Desert Song (DeWinter's Song 3) (9 page)

Mallory watched the sights in fascination. Her eyes followed a tall man wearing a black robe and white turban, who carried braided strands of garlic over his shoulder. His voice called out, hawking the prized spice that the Egyptian women used to season their food.

The streets were so crowded with humans and animals that they made slow progress, but Mallory didn't care— she relished each new sight and sound. She was feeling truly alive, enjoying a freedom that she had never experienced before. She was going to love Egypt, she was sure of it.

Chapter 10

Michael arrived at the British consulate and was immediately shown into a small, cluttered office. Behind an imposing desk was a life-size portrait of Queen Victoria.

Michael was greeted by a little man who kept taking out his watch and checking the time, and Michael concluded that this act was performed more out of nervousness than a need to know the correct time.

The man stared anxiously over the brim of his thick glasses. "I'm sorry, m'lord, but the consul is away from Cairo and I don't know when he'll be returning. He's gone to London."

Michael's eyes narrowed. "Then who might you be?"

"I'm the vice-consul, Thomas Abrams, at your service, m'lord.

"Can you help me?" Michael asked.

"If you mean about your father, I don't have any new information about him. But be assured that his lordship will take up the matter with the queen."

"It seems to me that my father's cause would have been better served if the consul had remained in Egypt instead of conferring with the queen in London."

"Well, as to that, I don't know," the man sputtered. "Perhaps I can be of help to you."

Michael leaned forward, placing an impatient hand on the polished desk. "Mr. Abrams, how can you possibly help me?"

"I've been left in charge of your father's case. However, I don't know what anyone can do to find him."

Michael gave him an imperious glare. "You are the third person I've seen today, and none of them could tell me anything about my father either." He stood, towering over the man. "I'll not deal with an underling—do I make myself understood? Unless you can provide me with the information I need, I'll find out on my own."

If the man took offense, he still spoke to Lord Michael with respect. "We found your father's servant, and buried him. But there was no clue as to your father's whereabouts. How can you find a man when it seems that the desert sand just swallowed him up?"

"Mr. Abrams, you must understand I will not leave until I know all there is to know about my father. Just what has this office done to locate him?"

"We've talked to the viceroy, Mehemet Ali, and he assures us everything is being done to locate your father. He's a good man and will do what he can to help."

"Well, if neither you nor the viceroy know where my father is, or who's responsible for his disappearance, then you're not doing enough."

"Now, see here, m'lord—"

"No, you see here, Mr. Abrams. I want some answers and I want them now. If you can't get them for me, as I told you, I'll find someone who can."

Abrams removed his glasses and anxiously wiped them with his handkerchief, feeling inadequate in dealing with the earl. Why had the consul chosen this time to leave the country? he wondered. "I'm sure if the consul were here, he could tell you no more than I have, m'lord. But you must understand that I have no authority to help you in a matter concerning Egyptian policy."

"Then I'll ask for an audience with the viceroy. Damn it, someone is going to give me the answers I seek, or I'll bring so much trouble down on your head, you'll never be able to free yourself."

Looking into angry green eyes, Abrams never doubted for a moment that Lord Michael would do just as he threatened. He searched his mind for a solution to the dilemma. Surely he would lose his position and be sent back to England in disgrace if he made a wrong decision. "I'll attempt to arrange an audience with Mehemet Ali, but it won't be easy. Come back this afternoon, and I'll know if he will see you. However, I doubt he'll be able to tell you more than I have."

The cart came to a halt in front of an imposing wall that looked more like a compound than a private residence. "This is your parents' house," Sergeant Wickett announced.

Mallory glanced at the high walls, feeling raw panic. She would soon be with her mother and father—would they welcome her or look on her as an encumbrance?

"Shall we come in with you, m'lady?" Mrs. Wickett offered.

"I'm sure you two have many things to do, while I must become reacquainted with my parents. I do hope to see you both very soon." She reached forward and hugged the woman who had been her companion. "Thank you for your pleasant company. You made an otherwise tedious voyage bearable."

Mrs. Wickett smiled with pleasure and then looked doubtful. "Are you sure you'll be all right if we leave? We could come in for just a moment."

Already the native driver was unloading Mallory's trunk under the guidance of Sergeant Wickett.

"Don't worry about me," she said, hoping she sounded more confident than she felt. She climbed down from the cart. "Good-bye, Mrs. Wickett."

Sergeant Wickett was giving instructions to the driver, who opened the gate and placed Mallory's trunk inside the compound.

"Take care of yourself, m'lady," Sergeant Wickett said. "My wife is most fond of you."

"Thank you for everything, Sergeant. I shan't forget either of you."

When she heard the cart move away, Mallory stood undecided inside the high compound walls. Down a curved pathway, she saw the residence. She took her courage in hand and moved toward the imposing front doors.

A servant wearing an immaculate white robe opened the door to Mallory. He spoke to her in English. "May I help you, Madame?" he inquired with a smile.

"I'm Lord Tyler's daughter. I believe my father and mother are expecting me."

The servant looked puzzled for a moment. "If his lordship and her ladyship were expecting you, they failed to inform me, my lady."

Mallory was tired, hot, and thirsty and she had no desire to stand at the door conversing with the man. "What's your name?" she asked pointedly.

He smiled broadly. "I am called Safwat, my lady."

"Well, Safwat, take me to my father at once."

He stood aside and allowed her to enter. "I am sorry, my lady, but his lordship and her ladyship are not at home. Further, my lady, they are not even in Cairo."

She stood in an arched hallway with mosaic walls, feeling no kinship with her new surroundings, and wanting to cry. "Where are they?"

"I only know they took ship down the Nile. They did not inform me of when they would be returning or where they were going." He cast her a sympathetic glance. "I am sure they would not have gone had they known you were arriving."

She glanced on the hall table and saw a stack of letters. Rifling through them, she found one from Cousin Phoebe unopened. This was not the welcome she'd envisioned. Her heart ached and she felt yet another rejection. But her mother and father had not known that she was coming when they left. That at least was a comfort.

"I am very weary," she told the servant. "Have you a room for me?"

He bowed respectfully. "I am most happy to meet his lordship's and her ladyship's honored daughter, and I will be most happy to serve you. My good wife will show you to your room, and I shall see to your belongings."

Mallory was shown to her quarters by Safwat's wife, Inna, who it turned out could speak no English. She was given a suite that was beautifully decorated in bright yellows. It was certain her parents did not suffer from lack of funds. She remembered how poor Cousin Phoebe had been forced to economize just to put food on the table, and felt betrayed.

As Inna unpacked her trunk, Mallory pushed open a latticework door that led onto a balcony. Here, in this hidden luxury, far from the bustle and noise of traffic, she settled into her new home with a heavy heart.

Later, in the cool of the evening, Mallory walked in the courtyard that was filled with tropical plants of brilliant colors. There were also orange trees and olive trees with exotic birds perched in the branches. One would never suspect from the other side of that wall that a paradise existed inside.

Mallory did not know that in the tall branches of a cypress tree, treacherous eyes carefully watched her every movement.

* * *

Michael stood before Mehemet Ali, meeting the insolent gaze of the Turkish viceroy of all Egypt.

"Lord Michael, I want no incident with your country, for we have only a fragile understanding between us," Mehemet said with a curl of his lip.

"Do not mistake me for a diplomat, Your Excellency. I only came to find my father, and I seek your help because I hoped you could tell me how best to proceed."

Mr. Abrams, who had accompanied Michael, started to speak, but the viceroy silenced him with the wave of his hand. "We have heard nothing new of your father's disappearance. It saddens us that he may have fallen prey to foul means in our country. But understand it is not our responsibility."

Michael gritted his teeth. "You must understand that I have to know, one way or the other, what happened to my father."

"Are you aware of your father's mission?"

"Not in detail. I know only that I won't leave without him."

Green, defiant eyes bore into brown, imperious eyes, and the brown eyes looked away first. Mehemet reached a jeweled hand into a bowl, selected a sugared date, and popped it into his mouth. "Your father knew he walked into danger when he chose to come here. He should not have gone into the desert without my protection." His eyes hardened even more. "Did your government send the son to complete the father's mission?"

Michael heard Abrams gasp, and knew the little man was having an attack of nerves. But Michael realized that the viceroy was playing a game of strategy and intimidation. "You are viceroy of all Egypt. Why would you need my help? I have not the power or the knowledge of my father," Michael stated with assurance. "And I don't have Her Majesty's ear."

"Your queen would like to see one of her choosing on the throne of Egypt."

Michael looked the man in the eyes. "If that were so, Your Excellency, you would already have been unseated."

Grudging respect glowed in the viceroy's eyes. "You are a bold one. I have heard it said that your queen is not entirely pleased with me because I don't grovel before her like many of my confederates."

"I do know Her Majesty cares little for kowtowing." Michael's eyes didn't flinch, because he knew they were still playing a game that he would lose if he showed any weakness. "But that is not why I'm here. I only care about my father. Make no mistake about it—I'll find him, Your Excellency. I would like to have your help, but I will find him on my own if I must."

The viceroy suddenly smiled. "I have little doubt, Lord Michael, that if your father can be found, you'll be the one to do it. But I tell you in all honesty, I know nothing about his disappearance. Please assure your queen that we are doing everything we can to find him."

Michael bowed and stepped back a pace, knowing the viceroy's flowery phrases were hollow promises. "As I said, Your Excellency, I'm not a diplomat. Send your own messages to Her Majesty. Perhaps you can convince her that you know nothing about my father's disappearance."

Without looking back, Michael turned on his heels and walked out of the chamber.

Abrams moved beside him with jerky little steps. "That man's insufferable," he muttered. "You played a dangerous game when you sparred with him."

"Yes," Michael answered, "but I found out what I wanted to know. He has no knowledge of my father's whereabouts. If he did, he would have told me."

"How can you know that?"

"For all his bragging and swaggering, he very much wants to remain an ally of Britain."

"He didn't appear to care about Her Majesty's patronage."

"What you heard was the crowing of a frightened man. He knows the seriousness of my father's disappearance. He wants my father found almost as much as I do."

On the carriage ride to the inn, Abrams studied Lord Michael. At first he'd thought of him as just another wealthy nobleman making demands and expecting everyone to obey his commands.

He now realized this man was highly intelligent, and determined to find his father. God help those who got in his way, Abrams thought with growing admiration for the young earl.

Chapter 11

Michael settled into the rooms his father had occupied while in Cairo. He had gone through his father's belongings several times, and nothing seemed disturbed. Nor was there anything to indicate where Raile had been going or with whom he was meeting when he went into the desert.

Michael searched his father's trunks and discovered he had taken very little with him when he left.

He paced the floor, feeling heartsick and discouraged. He was in a strange country where no one seemed to know or care what had happened to his father. For the first time, Michael was afraid that he might never find him.

He wouldn't allow himself to believe his father was dead—but where would he begin his search? There was no clue, nothing to follow, but someone had to have the answers. He would remain in Egypt until he found out what he wanted to know.

He hadn't slept in days, so he lay upon his father's bed and fell asleep without even removing his boots. His dreams were filled with images of his father that were suddenly replaced by the old Gypsy fortune-teller. Her words echoed over and over in a nightmare. Someone close to you is in grave danger.

He awoke suddenly in a cold sweat. Sitting up, he saw from the glow reflected through the window that it was after sundown. He'd been asleep for hours, but he didn't feel rested. Wearily, he stood and stretched his body. He would return to the consulate to see if there had been any new developments, although he expected none.

As Michael crossed the street and walked down a narrow alleyway, his thoughts were on his mother. If this waiting was difficult for him, then it was a hundred times more difficult for her.

There was a bright moon, but it didn't touch the corners of the alleyway, so he didn't see the man creeping along behind him, staying well out of view. He moved down an even darker alley that was deserted.

Ordinarily, Michael's senses would have been alert, but he was worried and preoccupied. When he heard a rush of footsteps, he glanced behind him, but he did not see the assailant who buried the knife in his back. He only felt searing pain as he fell to his knees.

It took all his strength to pull himself to his feet. He managed to stagger out of the alley and across the street to the British consulate. He pounded weakly on the door, and when no one answered, he realized that everyone had left for the day.

Michael began to feel dizzy, and he knew he was about to lose consciousness. He suddenly remembered Sergeant Wickett explaining to Lady Mallory where her parents lived. He prayed he'd have the strength to make it there before he lost consciousness.

* * *

It had been a week since Mallory had arrived at her parents' home. She had still received no word from them, so much of her days were spent in solitude, reading in the cool garden. Tonight she was restless and moved down the pathway toward the pond that shimmered in the moonlight. She was near the back of the garden when she heard a scratching noise.

Moving closer to the gate, she listened more intently. There it was again. Now she heard a groan, as if someone was in pain, and a whispered plea came out of the darkness.

"Let me in, I'm injured."

Without thinking, she threw the heavy bolt and the gate swung open. She saw the man crumpled on the ground and bent to touch him. Raising his face to the moonlight, she saw it was Lord Michael and he was apparently unconscious. Running her hand down his back, she felt something hot and sticky—it was blood!

"Lord Michael," she cried, "you're wounded."

Jumping to her feet, she raced down the path, calling Safwat. She had to get help at once.

Between the two of them, Mallory and Safwat managed to get Lord Michael to the cottage across the garden that was kept in readiness for visitors. After they got his unconscious body on the bed, laying him on his stomach because of his wound, Mallory sent Safwat for a doctor.

She stared at Lord Michael's pale face in the flickering candlelight, wishing she had the skills to help him. With his eyes closed, he was not so imposing; in fact, he looked vulnerable and almost boyish.

When the doctor finally arrived, he was a dirty little man, wearing a robe that must have once been white, but was so filthy it was hard to tell. When Mallory spoke to him, he shook his head, indicating he spoke no English. He quickly examined Lord Michael and told Safwat to ask the lady about the stab wound.

Mallory shook her head. "I know nothing about how it happened. Can the doctor help him?"

"He says so, my lady. We must first remove his clothing."

Mallory watched with horror as the doctor opened his medical case and displayed instruments that were dirty and rusted.

She quickly stepped between him and Lord Michael. "Safwat, tell him his services will not be needed—I want him to leave now!"

The servant looked confused. "But my lady, he is a comprehending doctor who can help your friend."

"Is there no English doctor in Cairo?"

"I know not of one, my lady."

She glanced at the doctor, who had a surly expression on his face. Her eyes dropped to his hands, and she saw dirt beneath the fingernails.

"Tell him I will treat the patient myself," Mallory said firmly. "Ask the doctor what I should do."

For a moment, the two men argued in Arabic, and the argument ended with the doctor stalking out and throwing heated words over his shoulder at the insolent Englishwoman.

Mallory ignored him. "Safwat, I want you to fetch the doctor who treats the English residents—where is my father's doctor?" she demanded.

The Egyptian was thoughtful for a moment. "The lord's doctor is military. The post is many hours from here."

Mallory was becoming desperate. "Can you and Inna help me?"

"I am not good with the sick, my lady. And it is not permissible for my wife to treat a man."

In horror, Mallory realized that only she could help Lord Michael. For a moment, she looked at him, feeling very inadequate. Gathering her strength, she set her chin determinedly.

The first thing she must do was stop the bleeding. "Bring boiled water and clean bandages—I'll want a sharp knife—hurry," she directed the servant.

Safwat immediately ran from the room to carry out her instructions. Meanwhile, Mallory rolled up her sleeves, feeling sick. She wasn't sure how to proceed, but anything she could do would be better than what the Egyptian doctor would have done with his filthy instruments.

Safwat returned a short time later with her father's medical bag. The servant watched as she nervously ripped Michael's shirt open with a knife.

Mallory shuddered at the sight of oozing blood. Carefully at first, she cleansed the wound. She could see that it was deep, and hoped it would not require stitches. She applied salve and bound him with a tight bandage. Not knowing what else to do, she sat beside his bed, changing the bandages as often as needed. Once she was satisfied that the bleeding had stopped, she pulled a sheet over his back and turned to Safwat, who had not left her side.

"There is nothing more I can do for him," she said wearily. "I only hope I did enough."

"All is in the hands of Allah," Safwat said earnestly. "Would my lady like me to sit with the wounded Inglizi?"

"No, get some sleep, Safwat," Mallory replied, brushing a tumbled curl off her forehead. "I'll remain with him throughout the night in case he needs anything." She would do all she could to keep him alive.

Michael awoke in a strange room, wondering why he was lying on his stomach. When he tried to move, pain ripped through him and his head fell back against the pillow. He licked his dry lips, trying to remember what had happened. He blinked his eyes and looked at the room— it was unfamiliar to him.

Turning his head, he saw that a woman sat near his bed, but his eyesight was bleary, and he could only make out her shape. Apparently she was asleep, for she did not speak to him.

Michael attempted to turn to his back, but the agony was too great. He groaned and closed his eyes until the pain subsided. What had happened to him? His head was spinning, and he felt as if his shoulder was on fire. Just before he closed his eyes and drifted off, he felt a cool hand on his brow and heard the woman speak soothingly to him.

Mallory watched Michael with concern. He was feverish, and that worried her more than the wound. She leaned back in the chair, her eyes sweeping his face. He was indeed a handsome man, but so complicated. Who had done this terrible thing to him? And why had he sought her help?

She reached out and touched his cheek, and he suddenly grabbed her hand, holding it in a tight grip. "Who are you?" he asked in a low voice.

"It's Lady Mallory," she said, clasping her hand around his. "You came to me, remember? You are in no danger here—you are safe."

"Lady Mallory. Yes, I must make it to her . . . only one I know in Cairo. So weak can't make it to . .."

He released her hand and relaxed against the pillow. She quickly applied a cold compress to his head, for he was still too hot. She must bathe him all over to cool his fever. She thought of asking Safwat to help, but quickly discounted that notion—the servant had not proven to be competent.

With a resigned sigh, she pulled the sheet away. At first she avoided looking at him, but she knew she would have to put her modesty aside if she was going to lower his fever.

She dipped the cloth into the cool water and bathed his face. She then carefully washed his back, taking care not to touch the bandage. She felt a strange sensation as her cloth slid over his naked skin. She had never realized men had so many muscles. She dampened the cloth and pressed it across his forehead.

When the task was completed, Mallory stepped back and looked at him, feeling an ache deep inside. He was so beautiful to look upon. For this moment, he seemed to belong to her.

Suddenly his eyes opened, and his usually lustrous green eyes held a glazed look. "Mother, I'll find him. . . . If I die trying, I'll bring Father back to you." He groaned and closed his eyes, but his tortured rambling continued. "It's dark, I can't see. No one to help me. Father . . . you aren't dead . . . you can't be. Someone came out of the shadows. Been hurt—can't die until I find you, Father. Must find . . . Lady Mallory before I die—she'll get word to Mother . . ."

Tears of pity rolled down Mallory's cheeks. Now she better understood why he'd come to Egypt. It had something to do with his father. She touched his cheek and spoke softly. "You will recover, my lord. You will yet find your father."

"I'm dead." Michael groaned. "I failed ... failed."

"No, you haven't failed. You will find your father. And I won't let you die."

Throughout the night, he would drift into a troubled sleep, only to awaken and desperately try to get out of bed. Because he was so weak Mallory managed to restrain him.

She bathed him twice more, and just before sunup, his fever broke and he fell into a peaceful sleep.

Exhausted, Mallory rested her head against the back of the chair and fell asleep herself.

No one in the compound heard the man slip over the high wall and drop into the garden below. He adjusted the patch over his blind eye and slunk across the garden, heading toward the only light. Silently, he flattened his body against the cottage, then moved forward to glance into the room. The Inglizi was supposed to be dead, but he was lying on a bed, being tended by the woman they had been watching.

He stared for a long moment at the woman, his eyes taking in her delicate beauty. Surely she belonged to the Inglizi. He had never before seen a woman with hair the color of a desert sunrise.

He considered entering the cottage and making certain that his quarry died. But he decided against it, because he would be forced to kill the woman as well.

If the Inglizi lived, he would have to emerge one day— and Ali Hitin would be waiting for him.