Regency Secrets, page 8
‘I am sorry you have had to extend your journey because of me.’
He shrugged. ‘Never mind. Hopefully we have confused them sufficiently to give your brother time to reach Cairo and leave Egypt. That is your object, no?’
‘Yes. Yes, of course. I only hope Dash acts immediately once he sees my letter.’
‘So do I. Was he named for his speed or for his dashing manners?’
There was a hint of lightness in his voice and her relief bloomed.
‘Neither. An ancestor of ours from Ashford in Kent went to France and took to calling himself d’Ashford. My mother decided to perpetuate that foolish vanity in Dash’s name. She was very...poetically minded.’
‘So she’s to blame for you quoting Shakespeare?’
‘She’d be proud to accept that blame.’ She smiled and turned away to unfold her blanket, surprised by the burning in her throat. It seemed so long, long ago—those evenings reading with her mother in their small back parlour where it was warmest because it shared a wall with the kitchen. She’d thought that was her life—simple and safe and happy, just the three of them with occasional visits from her father. Now it felt far less real than sitting in the desert with a mercenary.
But it was still there, that memory—of warmth, her mother’s deep voice as she read, holding the book a little away from her because she always misplaced her spectacles...
‘You miss her.’
His voice was brusque but not unkind and she both shrugged and nodded, waiting for him to move away. To her surprise, he spread his pallet between hers and the desert once more and came to sit on a boulder by the fire. He picked up a twig and traced neat little rows on the ground. The sand rushed into them like raindrops into a crack in the pavement.
‘I’m sorry, Cleo-Pat.’
‘It hardly matters. It was so long ago.’
‘Some things never stop mattering. Was she responsible for you name as well?’
‘Of course. She said it was part tribute to Shakespeare’s play and part tribute to my father. In Greek it means “glory of the father”. All the Ptolemaic queens were named Cleopatra and all the kings Ptolemy, which means “warlike”.’
‘Well, that says it all. Name the kings after violence and the queens after kings.’
She laughed. She’d always hated that aspect of her name, but somehow his words blew away that slight with a puff of laughter. He smiled and the knot of tension in her stomach unravelled further.
‘I’ll call you Cleo, then. Or Glory.’
‘Not Glory, please. Besides, you already appear to have far too many names for me.’
‘Cleo, then. Or I rather like Cleo-Pat. Osbourne doesn’t suit you, though. Do you know what it means?’
‘I...no, I never thought it meant anything at all.’
‘It’s old Norse. It means the bear god...os bjorn.’
‘Does it? I rather like that. Do you actually speak Norse?’ She couldn’t keep the scepticism from her voice and he gave that grunt she was coming to recognise was a mix between amusement and annoyance.
‘I know some odd bits. I lived with my brother for a couple of years, after his son Jacob was born, while I recovered from my burns. The boy never fully escaped the rheumatic fever and needed to be watched closely. He loved being read to and I soon made my way through most of Edge’s mythology collection, including a tome on the significance of names in old Norse. Jacob was particularly fond of that. Perhaps it was my ludicrous accent.’
Strange how well she could imagine Rafe holding a somnolent babe in his arms, reading aloud in his deep purr of a voice. She didn’t want that image in her mind; she had enough to unsettle her at the moment.
‘Does Rafe also mean something in old Norse?’
‘Yes. Wise wolf.’
‘How apt. So I am a bear god, you a wise wolf, Birdie can be a kind, resourceful bird and Gamal the handsome camel named Camel.’
His smile flashed in the dark.
‘We sound like one of Aesop’s fables. Except in my case, Rafe is nothing more impressive than Rafael shortened.’
‘Rafael,’ she repeated, and the sound rolled outwards, warm and liquid in the darkness. ‘God heals. An archangel’s name.’
‘I know. I was definitely misnamed.’
‘I don’t think so. Raphael saved people.’
‘Even less appropriate. I’m a mercenary, remember?’
‘Of course I do. You saved me.’
He snorted.
‘You hired me to do just that. I might as easily have handed you over to that al-Mizan fellow if he’d been more generous. I don’t think Raphael haggled with God over his fee.’
‘You didn’t haggle over the fee either.’
‘I don’t think he could have matched your offer. That grotesque green gewgaw is worth a couple of months’ lodgings at least.’
Her hand groped for the chain that held her little treasure and closed on it.
‘You could take it now and still hand me over to al-Mizan.’
‘Even mercenaries have their principles, Queenie.’
‘I think you make a better bear than I do, Mr Rafael Grey. You are long on brawn and bluster. I know you weren’t even considering handing me over to that man.’
‘You know nothing of the sort, as you proved by following us into Daraw. You should try living up to your namesake, Cleopatra—trust no one.’
She considered his words, and his warning, and tried to understand why, other than her still being alive, she did trust him now. Perhaps it was the foolishness that often comes with fear and despair—clinging to a rock protruding from the ocean though one knew it was as dangerous in its barrenness as the great wide sea.
Yet she did trust him and it worried her. Trust meant lowering one’s guard and that meant...trouble.
For a moment the darkness settled on them again as the fire dimmed. Then a spark shot upwards, followed by a lick of flames as the fire found more to feed its hunger. It lit his profile against the fading light on the horizon. He had a profile worthy of a coin—strong and sharp, as if the winds of life had hewn him down to his elements. The only imperfections were his scars. She wondered what had happened to him.
Trust no one. It was excellent advice, but...
‘I rarely do trust anyone,’ she said tentatively. ‘I do not mean I trust you wholly, but I think, if I am right about you, you will try to fulfil your bond and that is far more than most men...most people do.’
He actually squirmed, raising his eyes skywards as if beseeching the heavens for deliverance. She smiled and continued. ‘Also I don’t know that Cleopatra didn’t trust anyone. She appeared to trust both Julius Caesar and Marc Anthony enough to have children with them.’
‘That was good political sense, not trust. Or trust in her ability to direct her fate by whatever means at her disposal. A very sensible woman, that illustrious lady.’
‘I agree. But being sensible doesn’t preclude trust. You strike me as a sensible man, but you trust Birdie. And your brother.’
‘What do you know of my brother?’
‘Nothing but what you said yourself. But I know love when I hear it. Your brother is a lucky man to have you.’
‘You are damned annoying, Pat.’
‘That is the second time you have damned me, Mr Grey.’
‘I have a suspicion it won’t be the last, Miss Osbourne.’
Chapter Seven
Desert travel was strange.
Almost a week had passed since they’d left Syene and, though they were always in motion, it seemed to Rafe as if they never truly made any headway. The pinkish cliffs gave way to dunes and plains and then again to cliffs. The shadows of the camels marked the passing of the day—long and fuzzy into the west, shrinking and darkening as the day passed, scrunched beneath them, like an oily puddle, and then stretching out into the east once more until everything began to glow orange and dim to purple as the sun expired.
Gamal set a brisk pace and it was too hot and dusty to talk during the day, but at night by the campfire, the four of them settled into the easy camaraderie of soldiers on the march. Ever since he’d enlisted in the army at sixteen he’d come to love these times—sitting around a fire, talking and listening.
It had been a way of life for him and Birdie and it was also in Gamal’s blood, but Rafe was surprised how naturally Cleo fitted into their little troupe. Perhaps this was what came of a life adapting to circumstance. She rarely complained and whatever snaps of temper and impatience she allowed herself were directed solely at him. Strangely, he welcomed these chinks in her defences.
He watched her helping Birdie. The two of them were talking and laughing, the evening breeze sifting through her short hair and every so often she shoved it away from her eyes with the back of her hand.
His mind was still struggling to resolve her contrasts. Her clothes and some of her gestures were boyish, yet she looked as feminine as Venus rising from the sea. Her voice, too, was all woman—deep and warm and with a dash of spice, like winter cider. Especially when she laughed. Her laugh was as generous as her curves and he really had to stop trying to coax it out of her.
He sighed again at the pity of it all. His body had crossed the Rubicon with her and was having a grand time thumbing its nose at him from the other side. He knew he would do nothing about this attraction, but it was a damnable nuisance.
She came and sat cross-legged on the pallet beside him without a word and they both watched the sky succumb to the night.
He’d heard the desert was a strange and deceptive place, but he’d assumed that referred to its physical nature, not a spiritual effect. And yet it didn’t feel at all logical that anything bad could happen to them in this elemental place. He felt...peaceful.
He should and would do well to keep in mind that the desert...in particular this desert and in this strange woman’s company...was not at all peaceful.
It was a jackal who broke the silence. The howl went on so long he felt it begin to reverberate inside him. Finally, it broke into a series of sharp yaps and stopped.
‘It sounds lonely,’ she said.
‘I know, but it likely isn’t. Gamal said they almost always live and hunt in packs.’
She nodded. ‘I saw a mother jackal playing with her pups once. They were the sweetest things—with enormous ears that looked as though they would tip them over. It was beautiful—I know some people believe animals do not possess emotions, but you could see how much pleasure they took in one another.’
Her voice was deeper than usual and its rawness plucked at him.
‘Is that what you want? A pack of your own?’
‘Is that so wrong?’
‘Not wrong... It depends.’
‘On what?’
‘Whether you know its limits. Families aren’t a magic antidote to loneliness. We of all people should know that.’
‘I do know that. I’m not...’ She gave a little laugh. ‘I am an awful liar. I cannot even lie to myself. I envy jackals, for heaven’s sake.’
He could feel it. Of course she was lonely. So was any reasonably sensible human being. Sometimes every cell in his body ached with bone-deep loneliness. It was part of being alive. Belonging to a pack could temper, but not eliminate, it.
‘I hope Dash is safe. I hope...’ Her voice quavered and she stopped, her hands fisted on her thighs. Without thought he put his arm around her, cursing himself.
Her breathing was still shallow, stuttering. He wished she would cry. It was better than this...drowning. She was drowning in the desert and it was his fault.
‘Cleo... Please...don’t listen to me. I’m no authority on anything. You’ll have your family.’
She shivered, pressing her forehead against his neck. He could feel the contours of his scars against her skin and started pulling away, but her hand curled into his shirt, her fingertips dragging the fabric against his ribs.
‘We come from a long line of soothsayers,’ he whispered against her hair. ‘I can see you’ll have a dozen children—six girls, six boys... No, better have more girls, they are less trouble.’
She gave a little huff of a laugh, her breath cooling the perspiration on his throat, and he stopped himself from tightening his arms.
‘I am trouble...’ she whispered hoarsely, but he could hear the glimmer of a smile there and a wave of gratitude rushed through him.
‘That’s true. Serious trouble. Perhaps we’ll change that to more boys than girls since you are likely to have a bevy of little warrior queens. You’ll never have a moment’s rest.’
Her hair was soft and he rubbed his cheek against it, just turning his head a little so that it skimmed the corner of his mouth. He breathed her in again, trying to reach that enticing core. It was unfair that she smelled so good despite everything and he probably smelt like one of the camels by now.
‘I don’t want a dozen children,’ she murmured. ‘I want two or three. The more you have, the more you worry.’ Her voice was creaky, but he could tell she was back. Which meant he should let her go.
He didn’t want to. She was warm and soft against him and it took every ounce of his will to sit still. To remind himself he was comforting her. That he had nothing to offer and no right to take. They sat in silence until the words were dragged out of him.
‘I’ll find your brother for you.’
She sighed and pulled away a little.
‘It isn’t your place to find him, Rafe. You are doing more than enough helping me. I’m sorry I...fell to pieces. Thank you for being so patient.’
She took his hand and rubbed it gently between hers. He’d been simmering already and her touch was fire set to dry hay. It spread so fast and so hot he couldn’t do anything but sit there as the heat flayed layers off him.
He must have made some sound because she untangled herself, murmuring a stifled apology and went towards the well. He walked in the other direction, chased by images that had nothing to do with reality—of spreading her out in the middle of the desert, discovering every curve and line and taste of her. Of pulling her on top him so he could watch her body against the starred sky as they moved.
It would pass. These little fevers always did—they dragged him back to his youth, twisting his view of the world and convincing him he wanted something he didn’t really. But they never lasted. Eventually they ran out of tinder and went ashen and dull. It was only that her foolish, pointless yearning had infected him for a moment. Like jabbing an old wound.
It would pass, all he had to do was wait it out and one day he would wonder why on earth it had caught him so hard.
‘We are almost at the end of Darb al-Arba’in. Asyut is past those hills,’ said Gamal, pointing eastwards over his camel’s neck. He’d kept them at a fast pace that day to reach the oasis and though Cleo was grateful to see the shadowed grove of palms that promised rest, his words caused a sharp twinge in her chest. Beyond those hills was the Nile and the end of their journey.
Gamal had told her he would be leaving them in Asyut. He would sell all of the camels but Kabir and Gamila and then return to his family, wealthy enough to marry.
Rafe and Birdie would likely proceed to Cairo in search of traces of his brother, and she... Once she reached Cairo she would know more. There was no point in worrying unnecessarily. Worrying had made her blabber about jackals and loneliness last night and forced Mr Grey to comfort her like a child.
She’d held on to that sensation last night as she tried to sleep. The warmth of his body around hers, his scent—earthy and cool. His hand between hers, large and rough with a warmth that sparked fires through her like a field of thorns in summer. It was foolish to indulge these sensations, but she did anyway. All too soon she would be on her own again and life would snatch her back in its talons.
‘What is Darb al-Arba’in?’ Birdie asked and she welcomed the distraction.
‘It is the forty-day camel caravan road from Nubia to Asyut. Asyut is quite large so we can probably find a boat there without drawing too much attention. I doubt al-Mizan will be there. If he persisted in looking for Dash at all, he would most likely have gone to Luxor.’
She glanced at Rafe, but if he was relieved they were near their journey’s end, she could see no sign of it. Or of anything, for that matter. When he wished, he could keep his face as blank as a rock.
‘Look at that, Colonel!’ Birdie exclaimed as they passed through the last line of palm trees. Out of the ochre plain before them rose the palmiform pillars of an ancient temple. Either design or time had left only several separate structures standing and a row of half-buried sphinxes. She loved these small temples in Egypt—they were as delicate and sturdy as life, with their exuberance carved and painted on their walls and pillars.
She wished Dash were there with them. He would have loved to see this.
As they watched, a goat and kid ambled up the alley of sphinxes, the kid skipping and bucking over the sand as they headed into the shade of the palms. Kabir huffed in disgust at such frivolity and Gamila nudged him in the neck.
‘I think that is a hint, Kabir.’ Cleo laughed.
Gamal smiled. ‘Kabir is stubborn.’
‘I place my faith in Gamila,’ Cleo replied, patting the cow. ‘Please tell me we may set camp near here and explore the temple a little?’
‘You’d think we were on a Grand Tour,’ Rafe said drily, but then added, ‘Setting camp here sounds like a good idea. We could even sleep inside. What do you say, Gamal?’
‘Very good. But I will sleep with the camels and keep them safe from thieves, nadab.’
‘So will I,’ Birdie said. ‘You won’t find me stepping inside a tomb until it’s my turn to fill it. But you enjoy yourself, miss. No telling what tomorrow brings.’
‘I know precisely what tomorrow brings, Birdie,’ Rafe said as they moved towards the temple. ‘More dust and wind, more dry cheese and burnt bread and dates, and more aching muscles and sulky camels. I’d trade my kingdom for a bath, a feather bed, and a slab of sirloin.’
He shrugged. ‘Never mind. Hopefully we have confused them sufficiently to give your brother time to reach Cairo and leave Egypt. That is your object, no?’
‘Yes. Yes, of course. I only hope Dash acts immediately once he sees my letter.’
‘So do I. Was he named for his speed or for his dashing manners?’
There was a hint of lightness in his voice and her relief bloomed.
‘Neither. An ancestor of ours from Ashford in Kent went to France and took to calling himself d’Ashford. My mother decided to perpetuate that foolish vanity in Dash’s name. She was very...poetically minded.’
‘So she’s to blame for you quoting Shakespeare?’
‘She’d be proud to accept that blame.’ She smiled and turned away to unfold her blanket, surprised by the burning in her throat. It seemed so long, long ago—those evenings reading with her mother in their small back parlour where it was warmest because it shared a wall with the kitchen. She’d thought that was her life—simple and safe and happy, just the three of them with occasional visits from her father. Now it felt far less real than sitting in the desert with a mercenary.
But it was still there, that memory—of warmth, her mother’s deep voice as she read, holding the book a little away from her because she always misplaced her spectacles...
‘You miss her.’
His voice was brusque but not unkind and she both shrugged and nodded, waiting for him to move away. To her surprise, he spread his pallet between hers and the desert once more and came to sit on a boulder by the fire. He picked up a twig and traced neat little rows on the ground. The sand rushed into them like raindrops into a crack in the pavement.
‘I’m sorry, Cleo-Pat.’
‘It hardly matters. It was so long ago.’
‘Some things never stop mattering. Was she responsible for you name as well?’
‘Of course. She said it was part tribute to Shakespeare’s play and part tribute to my father. In Greek it means “glory of the father”. All the Ptolemaic queens were named Cleopatra and all the kings Ptolemy, which means “warlike”.’
‘Well, that says it all. Name the kings after violence and the queens after kings.’
She laughed. She’d always hated that aspect of her name, but somehow his words blew away that slight with a puff of laughter. He smiled and the knot of tension in her stomach unravelled further.
‘I’ll call you Cleo, then. Or Glory.’
‘Not Glory, please. Besides, you already appear to have far too many names for me.’
‘Cleo, then. Or I rather like Cleo-Pat. Osbourne doesn’t suit you, though. Do you know what it means?’
‘I...no, I never thought it meant anything at all.’
‘It’s old Norse. It means the bear god...os bjorn.’
‘Does it? I rather like that. Do you actually speak Norse?’ She couldn’t keep the scepticism from her voice and he gave that grunt she was coming to recognise was a mix between amusement and annoyance.
‘I know some odd bits. I lived with my brother for a couple of years, after his son Jacob was born, while I recovered from my burns. The boy never fully escaped the rheumatic fever and needed to be watched closely. He loved being read to and I soon made my way through most of Edge’s mythology collection, including a tome on the significance of names in old Norse. Jacob was particularly fond of that. Perhaps it was my ludicrous accent.’
Strange how well she could imagine Rafe holding a somnolent babe in his arms, reading aloud in his deep purr of a voice. She didn’t want that image in her mind; she had enough to unsettle her at the moment.
‘Does Rafe also mean something in old Norse?’
‘Yes. Wise wolf.’
‘How apt. So I am a bear god, you a wise wolf, Birdie can be a kind, resourceful bird and Gamal the handsome camel named Camel.’
His smile flashed in the dark.
‘We sound like one of Aesop’s fables. Except in my case, Rafe is nothing more impressive than Rafael shortened.’
‘Rafael,’ she repeated, and the sound rolled outwards, warm and liquid in the darkness. ‘God heals. An archangel’s name.’
‘I know. I was definitely misnamed.’
‘I don’t think so. Raphael saved people.’
‘Even less appropriate. I’m a mercenary, remember?’
‘Of course I do. You saved me.’
He snorted.
‘You hired me to do just that. I might as easily have handed you over to that al-Mizan fellow if he’d been more generous. I don’t think Raphael haggled with God over his fee.’
‘You didn’t haggle over the fee either.’
‘I don’t think he could have matched your offer. That grotesque green gewgaw is worth a couple of months’ lodgings at least.’
Her hand groped for the chain that held her little treasure and closed on it.
‘You could take it now and still hand me over to al-Mizan.’
‘Even mercenaries have their principles, Queenie.’
‘I think you make a better bear than I do, Mr Rafael Grey. You are long on brawn and bluster. I know you weren’t even considering handing me over to that man.’
‘You know nothing of the sort, as you proved by following us into Daraw. You should try living up to your namesake, Cleopatra—trust no one.’
She considered his words, and his warning, and tried to understand why, other than her still being alive, she did trust him now. Perhaps it was the foolishness that often comes with fear and despair—clinging to a rock protruding from the ocean though one knew it was as dangerous in its barrenness as the great wide sea.
Yet she did trust him and it worried her. Trust meant lowering one’s guard and that meant...trouble.
For a moment the darkness settled on them again as the fire dimmed. Then a spark shot upwards, followed by a lick of flames as the fire found more to feed its hunger. It lit his profile against the fading light on the horizon. He had a profile worthy of a coin—strong and sharp, as if the winds of life had hewn him down to his elements. The only imperfections were his scars. She wondered what had happened to him.
Trust no one. It was excellent advice, but...
‘I rarely do trust anyone,’ she said tentatively. ‘I do not mean I trust you wholly, but I think, if I am right about you, you will try to fulfil your bond and that is far more than most men...most people do.’
He actually squirmed, raising his eyes skywards as if beseeching the heavens for deliverance. She smiled and continued. ‘Also I don’t know that Cleopatra didn’t trust anyone. She appeared to trust both Julius Caesar and Marc Anthony enough to have children with them.’
‘That was good political sense, not trust. Or trust in her ability to direct her fate by whatever means at her disposal. A very sensible woman, that illustrious lady.’
‘I agree. But being sensible doesn’t preclude trust. You strike me as a sensible man, but you trust Birdie. And your brother.’
‘What do you know of my brother?’
‘Nothing but what you said yourself. But I know love when I hear it. Your brother is a lucky man to have you.’
‘You are damned annoying, Pat.’
‘That is the second time you have damned me, Mr Grey.’
‘I have a suspicion it won’t be the last, Miss Osbourne.’
Chapter Seven
Desert travel was strange.
Almost a week had passed since they’d left Syene and, though they were always in motion, it seemed to Rafe as if they never truly made any headway. The pinkish cliffs gave way to dunes and plains and then again to cliffs. The shadows of the camels marked the passing of the day—long and fuzzy into the west, shrinking and darkening as the day passed, scrunched beneath them, like an oily puddle, and then stretching out into the east once more until everything began to glow orange and dim to purple as the sun expired.
Gamal set a brisk pace and it was too hot and dusty to talk during the day, but at night by the campfire, the four of them settled into the easy camaraderie of soldiers on the march. Ever since he’d enlisted in the army at sixteen he’d come to love these times—sitting around a fire, talking and listening.
It had been a way of life for him and Birdie and it was also in Gamal’s blood, but Rafe was surprised how naturally Cleo fitted into their little troupe. Perhaps this was what came of a life adapting to circumstance. She rarely complained and whatever snaps of temper and impatience she allowed herself were directed solely at him. Strangely, he welcomed these chinks in her defences.
He watched her helping Birdie. The two of them were talking and laughing, the evening breeze sifting through her short hair and every so often she shoved it away from her eyes with the back of her hand.
His mind was still struggling to resolve her contrasts. Her clothes and some of her gestures were boyish, yet she looked as feminine as Venus rising from the sea. Her voice, too, was all woman—deep and warm and with a dash of spice, like winter cider. Especially when she laughed. Her laugh was as generous as her curves and he really had to stop trying to coax it out of her.
He sighed again at the pity of it all. His body had crossed the Rubicon with her and was having a grand time thumbing its nose at him from the other side. He knew he would do nothing about this attraction, but it was a damnable nuisance.
She came and sat cross-legged on the pallet beside him without a word and they both watched the sky succumb to the night.
He’d heard the desert was a strange and deceptive place, but he’d assumed that referred to its physical nature, not a spiritual effect. And yet it didn’t feel at all logical that anything bad could happen to them in this elemental place. He felt...peaceful.
He should and would do well to keep in mind that the desert...in particular this desert and in this strange woman’s company...was not at all peaceful.
It was a jackal who broke the silence. The howl went on so long he felt it begin to reverberate inside him. Finally, it broke into a series of sharp yaps and stopped.
‘It sounds lonely,’ she said.
‘I know, but it likely isn’t. Gamal said they almost always live and hunt in packs.’
She nodded. ‘I saw a mother jackal playing with her pups once. They were the sweetest things—with enormous ears that looked as though they would tip them over. It was beautiful—I know some people believe animals do not possess emotions, but you could see how much pleasure they took in one another.’
Her voice was deeper than usual and its rawness plucked at him.
‘Is that what you want? A pack of your own?’
‘Is that so wrong?’
‘Not wrong... It depends.’
‘On what?’
‘Whether you know its limits. Families aren’t a magic antidote to loneliness. We of all people should know that.’
‘I do know that. I’m not...’ She gave a little laugh. ‘I am an awful liar. I cannot even lie to myself. I envy jackals, for heaven’s sake.’
He could feel it. Of course she was lonely. So was any reasonably sensible human being. Sometimes every cell in his body ached with bone-deep loneliness. It was part of being alive. Belonging to a pack could temper, but not eliminate, it.
‘I hope Dash is safe. I hope...’ Her voice quavered and she stopped, her hands fisted on her thighs. Without thought he put his arm around her, cursing himself.
Her breathing was still shallow, stuttering. He wished she would cry. It was better than this...drowning. She was drowning in the desert and it was his fault.
‘Cleo... Please...don’t listen to me. I’m no authority on anything. You’ll have your family.’
She shivered, pressing her forehead against his neck. He could feel the contours of his scars against her skin and started pulling away, but her hand curled into his shirt, her fingertips dragging the fabric against his ribs.
‘We come from a long line of soothsayers,’ he whispered against her hair. ‘I can see you’ll have a dozen children—six girls, six boys... No, better have more girls, they are less trouble.’
She gave a little huff of a laugh, her breath cooling the perspiration on his throat, and he stopped himself from tightening his arms.
‘I am trouble...’ she whispered hoarsely, but he could hear the glimmer of a smile there and a wave of gratitude rushed through him.
‘That’s true. Serious trouble. Perhaps we’ll change that to more boys than girls since you are likely to have a bevy of little warrior queens. You’ll never have a moment’s rest.’
Her hair was soft and he rubbed his cheek against it, just turning his head a little so that it skimmed the corner of his mouth. He breathed her in again, trying to reach that enticing core. It was unfair that she smelled so good despite everything and he probably smelt like one of the camels by now.
‘I don’t want a dozen children,’ she murmured. ‘I want two or three. The more you have, the more you worry.’ Her voice was creaky, but he could tell she was back. Which meant he should let her go.
He didn’t want to. She was warm and soft against him and it took every ounce of his will to sit still. To remind himself he was comforting her. That he had nothing to offer and no right to take. They sat in silence until the words were dragged out of him.
‘I’ll find your brother for you.’
She sighed and pulled away a little.
‘It isn’t your place to find him, Rafe. You are doing more than enough helping me. I’m sorry I...fell to pieces. Thank you for being so patient.’
She took his hand and rubbed it gently between hers. He’d been simmering already and her touch was fire set to dry hay. It spread so fast and so hot he couldn’t do anything but sit there as the heat flayed layers off him.
He must have made some sound because she untangled herself, murmuring a stifled apology and went towards the well. He walked in the other direction, chased by images that had nothing to do with reality—of spreading her out in the middle of the desert, discovering every curve and line and taste of her. Of pulling her on top him so he could watch her body against the starred sky as they moved.
It would pass. These little fevers always did—they dragged him back to his youth, twisting his view of the world and convincing him he wanted something he didn’t really. But they never lasted. Eventually they ran out of tinder and went ashen and dull. It was only that her foolish, pointless yearning had infected him for a moment. Like jabbing an old wound.
It would pass, all he had to do was wait it out and one day he would wonder why on earth it had caught him so hard.
‘We are almost at the end of Darb al-Arba’in. Asyut is past those hills,’ said Gamal, pointing eastwards over his camel’s neck. He’d kept them at a fast pace that day to reach the oasis and though Cleo was grateful to see the shadowed grove of palms that promised rest, his words caused a sharp twinge in her chest. Beyond those hills was the Nile and the end of their journey.
Gamal had told her he would be leaving them in Asyut. He would sell all of the camels but Kabir and Gamila and then return to his family, wealthy enough to marry.
Rafe and Birdie would likely proceed to Cairo in search of traces of his brother, and she... Once she reached Cairo she would know more. There was no point in worrying unnecessarily. Worrying had made her blabber about jackals and loneliness last night and forced Mr Grey to comfort her like a child.
She’d held on to that sensation last night as she tried to sleep. The warmth of his body around hers, his scent—earthy and cool. His hand between hers, large and rough with a warmth that sparked fires through her like a field of thorns in summer. It was foolish to indulge these sensations, but she did anyway. All too soon she would be on her own again and life would snatch her back in its talons.
‘What is Darb al-Arba’in?’ Birdie asked and she welcomed the distraction.
‘It is the forty-day camel caravan road from Nubia to Asyut. Asyut is quite large so we can probably find a boat there without drawing too much attention. I doubt al-Mizan will be there. If he persisted in looking for Dash at all, he would most likely have gone to Luxor.’
She glanced at Rafe, but if he was relieved they were near their journey’s end, she could see no sign of it. Or of anything, for that matter. When he wished, he could keep his face as blank as a rock.
‘Look at that, Colonel!’ Birdie exclaimed as they passed through the last line of palm trees. Out of the ochre plain before them rose the palmiform pillars of an ancient temple. Either design or time had left only several separate structures standing and a row of half-buried sphinxes. She loved these small temples in Egypt—they were as delicate and sturdy as life, with their exuberance carved and painted on their walls and pillars.
She wished Dash were there with them. He would have loved to see this.
As they watched, a goat and kid ambled up the alley of sphinxes, the kid skipping and bucking over the sand as they headed into the shade of the palms. Kabir huffed in disgust at such frivolity and Gamila nudged him in the neck.
‘I think that is a hint, Kabir.’ Cleo laughed.
Gamal smiled. ‘Kabir is stubborn.’
‘I place my faith in Gamila,’ Cleo replied, patting the cow. ‘Please tell me we may set camp near here and explore the temple a little?’
‘You’d think we were on a Grand Tour,’ Rafe said drily, but then added, ‘Setting camp here sounds like a good idea. We could even sleep inside. What do you say, Gamal?’
‘Very good. But I will sleep with the camels and keep them safe from thieves, nadab.’
‘So will I,’ Birdie said. ‘You won’t find me stepping inside a tomb until it’s my turn to fill it. But you enjoy yourself, miss. No telling what tomorrow brings.’
‘I know precisely what tomorrow brings, Birdie,’ Rafe said as they moved towards the temple. ‘More dust and wind, more dry cheese and burnt bread and dates, and more aching muscles and sulky camels. I’d trade my kingdom for a bath, a feather bed, and a slab of sirloin.’
