Mr. Impossible (The Dressmakers 2)

“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 —