Mr. Impossible (The Dressmakers 2)

It was nearly an hour’s journey, over one of the Nile’s wider stretches of fertile land, then over a bridge, to the mountain necropolis. The openings to the tombs and caves were plainly visible from a distance. A modern cemetery lay below.

The famous rock tombs were not Rupert and Mrs. Pembroke’s destination, however. They’d decided to venture into the hills and desert beyond, where people might feel freer to answer their questions.

Accordingly, dressed in Arab style garments that would not attract attention, Rupert and Mrs. Pembroke set out on donkeys with Tom, Yusef, and a pair of guards from the town.

Rupert noticed the change in the wind as they reached the hillside. It had come up less fierce this morning, though still favorable, and he’d regretted the loss of time almost as much as Mrs. Pembroke had. But in the course of this morning’s journey it had died away altogether.

Now, as they reached the edge of the desert plain, it was reviving. It had changed direction, though.

After a few miles, he was getting a bad feeling. The guards were dawdling far behind, and the lads looked uneasy.

Rupert met Tom’s gaze. “Simoom,” the boy said. “Simoom comes, I think.”

Yusef beside him nodded and went into a long spate of Arabic.

The wind was picking up, whirling sand.

Mrs. Pembroke said, “I think we’d better —”

Tom gave a shout and pointed southward. Rupert turned that way. A great yellow fog bank welled up from the horizon.

Another shout made him look behind him. The guards were galloping away.

Yusef cried, “Hadeed ya mashoom!”

“Allahu akbar!” Tom shouted.

Rupert knew that last one. God is most great. It was a charm to ward off evil. In Minya he’d found out that the Egyptians believed the jinn rode in the sandstorms.

Running for cover was definitely the best idea.

“Go!” he told the boys. “Follow the guards.”

“Mrs. Pembroke,” he called. He could hear the wind’s roar, drawing closer.

“Yes, I —” The words slid into a shriek as her donkey reared and galloped away in the wrong direction.

Rupert spurred his animal after her. The fog swelled into a wave of sand, billowing toward them. An instant before Rupert reached them, her donkey came to a sudden halt, turned abruptly, and fell. Rupert dismounted and hurried to the fallen rider and mount.

But her donkey was already struggling up onto its feet. Before he could grab it, the beast, freed of its burdens, fled. Rupert grabbed the bridle of his mount before it could follow.

Mrs. Pembroke struggled to rise, too, but fell down again. “Just my foot,” she gasped as Rupert knelt beside her. “Silly ass fell on it.”

The billowing sand was welling up, like a whirlpool upside down. It grew into a great swirling pillar of sand, and it was racing straight at them.

He caught her round the waist with one arm and lifted her up from the ground, his other hand still holding his anxious donkey’s bridle. He dragged them both toward the jagged, stony slopes of the mountain necropolis.

The sand beat at his face, stung his eyes, filled his nose. The swirling pillar was nearly upon them.

He hauled woman and beast into the nearest crevice. He pulled off his cloak and sank down to the ground, taking Mrs. Pembroke with him. He pulled her between his bent legs and wrapped the cloak about them both. The donkey pressed close to the humans.

The sandstorm, shrieking and roaring, bore down on them.

THE MEN WHO were following the party abruptly reversed direction and raced back to Asyut. They waited out the simoom in a coffee shop near the southwest gate at the back of the town, facing the tombs. At this shop, one could obtain “white” or “black” coffee, the former laced with forbidden brandy. The men drank white coffee. They were all mercenaries who worked for a Frenchman named Duval. They had orders to capture the redheaded Englishwoman they’d been following recently. Today offered the prime opportunity. The woman had left most of her people behind. She traveled to the tombs with only a few servants and a pair of guards who could be counted on to run at the first sign of trouble. The large Englishman who accompanied her didn’t worry them. One man stood no chance against ten experienced killers.

After several cups of white coffee, though, they began arguing about the Englishman. They’d all heard he was the son of a great lord whose wealth far surpassed that of Muhammad Ali. Now some of them said he would be worth more alive than dead. With each succeeding cup of coffee, the debate grew louder. They woke from his nap the gatekeeper nearby, who left his post to demand silence. One of the men, Khareef, apologized and escorted him out of the shop. The instant they were out of onlookers’ view, Khareef thrust a knife between the gatekeeper’s ribs. He propped up the corpse in its usual place, where it remained undisturbed until the watch changed next morning, everyone who passed assuming the gatekeeper was sleeping as usual. Khareef found this highly amusing, and laughed from time to time, thinking about it.

RUPERT COULDN’T GUESS how long the sandstorm went on. It seemed an eternity.

The wind howled, and the sand lashed at them like an enraged monster. Small wonder the Arabs thought the jinn rode in the sandstorms.

In the cloak’s shelter it was hot and dark. It smelled of donkey, too. But the rocks sheltered them from the worst of the storm’s brutality, and the tightly woven cloth blocked the worst of the biting sand.

Mrs. Pembroke clung to him, mute and motionless, oh, and soft. He felt her breath, the quick inhale-exhale of fear, against his collarbone, where his shirt had fallen open. He was acutely aware of the hurried rise and fall of her bosom against his chest and of the soft pressure of her bottom against his thigh and groin.

He bent and pressed a reassuring kiss to the top of her head. Her hair was so soft, and fell in waves, like the rippling desert sand.

She’d lost her veil, he realized: the obnoxious veil he resented while aware of the protection if afforded against the Egyptian sun as well as prying male eyes. It wasn’t black, he remembered, but he couldn’t recall what color it was. She hadn’t worn black in days, he realized. Since Minya?

“We’ll be all right,” he said. He could barely hear his own words over the whistle and wail of the sandstorm. He didn’t know if she answered or not. He knew, though, that she held him tightly, her arms wrapped about his waist, as though she feared the storm would bear him away otherwise.

At moments he thought it might. The wind was unlike anything he’d ever experienced on dry land. It was more like an ocean storm, like being caught in a tearing sea of sand. Twice he thought it would rip them out from their crevice to throw them miles into the air, then drop them in so many broken pieces upon the Libyan hills.

But if so, it must take them both or none. He would not give her up to man or to force of nature, however great. He wrapped his arms more tightly about her, his fingers clutching at the robe to keep it closed while he prayed the storm would end soon, before they suffocated.

He didn’t waste any more breath on reassurances she couldn’t hear over the storm. He only pressed his lips to her head, again and again, hoping she’d understand: he’d take care of her. She would not come to harm so long as he was alive.

Some lifetimes later, the world began to quiet. The wind still blew strong, and the sand beat against them still, but not so ferociously. The juggernaut of whirling sand had moved on to sow destruction elsewhere.

He lifted his head. Gingerly he loosened his hold on the robe and peered out.

“I think it’s safe to breathe,” he said.

She let out a whoosh of breath, then coughed.

“Sorry,” he said. He kissed her temple. “Sorry. I

didn’t mean to crush your ribs.”

Her arms slid from his waist. She lifted her head. She eased her rump a few inches away from his crotch.

He wanted her back. He wanted her tucked into his arms, her soft hair tickling his chin. He wanted to feel her breathing against his collarbone, and the soft pressure of her breasts and her backside.

After a moment, she crawled farther away and spat out sand. “Good grief,” she said. “Good grief.”

“Are you all right?” he said. “Your foot?”

She turned her foot experimentally. “It seems to be functioning,” she said. “My boots are filled with sand. My trousers are filled with sand. I am a walking sandbag. No, not walking. Not yet. Let me just…catch my breath.”

She drew up her knees and folded her arms upon them and bowed her head upon her arms.

He looked about them. The wind had heaped a large mound of sand into the opening they’d entered.

He rose cautiously and looked to the southeast.

A fresh yellow tidal wave was building.

“Um,” he said.

“Yes, I’ll be up in a minute.”

“I’m not sure we have a minute,” he said. “And I don’t fancy being buried here.” He hauled her up and started pulling her and the donkey up the mountain.

BEING ABRUPTLY DRAGGED to her feet and yanked up a mountainside knocked out of Daphne the half a breath she’d managed to collect. She’d none to spare for commentary. Not that he would have listened — or needed to. He’d summed up their situation accurately, she soon saw.

A glance back showed her why he was so impatient to be moving. Sand had partly filled their shelter, and another sand funnel was hurtling toward them.

Fortunately, paths had been worn or cut into the hillside for access to the tombs. With Mr. Carsington to lean on, Daphne could get along well enough. She was thankful for her Turkish trousers, which allowed for easier movement than the usual layers of petticoats under not-very-wide skirts. The donkey experienced no difficulty at all, and came along agreeably enough.