Czytaj książkę: «Desert Rogue»
Desert Rogue
Erin Yorke
www.millsandboon.co.uk
For Tracy Farrell—with sincere thanks for all your encouragement in this roller coaster of a business. You make it easier to ride the ups and downs.
For Marion Willoughby, and all the other women who trudge across the treacherous sands of life without a hero to guide them—may he be waiting just over the horizon.
Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter One
Cairo—1881
The whoosh of a clenched fist traveling past Jed Kincaid’s ear momentarily drowned out the exotic wail of the snake charmer’s flute as it mingled with the usual chaotic noise of Cairo’s medina. Raising a questioning eyebrow, Jed spawned a lazy grin that didn’t quite reach his hard green eyes, and turned around to face his attackers.
“Damn, you really are angry, aren’t you? And here I had just about given up hope of finding any more excitement tonight...at least before I went to bed. But if you boys want to fight, despite the fact that I told your little sister she was too young for me and sent her on her way, then I’ll be more than happy to oblige,” Jed drawled. Knowing these Egyptians didn’t care about explanations, he stretched his long, muscular frame so that he appeared even larger, his stand obviously taken.
Senses heightened, he noted a sudden absence of noise in the bazaar. Even the snake charmer’s melody was silenced. Most of those who had been outdoors only a moment before had sought refuge from the impending melee behind the shutters of the small shops squeezed together along the narrow, twisting alleyway. Absently, Jed brushed back a wayward lock of dark brown hair from his forehead and raised his fists, readying his body for the onslaught to follow.
He wasn’t disappointed. All at once, three men clad in gallabiyas charged at him, and Jed’s powerful forearms made contact with the midsection of one Egyptian before he whirled to face another.
Though Kincaid’s stance was easy and graceful as he delivered blow after blow, his steps swayed slightly, a result of the zabeeb he had been imbibing rather than any damage he sustained from the brawl itself. After all, there were only three of them, and Jed Kincaid had oftentimes discovered himself in much worse scrapes.
Somehow, trouble usually managed to find Jed, and when it didn’t, he went looking for it. While others not born in Egypt might spend their time sequestered in their own sectors, which were nothing more than transplanted slices of their homelands, the dark-haired American preferred to experience everything foreign shores had to offer. In fact, after two grueling months in the desert, Jed had yearned to avail himself of the sweet pleasures of the Middle East. But even he hadn’t hoped for an evening as entertaining as this promised to be with its drinking, its brawling, and his still undaunted intentions of finding some passionate desert blossom to share his bed.
Prodded by the one appetite he had yet to satisfy, Jed savagely thrust his elbow to the rear and was pleased to hear a grunt. Fights like this one reminded him of the constant tussles he and his brothers had indulged in while growing up in the woods of Kentucky. Steeped for a moment in boyhood memories, Jed barely managed to evade a lethal blade before he cautioned himself that there was one important difference between this and the scuffles of his childhood. These boys were playing for keeps.
The realization didn’t sober him. He was a man who thrived on danger, and he decided not to allow the deadly attitude of his opponents to detract from his own enjoyment of the moment. After all, they were the ones missing out on all the fun, needlessly angry as they were. It was just a damn shame that most people didn’t know how to enjoy life and its many challenges.
That thought foremost in mind, Jed threw himself with greater abandon into subduing the three Egyptians. After a few more minutes of exertion, one man lay groaning at Jed’s feet while another was heaped over a pile of baskets. Two down and one to go, Jed noted with satisfaction. If the third assailant had any sense, he would learn a lesson from what had befallen his companions. But as the man lunged at him with renewed rage, Jed concluded that this fellow was no brighter than the other two. Couldn’t the idiot understand that he hadn’t approached the girl, that she had tried quite unsuccessfully to solicit him?
Now that the first blush of excitement had worn off, an impatient Jed decided to dispatch his remaining attacker quickly. Heaving a sigh, he sent the Cairene a wallop that had to have loosened some teeth, and received a blow to the jaw in return. Crouching and coming in suddenly under a fist meant for his head, Jed grabbed the Egyptian, wrapping his hands around the unfortunate man’s throat while he heaved him against the wall of a small brassware shop. The gallabiya-clad villain landed heavily, scattering neatly displayed brass plates, tables, vases and coffee sets with a loud clatter.
Satisfied that the Egyptian wouldn’t be getting to his feet for quite a while, Jed wiped the dust from his hands and turned away. Now that the fracas had been settled, he had no intention of being in the vicinity should the local police arrive anytime soon. After all, he still had one very pressing need that remained unfulfilled.
Setting forth with a determined glint in his dark green eyes, Jed had gone no more than a half-dozen steps when he heard an excited voice filling the narrow alleyway.
“English! Wait! Wait, English!”
Jed kept going. Whatever it was, it had nothing to do with him, and he had things other than curiosity on his mind at the moment. Yet, as he made ready to round the corner of the twisting street wending its way through the middle of the bazaar, the voice became louder and more insistent, until suddenly it was punctuated by the sound of rapidly approaching footsteps.
Muttering a curse, Jed readied himself for another fight, be it with recovered assailant or arresting police in pursuit. Damn! Didn’t these people have better things to do, he asked himself in annoyance?
But the sight that greeted his eyes when he turned around was neither constable nor thug. It was, however, one very irate Egyptian, a shopkeeper from the looks of him.
“English, I will have a word with you,” the man demanded indignantly when he reached Jed.
“Say, you’re not talking to me, are you?” Jed asked with exasperation as he sized up this newfound obstacle to the pleasure beckoning him like the song of a siren across a turbulent sea.
Of Bedouin extraction by the look of him, the man was almost as tall as the American he confronted. From the expression of his sharp, angular features, the merchant was agitated about something, but Jed had neither the inclination nor the patience to find out what it was.
“Yes, you, English. I am talking to you. Where do you think you are going?”
“Now, see, that’s where you make your mistake. I’m an American, not some overly civilized, staid Brit, and I guess I had better warn you that I don’t play by their silly rules of proper behavior,” Jed growled softly, angered that he had been mistaken for one of the sedate and unflappable Englishmen who had overrun the Land of the Pharaohs. “And as to where I’m headed, it’s none of your damn business.”
“But it is,” the man insisted in spite of the formidable picture a scowling Jed Kincaid presented. “I will not have you run off without payment for the damage you did to my wares. I am Ali Sharouk. It was against my brass shop that you threw one of the men who had challenged you, ruining an intricately wrought coffee service in the process.”
“Challenged? It was more a bushwhacking they had in mind than an open and honorable challenge,” Jed said with a snort of derision. “As for damage to your coffeepot, get the money for it from one of those bastards who started the fight. I’m certainly not paying for it!”
“But they appear to be poor men. Where would they get the piasters to pay me?” the shopkeeper asked plaintively. “No. It is you I hold responsible, you who heaved my countryman into a pile of my lovely brassware.”
“If they don’t have any money, take it out of their hides,” Jed suggested, turning to walk away once more. “From experience, I can assure you that you might find it real gratifying to do so.”
“I am not excessively violent by nature,” the tall Egyptian asserted, dogging Jed’s footsteps as he dismissed the situation and set out on his way, “yet neither am I a fool. I will have my money from you.”
“Like hell you will,” Jed promised in a dangerous voice. For emphasis, he brought his face within inches of this latest nuisance, a man not much older than his own twenty-eight years, though by all appearances, a hell of a lot more domesticated. “A decent man walks down your street and is attacked and you expect him to pay for the goods you had heaped at your doorway? I don’t think so. In fact, my friend, I know that is not going to be the case. Now, leave me alone before I lose my temper.”
“Your temper does not mean as much to me as recovering the price of the goods that were damaged,” the Egyptian replied with more persistence than Jed would have given him credit for.
“I said to forget it, Ali,” Jed pronounced, lengthening his stride so that the other man was finding it increasingly difficult to keep pace with him.
“I will do no such thing,” the Egyptian replied, reaching out a hand to slow this argumentative American down if not stop him altogether.
“Listen, I suggest you take your hand off my shoulder,” Jed whispered fiercely, “and go back to your shop. That is, unless you have a hankering to wind up like the last men who touched me.”
Ali involuntarily released his grasp but planted himself in Jed’s path and kept up his harangue. Finally Jed Kincaid had had enough. The muscles of his lean jaw clamped tightly, and he shoved Sharouk out of his way with such force that the shopkeeper found himself sitting in the midst of refuse strewn across the dust of the alley.
Without another thought for the man, Jed left him there, ignoring Ali’s shouted promise to track him down and recover what was rightfully his.
But to Jed’s aggravation, the recent events in the medina had befouled his mood, robbing him of the euphoria he had found in the bottle of zabeeb. With an exasperated sigh, he decided to attempt to recapture his good humor with a few more cups of the native liquor before continuing his search for a woman. He had enough control to postpone his gratification awhile longer, and he had no wish to bring anger to his bed that night, wherever it might eventually be.
* * *
The estates of wealthy foreigners were a far cry from the poverty and exotic life of the Arab quarter. Behind the gates of the British and French dwelt beauty, great wealth and an ordered grace, if not the actual comforts of home. At least that was how Victoria Shaw viewed her world.
The sultry heat of the Egyptian sun hung oppressively over the Nile, the air visible in the shimmering distortion of the land across the river. Though Victoria had dressed in as cool a manner as was proper, in a loose-sleeved white chambray blouse edged with piping that matched her blue skirt, and had long ago dispensed with corsets and stays, the twenty-year-old was frightfully uncomfortable. Indeed, ladylike behavior or not, Victoria Shaw was actually perspiring in the early twilight.
Wearily tucking yet another errant curl back into her rapidly dissolving coiffure, the petite blonde sighed and moved further into the ineffectual shade provided by a nearby palm. What wouldn’t she give to be under a true English oak, or even a walnut tree.
Over the years since the family had settled in Egypt, her father’s servants had struggled assiduously to turn the Shaw property fronting the river into a small oasis of refreshing greenery, but, attractive as it was, it could never compare to the cool grassy meadows of Warwickshire that Victoria remembered so fondly from childhood. Even ten years of living on the outskirts of the Egyptian desert hadn’t erased her vivid recollections of running barefoot across the dewy lawns of the Shaw holdings in England.
“Mother,” the young woman said thoughtfully, removing her straw bonnet and using it as a fan in a vain attempt to stir a sympathetic breeze, “do you know, the experience I’m most looking forward to on my honeymoon is feeling cold again, being truly and properly frigid from my head to my toes.”
“Oh, surely not, Victoria,” gulped Mrs. Shaw, horrified that her daughter should entertain such a notion. She had thought Victoria adored Hayden and wanted marriage; whatever had come over her? Before she could express her dismay, however, Victoria laughed gaily and explained herself.
“For heaven’s sake, Mother, don’t look so grim. I don’t mean with Hayden. I expect to be kept quite warm learning the ways of husband and wife,” she admitted, recalling the embrace he’d caught her in the night before. “However, I am anticipating English weather with great delight, even if it will be November when we dock. As warm as I’ve been lately, I cannot think of a single discomfort to be suffered in a real English winter.”
“What about that raw, damp chill that penetrates your bones, no matter how well banked the fire, how warm your gown, or how much tea you drink?” asked Grace from under her parasol, a concession to her fair complexion and the strong Egyptian sun. “That is nothing I would choose to experience again. Your father and I are quite content here in Cairo, but I suppose it will be different for you if Hayden moves up in the diplomatic corps—”
“When, not if, Mother,” corrected Victoria, immediately indignant at the implied criticism of her fiancé. “Hayden Reed is invaluable to the British Consulate and soon they’ll recognize it and give him a more prestigious posting. You wait and see how quickly my future husband advances in his career.”
“Of course, darling. Hayden is a fine young man and your father and I are pleased you are happy with him.” Idly playing with her parasol, Grace chose her next words carefully. “As much as we appreciate Hayden’s sterling qualities, we had hoped you would marry a titled Englishman.”
“Mother, Hayden comes from an impeccable family. His bloodlines are nothing to wince at,” said Victoria with a pout.
“Nonetheless, society is much more pleasant when others must curtsy to you, my dear. Still, eventually your father might be able to arrange a title of some kind, baron or viscount, perhaps. Cameron does have Gladstone’s ear on foreign affairs, you know.”
“Hmm, Lady Victoria Reed. I like the sound of it already,” the bride-to-be said with a smile, sinking down onto one of the small benches near the fountains replicating those found in the Shaw gardens in Warwickshire. “Perhaps we should postpone the wedding until Hayden receives that title.”
“Victoria, you are scheduled to marry in less than three months. It would be highly inconvenient to alter our plans now. Since you were the ones who wanted to be married quickly, you should dispense with such foolish notions,” chided Grace, impatient with the heat and wishing she hadn’t mentioned her husband’s hopes. “Come along, now. We have written barely half the invitations. We must get back to them.”
“I do wish the British community in Egypt was not quite so large or that you and Father didn’t know everyone.”
“As the representative of the bank holding the notes on a major portion of the khedive’s debts, it is your father’s duty to invite almost everyone with whom he is acquainted,” sniffed Mrs. Shaw. “Besides, a good number of invitations are for your friends and people Hayden wishes to impress.”
“Mother, I promise you, if you permit me this half hour until dinner, I will produce beautiful copperplate from the moment we finish eating until my hand falls off—or until you grant this prisoner a pardon.”
“Such flippancy is hardly necessary—”
“All right, until we have finished,” corrected the young woman with a winsome smile. “Just let me enjoy the air. Even if it isn’t cool, looking at the water makes me feel better. See, there’s even a falucca on the river. I don’t recognize it, but someone else is appreciating the charm of the Nile.”
Mother and daughter watched the graceful Egyptian boat gliding downriver, its occupants invisible as it barely skimmed the water, making the motion seem effortless. Used for hundreds of years, the design was timeless, and one rarely knew where the crafts were heading or from where they originated. Only one’s imagination could attempt to solve the mystery.
“Very well, but don’t make me send the servants to collect you for dinner. I expect you at the table when I sit down. With your father in Constantinople, I detest eating alone. I always feel the serving girls are waiting for me to spill something.”
“Thirty minutes, Mother, I promise,” agreed Victoria, inordinately pleased at her precious few moments of privacy, time to dream of Hayden and their upcoming life together.
Her fiancé was so much an English gentleman that it was difficult to remember that he had lived in Egypt nearly twenty of his thirty years, she mused, leaning back and closing her eyes to picture him at his desk at the consulate.
His chin was square, his features finely chiseled, so he appeared aristocratic even though he couldn’t lay claim to nobility. Indeed, Senior Consular Agent to the Vice Consul was the only title Hayden Reed owned, but if Father could really influence the prime minister, life would be sweet, indeed. Marriage and a title, what fabulous treats were in store for her in the months ahead!
First, of course, was the ceremony, then a honeymoon voyage home to England, shopping in London, walking the estate in Warwick in cool, crisp country air. Images of bliss cascaded through Victoria’s mind, the blessed promise of tomorrow making her oblivious to the heat of the evening until unwelcome noises called her back to the river.
The sudden sound of feet landing heavily on the quay and subsequent running awakened Victoria from her daydream. Rising, she was astounded to see two natives hurrying up the landing while a third man secured the falucca she had noticed earlier.
“This is private property,” she announced sternly, waving her hand at the men in dismissal. The audacity of the Egyptians was unusual; everyone in the area knew the Shaw lands were not available for public docking. It could be that the men were from upriver, but she’d send them on their way quickly enough. “There is a landing site about two miles from here.”
Still the men approached, moving even more rapidly toward her. Maybe they didn’t understand English.
“I say, be off with you now or I shall be forced to notify the authorities that you are trespassing,” she cautioned. “My fiancé is connected with the consulate and he won’t deal with this matter lightly, I warn you. Now go.”
Despite her urgent commands, for the first time in all the years Victoria had spent in Egypt, the natives did not scurry to do her bidding. Instead, they kept coming closer and closer. The distance between them was barely a few feet now, and, for a brief instant, Victoria felt panic and wondered if she should cry out for the old man working in the far gardens.
But why should she cause a fuss, argued her common sense, when they hadn’t threatened her? Maybe they were heading for the house to deliver a message for her father. They were somewhat scruffy-looking, but that didn’t mean they were intent on mischief. Perhaps they were only lost. Supremely confident of her position once more, she spoke again in an authoritative tone.
“If you have a message to deliver, one of you may take it to the house. But the others will have to wait with the boat,” she insisted, raising her arm to point to the falucca.
“You come with us,” responded the shorter man, grabbing Victoria and yanking her to his side.
“Don’t be ridiculous,” she said, laughing, wresting herself free and stepping backward, losing her hat in the process. Yet, despite her evasive tactic, Victoria found herself captured by the rock-solid arms of the second man. “I am a British citizen and Hayden Reed’s fiancée. Neither he nor my father will stand for my being treated this way.”
All at once a coarse rag was shoved in her mouth and she began to choke at the unpleasant taste. Trying to breathe in such a way so as to avoid the foul flavor of the cloth, Victoria felt herself being lifted and tossed unceremoniously over the tall Arab’s shoulder. Horrified, she worked feverishly to free herself from his grasp, kicking her small pointed shoes toward the man’s stomach with as much force as she could deliver.
Suddenly she knew success and failure simultaneously as her flailing feet evidently hit a sensitive spot. With an anguished cry, her captor dropped her on the riverbank, just yards from the moored falucca. Quickly she scrambled to her feet, but before she could pull the rag from her mouth and begin screaming for help, the smaller man had pinned her arms behind her back and was busy tying them tightly together.
Realizing that she might not be able to free herself from their company for a while, Victoria composed herself enough to notice that the shorter one had a small scar on his left cheek before she was dumped facedown into the falucca.
As the craft began to move, she knew only frustration at her unexpected predicament. To think she had protested writing invitations tonight! Any moment Grace would be sending the servants to find her, but they would be too late. Still, there was Hayden. Once he knew she had been kidnapped, he would have both Egyptian and British forces out searching for her, stopping at nothing until she was found. Of that she had no doubt.
Unwilling to consider the possibility that she, an English woman and the only child of a wealthy banker, could actually come to harm, Victoria felt little more than aggravated at the thought of the waiting invitations that would now have to wait that much longer. But then, Hayden would rescue her long before breakfast, certainly.
Lulled by the boat’s forward motion, she concentrated her thoughts on Hayden’s coming to rescue her, her blue eyes hardening at the memory of the villains’ touch. For surely death awaited them for their unpardonable crime!
Chapter Two
Though Ali had moved off quickly in pursuit of the American through the narrow winding streets of the medina, he had lost his quarry. He refused to give up, however, and began a methodical search of the Arab Quarter, a hunter stalking his prey.
Twice he had found himself tossed out into the street for daring to demand information, but the man seemed to have disappeared. Ali could think of only one place to look for him, the brothel district.
Determined to see justice done, he directed his steps to this neighborhood and set up a vigil, telling himself that if he did not catch sight of the man he sought within the hour, he would go home to Fatima.
Suddenly, a hundred yards ahead of him, the lanky foreigner appeared, turning unsteadily into Nadir’s brothel.
Ali hesitated outside in the alleyway. If Fatima ever learned that he had visited a house of pleasure, she would leave him and return to her father’s house. Still, there was the matter of the five thousand piasters he was owed, nearly a month’s income from the shop. He could not afford to forsake such a fee, regardless of Fatima’s disapproval of his methods. With any luck whatsoever, his beloved wife would never learn the details of this evening’s activities. It would be enough to go home and show her the American’s money.
Dismissing the doubts that plagued him, Ali lowered his head to his chest, intending to remain temporarily unnoticed while he surveyed the brothel. When no eruption followed the American’s entrance, Ali decided it was safe to pursue him inside.
A deep breath calmed his racing heart as he crossed the threshold into the shadowy recesses of Nadir’s front room. Looking around surreptitiously, he spied the villain already moving up the stairs to the small cubicles above.
“No, no, you cannot go up to the girls without paying,” protested an overweight Egyptian behind the table, holding up a paunchy hand as Ali started for the staircase. “It is not permitted.”
“I am not here for pleasure. I am with the American,” lied Ali, sidestepping the proprietor and beginning the upward climb. “I stand outside his door to guard his privacy while he enjoys the sweet treats you provide.”
“Oh, room six, then,” agreed Nadir, not wanting any trouble. The American had already paid for the girl’s services. “Just stay in the hall. The girls get more money with an audience.”
Room six was the last in the corridor and Ali stood quietly outside. He would give the man a few minutes to become so involved that flight would be the furthest thing from his mind.
Then it was time for a quick tap on the door, followed by a pause and another staccato tattoo.
“I bring message,” he called. “Urgent message.”
The flimsy door opened abruptly and Ali pushed his way into the shadowy room, its only light provided by a few half-burned candles. A slender, half-clothed Egyptian girl stood by the door while the bare-chested American lay sprawled on the rumpled pile of cushions on the floor, a bottle of whiskey in one hand. Taking a long swallow, he held it out as if to offer it to Ali and nodded casually.
“Here, have a snort and tell me your message. Another job waiting, I suppose, though heaven only knows how you found me.”
“It is simple, sir. You owe me five thousand piasters for the damage you did to my shop,” announced Ali solemnly. “Pay me at once and I’ll leave.”
“Oh, it’s you, you filthy dog,” Jed growled, trying to make his eyes focus. “The brass merchant from the bazaar! It seems your merchandise isn’t the only thing that’s made out of brass. Get the hell out of here!”
“What? I do not understand.”
“You interrupt my pleasure to present me with a bill?” yelled Jed, struggling to his feet to confront the Egyptian. “I was never in your shop. It was the fool polecat I tossed against the wall who did the damage.”
“Your memory fails you because of the drink. I told you he had no money,” Ali explained rationally, refusing to be intimidated. “You must pay.”
“Pay nothing,” bellowed Jed. “Woman, get out of my way. I’m going to toss this ragged shopkeeper out on his ear and then we can get back to business.”
Ali, however, was lighter on his feet and swifter than the drunken Jed and he effortlessly sidestepped the other’s lunging motion. Extending his arms to harness the American’s momentum, Ali used it to propel his opponent headfirst into the corridor, where Jed made contact with the wall and slid to the floor.
In an instant, though, the American was back on his feet, spoiling for a real fight. No one had ever knocked Jed Kincaid to the ground so that he stayed there, and no scrawny Egyptian peddler was going to succeed now. Uttering a screaming war cry, Jed lowered his head and ran at Ali, butting him in the stomach and thrusting him into the adjoining door.
The impact of two flying bodies crashed the thin panel without warning. Suddenly Ali and Jed found themselves on an already-occupied mattress, its occupants none too happy.
“What is the meaning of this intrusion?” demanded the man on the bed as his companion sought to cover herself.
“He struck me without cause,” protested Ali, moving quickly to his feet, preparing to strike back at Jed. But as fast as he regained his stance and swung, so did the American.
Unfortunately, however, while Ali’s fist swung wide and hit only air, Jed’s connected soundly with the stranger’s jaw, at the same instant Ali spied the jacket of the Egyptian police slung casually over a chair. Groaning, he turned hurriedly toward the door, hoping to escape even as their victim rose to tower over them. Muttering angrily to himself, the officer snatched up the manacles intended for another purpose and grabbed Ali’s wrists while calling his men from nearby rooms to block Jed’s escape.
“Constable, it wasn’t my fault,” the shopkeeper protested, already dreading the scene to come. “I apologize that we disturbed you, but—”
“Constable?” echoed Jed, a dull pain beginning between his eyes. Somehow he doubted the manacles were a good omen, especially when a second set appeared and clamped his own wrists together. “I can explain everything. I was simply having myself a good time next door when this wild man interrupted—much the same way he, ah, we barged in on you—”
“Enough,” the policeman snapped, donning his uniform jacket. His evening’s pleasure had already been lost, but he might as well get credit for an arrest or two, he decided, herding the prisoners toward the stairs.
Disturbing the peace, disorderly conduct, attacking a constable, and probably another charge or two to begin with, he mused gleefully until it dawned on him that the foreigner had been speaking to his Egyptian opponent in English. How could he arrest someone who was possibly a subject of the British Crown? Giving in to such folly without consulting the English authorities could put him in jeopardy of never being able to patronize Nadir’s again.
With a heartfelt sigh he adjusted his uniform and ordered the felons to be taken to the office of the consul general.
* * *
Grace Shaw had lost count of the number of circuits she had made of Cameron’s study, pacing to and fro, but feeling somehow closer to her husband in this room though he was miles away. She had endured dinner alone when Victoria hadn’t returned, stubbornly refusing to send the servants after her errant daughter. But when darkness fell, the worried mother capitulated and dispatched the household in search of her. Yet Victoria was nowhere on the grounds and Grace was very frightened.
What would Cameron do? she wondered as the clock struck midnight. If she worried Hayden and it turned out Victoria had merely slipped away to visit a friend in order to avoid addressing those blasted invitations, the Englishman would think ill of his fiancée. Still, if she didn’t tell him and Victoria was in trouble, he would think her a fool or worse.
It was more than four hours since she had left Victoria on the riverbank, where the old gardener had found her hat. But the girl was impulsive. Many was the time Grace had seen her toss her bonnet aside because she found it bothersome in one activity or another.
If only Cameron were here, fluttered the anxious mother. He would know how to avoid scandal, and the longer Victoria was gone, alone and unchaperoned, the more likely it appeared that would be necessary. Perhaps if she sent a note to Hayden, deploring the hour and asking him to escort Victoria home? That was it. She would dispatch a message as if nothing were wrong and the girl had planned to visit him tonight. If Hayden sent word that he hadn’t seen Victoria, then Grace would have garnered his assistance without directly asking for help.
Relieved at having made a decision, she sat at her husband’s desk to compose the note, only to be interrupted by the houseman.
“This was just delivered, Mrs. Shaw. The boy said it was urgent or I would have left it until morning,” he explained, handing over a heavy envelope sealed with wax that bore no imprint.
“Thank you, Ahmet. I shall need you to take a message to Mr. Reed for me shortly. I will ring when it is ready.” Her hand shook only slightly as she slit the packet, her unacknowledged fear finally taking hold. Victoria was missing, a young white woman in uncivilized Egypt. What else could this be but a monetary demand to guarantee her safety?
With icy fingers, she turned the envelope upside down, spilling out a crudely drawn map, a page of irregular print and the brooch Victoria had worn that evening. Her fears were confirmed.
Scanning the poorly spelled missive, Grace Shaw expelled a slow breath and, leaning back in Cameron’s chair, uttered a prayer.
“Oh, Lord, I don’t often ask favors of you, but please take care of my dear girl. I vow I’ll get the money these devils lust after, but let them be satisfied with that,” murmured Grace. “Surely if I do as they say, they won’t harm her. Hayden will know how to handle them. He’s good at problems and he cares for Victoria. I know he’ll see the ransom paid if I give him the money. And then Victoria will be home safe and sound.”
But after she had been abducted would Hayden Reed still wish to claim Victoria for his bride? With a strenuous effort, Grace concentrated on the matter at hand. There would be time enough to worry about that later; until then, emotionless efficiency must be her goal. First the message to John Thomas, Cameron’s assistant at the bank, asking him to discreetly release the funds to Hayden. Then the letter to Hayden himself.
* * *
Hayden Reed, consular agent, finished buttoning his trousers and passed the back of his hand across his sleep-laden eyes. Struggling to attach his shirt’s stiff collar, he wondered what emergency it was that would call him from his bed at two o’clock in the morning. He hoped that whatever it was, it had nothing to do with him and his work. Yet no matter the situation, the tall, slim Englishman vowed he would handle it. With unperturbed movements that belied his nervousness, he applied pomade to his hair, and a few swift strokes of his silver-backed brush soon had every golden strand impeccably in place.
He rinsed his hands and wiped them fastidiously, then checked his appearance in the mirror. Should the matter now demanding his attention call for the appraisal of his immediate supervisor, Hayden wanted to look every inch the proper British government servant. And if it was, indeed, his superior who had summoned him for questioning, a flawless appearance would not be amiss.
Easing into his expensively tailored suit jacket, and gently tugging the end of each sleeve so that not too much shirt cuff was exposed, he opened the door between his temporary bachelor rooms and the long hallway that led to the government offices at the other end of the building.
His inordinately fine leather shoes softly tapped out his progress as he trod along the corridor, happy that marrying Victoria Shaw meant he could leave his rather Spartan quarters behind and move into a house in a fashionable area of Cairo. A private residence would be so much more useful to a man in his line of work, and he looked forward to taking possession of it two days hence, a full three months before his wedding day.
When he reached the door that led to the office, Hayden straightened his tie and shoulders before making his entrance, his left eyebrow cocked to a suitably inquisitive yet critical degree.
Prepared for just about any crisis, the tall, wiry Englishman had never expected a sight the likes of which greeted him. It caused him to breathe easier. There standing on the costly, intricately handwoven carpet before his desk were two of the most bedraggled human beings Hayden had ever seen in the company of a common Egyptian constable, who appeared to be tempering his own irritation toward the pair with obsequious apologies for disturbing him at such an odd hour.
The unlikely duo was a study in contrasts. One was Egyptian, of obvious Bedouin stock, yet his demeanor and clothing, shredded though it was, proclaimed him to be a man of business rather than a nomad. But it was the other man who commanded Hayden’s attention. A Caucasian, the fellow was nonetheless one of the scruffiest-looking specimens Hayden had encountered in quite some time. Dressed in the sort of well-worn kit one might don on an archaeological dig, the man sported a heavy brown stubble of beard and, judging from his arrogant grin, an attitude that struck Hayden as even more prickly.
“What’s all this, then?” Hayden asked condescendingly. The question had been directed to the police official, the two men apparently in custody being, of course, beneath his notice.
“Most honored sir,” the constable began, “a small problem has arisen.”
“If it is so trifling, why bother me with it?” Hayden inquired, not troubling to offer the policeman a seat. This was merely a civil matter and not his own actions being called to task.
“Please hear me out. You are aware, of course, that the Egyptian constabulary is autonomous,” the officer began, his spine straightening and his chest puffing out with importance. “It is only as a favor to you that I bring these two men here, and certainly not because we are subordinate to Britain.”
“Yes, yes, get on with it,” Hayden brusquely commanded with a wave of his hand, knowing as well as the uniformed Egyptian that the police force was independent in name only.
“My presence tonight concerns these two,” the policeman stated with a nod, his tones made more deferential by Hayden’s obvious impatience.
Hayden studied the pair in question, noting the apprehension in the Bedouin’s eyes and the casual nonchalance of the other man. The one was obviously contrite about his part in whatever had occurred, while his companion appeared to be merely amused, a sentiment Hayden did not share as he thought of his comfortable bed at the opposite end of the corridor and the upset he had felt when he had been awakened.
“These criminals were involved in a most dreadful altercation, mudir. But since I suspected that fellow there might be a countryman of yours,” the constable said as he gestured toward Jed Kincaid, “and despite the fact reports show this is the third fight the fellow has been involved in today, I thought it best to learn your wishes in the matter before I placed him and his opponent in jail.”
“I tried to tell him I’m an American and not English,” came a casual drawl from across the room, forcing Hayden’s attention.
“Your nationality is quite evident,” the British official replied in clipped tones. The man, with his sun-burnished skin and raw strength, was all too primitive for Hayden’s taste. There was very little that was civilized about him, from his clothing to his manner. Dismissing him, Hayden pointedly turned to the portly constable once more. “As far as I am concerned, you can throw them both in jail for as long as you wish.”
“No, most respected sir,” the Egyptian in custody protested, his concern for Fatima overcoming his natural cautiousness in dealing with British officials. “I am not to blame. I was merely trying to recover money from this villain for the damages he did to my humble shop during one of his rampages. I asked him for payment, and that is when he set upon and attacked me.”
“And with good reason,” Jed growled, remembering the dark eyes and soft femininity of the woman employed at Nadir’s establishment.
“There was nothing to excuse your assaulting me,” interrupted the constable, his pride as bruised as his jaw.
“I wouldn’t have had a chance to hit you if you hadn’t been in that brothel,” Jed replied, his low, husky voice ripe with insinuation.
“I—I was merely con-conducting an investigation,” sputtered the squat, little police official.
“Yeah? Maybe you should ask him just what it was he was investigating,” Jed muttered skeptically to Hayden Reed.
“Never mind that! Let’s get back to the original issue. Why did you attack this Egyptian?” snapped Hayden with a nod in Ali’s direction.
“He asked for it. Besides, he deserved a good pounding for retreating into his shop when those other three jumped me. Is that what the shopkeepers in the medina do when an innocent man is beset by cutthroats?”
“I am nothing if not a law-abiding citizen. I do not become involved in common street brawls,” objected Ali. Never, in all his years in Cairo, had he called himself to the attention of the police or the English authorities.
“All that effort to recover a few piasters for some cheap tin and copper? I doubt that. It could be that you’re associated with the men who tried to rob and kill me. Maybe it was your job to see that I didn’t get away,” bluffed Jed coolly. He’d be damned if he was going to spend a night behind bars while the fellow who had interrupted his pleasure went free.
“My only quarrel with you was to recover the price of the goods you had ruined. By Allah, I swear it,” Ali maintained, casting a nervous glance in Hayden’s direction. One never knew what these foreigners would believe.
“This doesn’t concern me,” Hayden stated with the exasperation of one of the upper class forced to deal with inferiors. “Though I thank you, Constable, for your intention of allowing me to help decide the fate of one of my countrymen, what you do with these two is your concern. For all I care, you can lock them up and lose the key.”
“Whoa, one minute, Mr. Hayden Reed!” Jed shouted over Ali’s moan of despair. “I happen to know Great Britain runs the show here, and if you think you can turn your back on this Yank and wash your hands of me, you people are going to have another damn revolution on your hands!”
When Hayden replied, his ice blue eyes had turned frostier. “Is that a threat, Mr....?”
“Kincaid. Jed Kincaid.” He’d dealt with men like this before, Jed thought, long-suppressed images of his stepfather coming to mind after so many years. And he’d see himself in hell before he surrendered to propriety and played by this stuffy Englishman’s absurd rules. “And it’s no threat, Reed. It’s a reality.”
“See here, you colonial clod, your blustering has no effect on me,” Hayden retorted with disdain, half wishing that he had grounds to order this upstart American’s execution. Looking at the restless energy of the man before him, he doubted many jail cells had been built that could contain this powerful thug for very long. To imprison him and then have him escape would only feed the American’s already considerable ego as well as give the consul general cause to reassess his junior aide’s performance. The possibility made Hayden decide he should settle this matter—thoroughly frighten the man and then extract a promise from the bloody bounder to leave Cairo immediately and not return. As for the merchant, he would lecture him, as well. It wouldn’t do to have the natives think they could do whatever they pleased.
“I will tend to this problem,” Hayden began, waving the policeman out the door. Then he turned to Jed Kincaid. “Someone has to teach you proper respect for authority.”
“Many a man has tried,” Jed retorted, a dangerous glint lighting his emerald eyes, “and not one of them has succeeded.”
“Obviously,” Hayden replied dryly. “But now it is my turn.”
Concerned with their confrontation, both the American and Briton had forgotten Ali, standing quietly in the corner, viewing the escalating tension with growing anxiety. Hayden was determined to bend Jed Kincaid’s will to his own, and the American was just as resolved not to comply. As the two proud males squared off against each other, Ali feared that no matter who won, he would ultimately emerge as the loser.
But before either man could take any action, the door to the office burst open and one of the fellaheen entered quickly, carrying a message for the person in charge at the moment.
“Put it on the desk and then get out,” Hayden Reed ordered brusquely, not sparing the native Cairene a glance.
“But, mudir, it is most important!” the fellow protested vehemently. “This is from Mrs. Shaw.”
“There’s nothing so important that Mrs. Shaw would feel compelled to send me a missive at this time of night,” Hayden replied, the servant’s insistence filling him with uneasiness all the same. Then a possibility emerged, ladening him with dread. Could Cameron Shaw have died, gone to his Maker before he could use his influence to procure a title for his future son-in-law? Reed paled at the thought, forgot the disturbers of the peace and whirled around to confront the Shaws’ employee. “Nothing has happened to Mr. Shaw, has it?” he demanded anxiously, “or to Miss Victoria?”
“It is the young miss, to be sure,” the servant replied while Hayden tore open the seal and scanned the letter addressed to him.
Its contents all but undid the consular agent’s practiced reserve, and he sank into his seat, an upset and bitter man. Life’s greatest treasure had been stolen from him. Yes, of course he was worried about Victoria, she was everything he could want in a wife, and he had grown fond of her. But along with his fiancée, it was his own rise to power and social position that had, it would seem, been abducted. He slumped down further into his seat. Wondering if it was Victoria’s link to him and his own profession that had precipitated so tragic an event, he threw Grace Shaw’s letter onto the desk and rested his throbbing head in his hands.
Sensing that he and Ali had been forgotten, and curious as to what could visibly move a man of Reed’s reserve, Jed drew closer to the desk to read the decidedly feminine scrawl on the proper, watermarked stationery. The first few lines caused his lips to curl in a grim smile. It would seem Hayden Reed was in for a long night.
“Is this Victoria anything special to you?” Jed asked the benumbed British official.
“Miss Shaw is my fiancée, and I will thank you to refrain from mentioning her name. It should not be uttered by a man of your ilk,” Reed snapped before turning back to the servant. “Five thousand pounds! I can’t possibly raise such a sum in time.”
“The money is no problem, mudir. The mistress has sent someone to Mr. Shaw’s bank to fetch it.”
“But even given that, do you think we can get it to the oasis south of Wadi Halfa in five days’ time?” fretted Hayden.
“Wait a minute!” interrupted Kincaid. “I can’t be hearing right. You aren’t planning on paying the ransom for this girl’s return, are you?”
“What we do is none of your affair, Kincaid,” growled Reed.
“But why don’t you just ride out and get your woman back?” a truly puzzled Jed asked.
“Don’t be ridiculous, man! Difficult as it might be for you to comprehend, I can’t even begin to consider such a tactic,” Hayden protested. “The bastards are taking her to a wadi in the Sudan outside the realm of British authority. If I took it upon myself to send troops out after her, I could set off an incident that might cost thousands of innocent people their lives.”
“Oh, I can understand that part, all right, Reed,” Jed said, a taunting smile playing around his mouth. “What I can’t understand is why you don’t go after her yourself. If it was my fiancée, no one would be able to keep me here. It makes a man question your devotion to the lady.”
“I’m an official of the British government! I can’t be caught doing anything of the sort.” Perspiration was beading on Hayden’s brow. “It might very well involve my country in an intolerable situation that would only result in international confrontation. As for devotion, how dare you speak to me of my feelings for Miss Shaw? What does an uncivilized clod like you know about real love? After all, the constable did find you in a brothel!”
“I might not be on a first-name basis with true love, I’ll grant you,” Jed said with a chuckle, “but before this idiot interrupted me the lady I was with was loving every minute of it.”
“Uncouth lout! This is not the time for such crude bragging.”
“But, sir, what could you expect of a man like this?” Ali ventured to say. He had no wish for Kincaid’s reference to the circumstances of their arrest to remind Hayden Reed that he still had two lawbreakers with whom he must deal. Now more than ever, Ali Sharouk wanted to disassociate himself from the troublesome Jed Kincaid. And so, he went on to say more. “Unfortunately, I have become acquainted with his temper. However, he and I are quite different. He is a drifter, whereas I am a family man, a businessman of good standing in this city. My people have lived here for generations, and recently I have been fortunate enough to wed the daughter of a rich man who has no sons. I have ties to this community, while this ruffian has none. I care about the consequences of any action against the Sudan, though he does not. Do not listen to his goading. You can send a messenger and expect him to arrive at the oasis within the appointed time, if he makes use of the Nile.”
“Lord knows where I’ll find a reliable, experienced man,” Reed reflected aloud as his long fingers tapped out a perfect rhythm on the polished surface of his desk.
“Look, if you insist on going through with this ransom business, and I hope you realize that payment is no guarantee you’ll ever see Victoria Shaw alive again, I can offer a simple solution,” Jed said, recognizing the fact that trouble had found him once again, though he was willing to concede he had gone halfway to meet it. “I’ll take the money there for you.”
“You!” Hayden snorted in surprise. “You can’t go anywhere. You’re under arrest.”
“Then release me,” Jed persisted. Though he didn’t know her, he wouldn’t feel right walking away and leaving the woman’s safe return in the incompetent hands of Hayden Reed. If nothing else, Abigail Kincaid Bradshaw had raised her boys always to help a lady in distress, and it sounded as if the Shaw woman needed all the aid she could get.
“If you do let me go,” he continued, “I’ll track down the men who stole Vicky and get her back for you.”
“It’s Miss Shaw to you. And I would never allow such a thing as you are proposing to occur. You would only make a muck of it. Miss Shaw would be killed before you ever came near her abductors.”
“Really? Maybe you don’t realize you’re talking to the man who recovered Sheik Abdul Nabar’s stolen amulet, the symbol of his sovereignty over his people. Tell me, who else could have done such a thing and returned to tell about it?”
“You? You’re the one who went after the amulet and helped avert a tribal war among the Bedouins?” Hayden asked, cocking his head to one side and studying Jed Kincaid anew.
“One and the same,” Jed asserted to Ali’s dismay. Stories of the amulet’s savior had circulated through the bazaar, celebrating the man’s ruthless cunning. The idea that he had unknowingly tangled with him did not sit well with the tall Egyptian.
“You almost make your harebrained plot sound workable,” Hayden stated wistfully, his hopes for the future once more taking flight. “Still, I’m not willing to put Miss Shaw’s fate in your hands.”
“But you can’t sit by and do nothing,” Jed said with derision. “You’ve said you can’t undertake your fiancée’s rescue, and neither can anyone else in your department without putting Vicky’s life at stake or chancing this international incident. Me, I’m an American. If something happens, you can write me off as lost.”
“You and the five thousand pounds,” muttered Ali.
“What! Are you casting doubts on my honor?” a hotheaded Jed shouted, ready to begin a fight with the Egyptian all over again.
“Stop it! The two of you!” commanded Hayden Reed, coming to stand between the two men, the Egyptian’s words echoing in his head. “You had better start being civil to each other, because you’re going with Kincaid to the wadi.”
“By Allah, no!” the Egyptian objected vigorously.
“Like hell he is,” Jed growled simultaneously.
“There’s no question about it,” Hayden replied.
“But we hate each other,” Jed grumbled.
“We would kill each other,” Ali added hopefully.
“There will be no discussion on the matter,” Hayden Reed reiterated. “You may have the ability to get the job done, Kincaid, but I am not such a fool as to trust a man of your caliber with five thousand pounds, when Miss Shaw’s life depends on every shilling of the sum involved. As for you, your claim of indissolvable ties to the Cairo community and your family assures me that you will not run off with the ransom. You are going to see that Kincaid does as instructed. And that means merely delivering the money, with no dabbling in heroics.”
“And what makes you think I’ll allow Ali to go along?” Jed asked, his voice as bellicose as his tightly drawn features.
Darmowy fragment się skończył.
