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.”