Beguiled by Her Betrayer
Her father, dressed in an abeyah tied with a sash, his nightcap still incongruously perched on his head, wandered out of the tent with a book in his hand. ‘Where’s my shaving water?’
‘Mr Bredon is bathing and shaving, Father. I have put on more water to warm for you.’
‘Humph.’ He sat down and reached for a date without taking his eyes from the book. ‘This man is an idiot.’
‘Who, Father?’ The question was automatic. He could reply King George or the Great Chan of China for all she cared, but Cleo had an instinct that, if she stopped responding to every remark, her father would simply cease to communicate altogether. It had been a relief, she realised, to have Quin there to talk to him last night.
‘James Bruce. He let himself be ordered around by his guides, listened to fairy stories and was frightened away by rumours of bandits. This is all nonsense.’ He jabbed a finger at a densely written page of text.
‘But he was writing over forty years ago, Father,’ Cleo said reasonably. ‘And there are bandits, as Mr Bredon discovered to his cost.’
‘What have I discovered to my cost?’ Quin strolled round the corner, his hair on end from a vigorous towelling, his face shaved clean of the dark week-old beard. His jaw line was as sharp and firm as she had thought it would be.
Cleo tried to read his face. There had been an edge to that question she did not understand. ‘That there really are bandits out there,’ she replied and saw an infinitesimal relaxation around his mouth. ‘How is your arm?’
‘I took the dressing off. It seems to be healing.’
She put down the honey jar and followed him into the tent. ‘Let me look at it. It will need redressing, you cannot take any risks with wounds in this climate.’
He had made his bed. Army-neat, she thought, recalling Thierry’s habits of order, as Quin rolled up the loose sleeve of his galabeeyah to the shoulder.
‘It will not be a tidy scar,’ Cleo observed, more to distract herself as she wrapped a fresh strip of cotton over the wound than to make conversation. It was healing well, she saw.
‘That amuses you?’ Bredon asked and she realised she must have smiled.
‘That you will be scarred? No. But it was an unpleasant task, cleaning that, and I have no liking for causing pain, so I am glad it is healing.’ She secured the knot and began to roll down his sleeve again. ‘I could wish I had made a neater job of it. It is not as though you have a soldier’s collection of scars already.’ And that is what happens when you let your tongue run away with you. He knows you are thinking about his naked body. You know he knows. She took refuge in setting her medicine box in order.
‘I compare badly to your warrior husband, no doubt.’ He picked up the cotton strip and worked it deftly into a turban.
‘Are you fishing for compliments, Mr Bredon?’ Cleo said over her shoulder as she picked up the box and ducked under the flap. ‘There is nothing amiss with your physique, as you are perfectly well aware, and it gives me no pleasure to see the damage one fool man can inflict on another.’
She bundled her father’s letters together and tied them securely into a neat package almost as large as one of the local mud bricks. She dropped it into one of the panniers, added two large goatskins of water, her sharpest kitchen knife, a money pouch and a small sickle for cutting greens. When she bent to lift the two baskets on to the donkey’s saddle Quin Bredon slipped in front of her, hefted them into place one-handed and tightened the straps.
‘Are you certain you do not wish to ride?’ she asked him. ‘It is three miles at least in each direction and we can attach the various objects some other way.’
Quin looked down at the long skirts of his galabeeyah. ‘Side saddle?’ he enquired. ‘Or do I hitch up my petticoats and expose my hairy legs to the alarm of the populace?’
‘I could find you a spare pair of my father’s breeches,’ Cleo offered and bit the inside of her cheek to stop herself laughing. There was something not quite right about Mr Bredon, something that made her uneasy, and she was not going to allow him to charm her into letting her guard down. It would be interesting to see what Capitaine Laurent made of him.
‘I think not. The poor beast is so small that my feet would trail along the ground.’
Cleo shrugged one shoulder and started walking. It was up to him and he would look considerably less dignified if he had to return stuffed in a pannier. ‘We are going now, Father,’ she called as she passed the shaded writing area. He grunted and waved his hand without looking up. ‘There is food under a cloth near the water jars. Please don’t let the fire go out.’ There, that was as much as she could hope he’d take notice of.
‘You do not have to dawdle on my behalf,’ Quin said.
‘Hmm? No, I wasn’t.’ She took a firmer hold on the leading rein and lengthened her stride. ‘We will take the path along the water’s edge, it is easier going than through the sand and there is some shade.’
‘Your father has a wide circle of correspondents, he must be greatly respected,’ Quin said after five minutes of silent walking.
‘His interests are wide-ranging, Mr Bredon. It stimulates him to exchange views with scholars from many countries.’
‘Quin,’ he said. ‘It seems ridiculous to observe drawing-room manners in the middle of the desert.’ Cleo opened her mouth to demur, but he kept talking. ‘And he writes to scholars from both sides in the present conflict and neutral countries, too. I’m amazed that the French authorities are so complacent about assisting him.’
It had puzzled Cleo, too, but she was not going to admit it. ‘They are intent on assisting all of les savants. They appear to consider my father as one of their own. After all, he had a French son-in-law.’
‘Positively Romeo and Juliet,’ Quin observed. She glanced at him sharply, but he was studying the temple now they were close. ‘And this is currently the subject of your father’s study?’
‘He copies the inscriptions and measures it.’ Father measured everything obsessively, as though the figures could unlock some key to the mysteries of the past.
‘And that is helpful?’ Quin stopped and studied the great golden columns rising from the piled sand.
‘Apparently. I like to look at the wonderful pictures on the walls—you can just see the top of some of them if you climb right up. The soldiers have carved their names along the topmost frieze. I wish they would not.’ She shivered. These things had stood here for millennia, so some scholars said.
‘Sacrilege,’ Quin murmured and touched her arm. ‘I think you have a greater sympathy for these monuments than your father has, for all his scholarship.’
‘For the people that created them, perhaps.’ She made no move to shake off his hand. Men and women had stood and looked at these buildings since time immemorial, perhaps touching as she and Quin were, supporting each other, perhaps in fear, perhaps in awe. It seemed a small miracle that she had found someone who understood that.
The donkey moved, tugging the rein and with it, her arm. The moment was gone into the hot air, just like every moment evaporating in the heat and dust of this place.
‘Come, we need to get to the camp before the sun gets too high.’ She began to walk without looking back, listening to the familiar soft footfall of the little donkey and the faint slap of the leather sandals worn by the man who walked with her. It had been a long time since anyone had kept her company. It was strange that it should make her feel lonelier than ever.
Chapter Four
‘Do you want to stop and rest?’ Cleo glanced back at Quin. ‘There is shade just ahead and another mile to go.’
To her surprise, he nodded. ‘Yes, that would be welcome.’ Then, when she continued to stare he added, ‘What is it?’
‘Nothing. Nothing beyond the fact that an adult male is prepared to admit to a woman that he would like to rest.’
‘You think I am betraying weakness?’
‘No, I think you are showing common sense,’ she retorted and led the donkey down to the river’s edge. ‘There is a fallen column from some monument in the shade of those palms. A good place to rest.’ She leaned on the donkey’s rump while it drank and watched Quin covertly as he sat. His pace had not flagged, although he was pale under his eyes and around his mouth. Considering that he had been prostrate with heat-stroke, and was still carrying a wound that had been seriously infected, it would seem that Quin Bredon was both fit and hardy.
‘Men do sometimes demonstrate common sense,’ he said mildly when she rejoined him. ‘Thank you,’ he added as he took the proffered water skin and tipped it expertly so the water arced into his mouth without the neck touching his lips. ‘How long does it take to get used to the taste of goat-flavoured water?’
‘You never do.’ She drank and pushed the stopper into the flask. There were boys herding cattle on the opposite bank and a flock of egrets flew upstream, their white plumage brilliant in the sunlight. A large pied kingfisher landed on a branch nearby and squawked loudly, claiming its stretch of riverbank before diving into the brown water and emerging with a fish. A few hundred yards beyond the ribbon of green on the opposite bank the sand dunes formed a glittering golden ridge.
‘This is very beautiful. Timeless. One half-expects to see the pharaoh’s daughter find Moses in the bulrushes or for a great barge to float downstream with banners flying and trumpets sounding,’ Quin said. He leaned back on a palm trunk, eyes slitted against the sun dazzle on the water.
‘It has always been beautiful. And hot, dry, poor and dangerous,’ Cleo said. Egypt was somewhere to be endured, battled, overcome. It was a place where men fought to extract something, as miners struggled beneath the earth in heat and danger. Only here there was an ancient civilisation, not diamonds, political advantage, not coal. ‘You relax and enjoy it and it will kill you.’ She pointed to a small snake slithering into cover.
‘I hope your army friends will have more information about the movements of the Mamelukes,’ Quin said. ‘I have no wish to encounter Murad Bey. He is rather more lethal than that snake, I think.’
Cleo shivered. Thierry had spoken about the Mamelukes, their bravery and savagery, and his hand had tightened on his sword hilt as if to still a tremor of fear. She had no wish to encounter them either. ‘What will you do?’
‘I am hoping the soldiers will have been recalled towards Cairo. I imagine they will go by river, will they not? It seems perverse to march in this heat.’ Quin stood and stretched, six feet of lean muscle unselfconsciously displayed.
‘I cannot imagine how I would persuade Father to go.’ She got to her feet and made rather a business of straightening the panniers. ‘He is very stubborn.’
‘Nothing a sharp blow to the head would not cure,’ Quin said. He took the leading rein and walked off down the path leaving her blinking at his retreating back.
Did he mean that? How wonderful if he did. She was certain he would accomplish it very neatly, with no more damage to Father than a sore head when he awoke. No, it had to be a joke. Respectable engineers did not go around hitting scholars over the head and loading them on to river boats. She took a grip on her imaginings and ran to catch Quin up.
* * *
The camp was small and orderly in the bleak, soulless way of soldiers without women. Capitaine Laurent was sitting on a folding chair outside his tent, his two lieutenants standing listening to him. When he saw them approaching he stood up, watching the stranger from under heavy black brows.
‘Madam.’ He sketched a bow and the other two men did likewise. ‘Qui est-ce?’
‘Quintus Bredon, American engineer, Captain,’ Quin responded in French before Cleo could speak. ‘I have been rescued by Madame Valsac and her father. Bedouin raiders took my camels.’ He pushed back his sleeve as he spoke, revealing the edge of the bandage.
‘American?’ Laurent still made no gesture of hospitality.
‘The United States is the ally of France, is she not?’ Quin said easily. But he could see that Laurent’s stance was alert, subtly more aggressive. The two men were facing up to each other like dogs meeting on the edge of their territories, not convinced yet that a fight was required, but quite willing to scrap if necessary.
‘Oui. But what are you doing here?’
‘Indulging my curiosity. I was in the Balkans, I heard about your emperor’s savants and I decided to see for myself. There is a brotherhood amongst scientists, I find. I had hoped to reach the Cataracts—an intriguing problem in navigation—but I hear that would be suicide now.’
‘Ha!’ Laurent gestured to one of the soldiers and the man ran forward with two more folding chairs. ‘Sit, have coffee. Murad Bey is on his way north with a force of fifteen thousand, the latest intelligence confirms it.’
‘And you have what...fifty men?’ Quin glanced around the encampment. ‘I imagine your orders do not involve suicide either.’
‘Correct. We will strike camp and load up the barges.’ He gestured towards the river bank and the moored vessels. ‘I was about to send to your father, madam, to tell him to prepare to move by dawn tomorrow. We have room for the two...the three...of you and one small piece of baggage each.’
‘But my father’s books, his papers...’
‘His life?’ the captain enquired, one brow lifted. ‘Yours?’
‘It seems I may have to take you up on your offer to knock Father out after all, Mr Bredon.’ Escape, at last. A way to get across those hundreds of miles to the coast and there... And there, what? she asked herself. She was a woman with no money of her own and no protection once she left her father’s side in this dangerous country. But if she could get to France or England, surely she could find work of some kind?
Quin sat back in the chair, his relaxed stance steadying her circling, futile thoughts. ‘We might not have to resort to anything so drastic,’ he observed. ‘Would he come if he could take everything with him? He is not so blinded by his work as to think he could sit making notes on Egyptian antiquities whilst the most dangerous fighting force in Egypt sweeps over your camp, surely?’
‘No, I hope even Father would bow to the inevitable under those circumstances. The problem is to prevent the days of argument beforehand while we convince him the danger is real.’
‘The village we passed on our way here had several feluccas moored. We could buy or hire two—surely that would be enough room for the three of us and all your possessions.’
‘But I cannot sail and Father...’
‘I can sail a small boat. The rig is different, but the principles are the same. Besides, we can hire some men.’
Laurent was watching them intently, his head moving from side to side, eyes narrowed in calculation. ‘How will you pay for this, monsieur? I have no funds to buy boats for civilians.’
And that was all too true, Cleo knew. The emperor had left his troops short of everything from coin to boots, while promising to send them a shipload of clowns and entertainers from Paris to keep up morale. Thierry had once bitterly observed that he would be quite prepared to eat a comedian, provided he was roasted well enough.
‘I have money,’ Quin said and stood, his hand held out to help her to her feet. Quite how he managed to stand there, clad in a galabeeyah like any local peasant, and look as though he was in a drawing room, Cleo had no idea. Not that she had ever been in a drawing room in her life. ‘Capitaine, we will join you here tomorrow before noon.’
Laurent looked as though he was searching for reasons to argue and could find none. ‘Your father’s correspondence, madam?’
‘No need to trouble you with that, I am sure you have a great deal to do, without having extra paperwork cluttering things up,’ Quin said before Cleo could respond. ‘He will be able to deal with it himself when we arrive in Cairo and probably he will want to add to it as we sail down river.’
Cleo opened her mouth to argue, then closed it again. What Quin said was perfectly true, her only objection was with his casual assumption of complete control.
‘Shall we go, madame? The sooner we reach the village and open negotiations, the better.’
‘One moment, Monsieur Bredon. I wish to have a word with the capitaine.’ She held his gaze. ‘In private.’
‘But of course.’ He bowed to the officers and strolled off to where the donkey was grazing.
‘He is insolent, this American, but then I hear they all are,’ one of the lieutenants observed as the junior officers walked away to leave her alone with the captain.
‘What do you know of him?’ Laurent demanded, as she knew he would. She had no answers for him, but she wanted to discover what he thought of Quin.
‘Nothing.’ Cleo shrugged. ‘He had an infected wound and was burning up with heat-stroke. He carried money, but nothing else. I have no reason to suspect he is anything but what he says.’
‘But it is strange to find an American here.’
‘The frontiers are easy enough to penetrate for a single traveller, are they not? Many people beside the emperor are intrigued by Egypt.’
‘The English certainly are,’ Laurent remarked, his eyes on Quin’s elegant back as he leaned one hip against the panniers and waited, apparently incurious about their conversation or the camp around him. His head was bowed and Cleo wondered fleetingly if he was very tired. ‘And not for the antiquities either.’
‘You think he might be a spy?’ That had not occurred to her before, but then it would be madness to send an agent deep into the desert when there could be nothing of interest to the British here. ‘He is not a soldier, I saw his body when I nursed him, he has no scars beyond old ones that must belong to his boyhood.’ She shrugged and answered her own question. ‘But what would a spy be doing here? In Cairo or Alexandria, I could understand it. No, he must be what he says.’
She was never quite easy with Laurent, who had been her husband’s friend. Sometimes she wondered if she could ask him why Thierry had married her. Her father’s enthusiasm for allying his daughter with an officer in the army of his country’s enemy she understood quite clearly—it protected their position. But why had Thierry courted her with every appearance of passionate attachment and then proved such a distant and uncaring husband?
In the low times, in the hour before dawn when she lay restless and aching with unhappiness, she wondered if the mess her marriage had become was her fault or... Or what? He knew who he was marrying. Anyone would think he was a fortune hunter, but I have no fortune.
‘Madam?’
‘I am sorry.’ He must have been talking to her and she had been far away in her head. ‘I must go and see if we can secure those boats. If not, we will be here tomorrow with our bare necessities.’
‘Of course. You are certain you do not wish to give me your father’s correspondence?’
‘Perfectly, thank you.’ Surely he had more pressing matters to concern himself about just at the moment? ‘Au’voir, Capitaine Laurent.’
* * *
Quin pushed the twine back into place and dropped the package of letters into the pannier as he heard the tone of Cleo’s voice change into an unmistakable au’voir. If he had no further opportunity to get his hands on them, at least he had memorised the names of the eight men addressed, including the Englishman, a Professor Smith of Portsmouth. Was it coincidence that the professor happened to live in the country’s foremost naval town?
‘And pigs might fly,’ Quin muttered to himself.
‘Are you well?’ Cleo asked, right behind him.
‘Well enough and better for the prospect of heading north.’
She nodded agreement as she took the leading rein and started down the path towards the village with the boats. ‘It will be a relief to be back in civilisation.’
Then you are going to be sorely disappointed, Quin thought, fanning away the flies with a leafy twig. We are heading into a plague-ridden battlefield and the best you can hope for is that your father is exposed as a gullible idiot. At worst, perhaps that crocodile might be the kindest option after all.
Men were lounging around the ramshackle jetty where the boats were moored, but Quin made for the largest house. ‘This will be the village sheikh, I imagine. Are you going to sit meekly outside with the donkey while I negotiate?’
He expected an argument, but Cleo simply slipped the tail of her headscarf across her lower face and went to sit under the shade of the wall. ‘I know my place,’ she said. It was said without inflection or complaint, but there was something in the way she spoke that made Quin look back. ‘Yes?’ She raised one brow. ‘I assume your Arabic is up to it, or do you need help?’
‘No, thank you.’ But you do, Quin thought as he tapped on the door, clearing his mind of French and English. ‘Salaam alaikum,’ he said to the elderly man who opened it and ducked through the opening as the sheikh gestured him inside.
* * *
Quin knew that bargaining required patience and persistence—he’d had plenty of practice when buying his camels—but the negotiations took more than two hours. No, they could not sell the boats. Yes, possibly they could be hired and the men to crew them. For how much? The effendi wished to beggar them, like the Feranzawi from the soldiers’ camp who came to buy food?
Patiently Quin pointed out that if the boats and their crew were absent from the village when Murad Bey and his men came through they would be safe. If they hired them to him, they would be out of reach and earning at the same time.
By this time they had moved to the waterside and there was much murmuring and gesticulating at this suggestion. A price was named. Quin reeled back in exaggerated horror. He prodded a battered gunwale, curled his lip at the state of the ropes and named another figure.
When finally they had come to an agreement and he had drunk bitter coffee and handed over half the price, Cleo was still sitting in the same place, motionless. When he turned from the waterside in a flurry of jokes and waving hands from his new acquaintances she rose smoothly to her feet and followed him in silence until they were out of sight.
‘Will it take long to break camp?’ he asked when it seemed she was not going to say anything.
‘No. Not with you to help.’ Her voice was muffled behind the veiling cotton.
‘What is wrong, Cleo?’ Quin stopped and turned. ‘Don’t you want to leave?’ This mission might be, quite literally, a pain, but at least he’d believed he was effecting a rescue. Now it seemed the victim might not want rescuing.
‘Of course I want to leave.’ She wrenched the veil from her face and glared at him. ‘Only a fool would want to stay.’
‘Then you worry that your father might be stubborn and refuse? I am certain I can—’
‘If he refuses, then we leave him.’ She kept walking, swept past with the donkey trotting obediently behind.
‘Abandon your father?’ he asked her retreating back, the set shoulders and reed-straight spine. This woman was going to be a shark in the ornamental fishpond that was London society.
‘He abandoned Mama. He has abandoned me. She was simply an unpaid maidservant and so am I. I want him safe and looked after, but after that...’
It took Quin several loping strides to catch up with her. ‘Abandoned? But you are with him now.’
‘Abandoned emotionally, abandoned in his head. Family is just a nuisance, a tie, to him. Mama thought he loved her and eloped with him willingly.’ Cleo snapped out the explanation as though she slapped down cards on a gaming table. ‘He loved the dowry he counted on my grandfather handing over when the marriage was a fait accompli. But Mama’s father simply cut her off. By the time she realised that she had tied herself to a profoundly selfish man I was on the way.’
At least her grandfather wanted her, although Quin refused to contemplate whether it was from love, duty or simply family pride. He found he could think of nothing to say so he reached out and laid his arm over her shoulders. A hug might help...