely a slit in the front. This left his neck and collarbone as well as a deep V of his powerful chest completely exposed. The Egyptian sun had turned his neck several degrees darker than the outer edge of the V. She wanted to draw her tongue along that paler edge of skin. She wanted to bury her face in his neck.
She wanted
to bang her head against the wall.
She wiped the damp palms of her hands on her skirt and asked if anything was amiss.
“Far from it,” he said. “Matters look to become a great deal more interesting. Reis Rashad tells me we’re entering bandit territory.”
Of course Mr. Carsington would find this “interesting.” A chance to break heads, fire off pistols, and swing swords. A chance to play I Dare You with death. Daphne could almost comprehend his enthusiasm. She, too, would like an excuse to do violence.
“Apparently, the neighborhood from Beni Suef to Asyut is notorious,” he went on. “Nearly two hundred miles of marauders. Leena says we must hire guards from the town at night, which will make the local sheik responsible for our safety. But we must have someone watch the guards, because they’re worthless. Even in the daytime, we dare not turn our backs even for an instant. Otherwise” — he began to gesture in the theatrical way Leena did — “they will strip the boat down to a stick, and we will all be hacked to pieces. They are wicked and evil, and so ugly and dirty they make you sick.”
He went on, mimicking the maid’s overwrought style as he repeated her dire warnings.
The inner tumult abated, and Daphne felt a smile tugging at the corners of her mouth. She gave up and let it have its way.
“The prospect of certain death amuses you?” he said, smiling a little, too.
“You have caught her manner perfectly,” she said. “You are aware, I hope, that Leena tends to exaggerate?”
“I’ve noticed,” he said. “But Tom seems to agree in the essentials. He did a few of his pantomimes: a pickpocket, a thief creeping onto the boat. He did a good deal of it with one eye shut. Leena claims that most of the locals are hideously disfigured. A great many are blind in one eye. She assures us that the interior matches the unattractive exterior. In short, it appears we shall have to put those pistols of your brother’s to work.”
Daphne tried to pay attention to what he was saying, but her mind wouldn’t cooperate. She wished he would not dress so provocatively. It was unfair to show so much skin, when she was haunted by memories of the scent and taste of that skin. She had only to draw a few inches nearer to inhale the provocative scent of Male. She had only to reach up and grasp the back of his neck and draw him down —