As You Desire (27 page)

Abruptly Harry reached up and shoved the book back in its place.

“Harry?” Duraid’s voice interrupted his black musings.

“Come in.”

Duraid entered, spotted the serving platter heaped with half-attended food, and grimaced. “Magi will be upset with you for not eating,” Duraid warned as he began stacking plates.

Harry forestalled him. “Has Lord Ravenscroft left yet?”

“I will look.” Duraid abandoned the luncheon dishes and went out into the hall.

Harry had to find some way to remain in the Carlisle house until he was certain Maurice was no longer a threat. Unfortunately, his bruises were fading. While he could count on Dizzy’s soft heart allowing him to stay, once Sir Robert returned he had little doubt he’d be expelled like yesterday’s bathwater.

“He is going.” Duraid closed the door behind him, immediately rousing Harry’s suspicions. Obviously Duraid had been
told
to close the door. By whom? Dizzy? And why?

“Open that blasted door, Duraid,” Harry snapped, and then, meeting the startled reproach in
the boy’s eye, “We need some air movement in here.”

“They are in the hall,” Duraid whispered.

“So what?”

“They were in the hall when I came to collect the lunch things fifteen minutes ago. Whenever he leaves, it takes a long time. Even though they spend all that time talking, they must say nothing because whenever he leaves he still stands, talking.” Duraid’s caramel-colored eyes widened with mystification.

“What do they talk about?” Any feelings of sheepishness he might feel at pumping the boy for information vanished with Duraid’s answer.

“England.”

“Damn it!”

The boy shrugged, looking doubtful.
“Sitt
desires.”

Abruptly the irritation that had held Harry’s desolation at bay drained away.
Dizzy desires
.

There had to be some way to make her see how much she meant to him. Some manner in which to combat the hypnotic lure of England and lantern-jawed aristocrats and fairy-tale castles …

“Duraid, I want you to go to my house and get something for me.” Motioning him near, Harry gave the boy instructions. He’d finished when Magi entered. Duraid passed her on his way out.

“It’s finished,” she said without preamble.

“When?”

“Early today the
shabtis
was secreted in this Maurice’s house. When he sees Maurice return, the man
who did this will inform the Turkish authorities. Maurice will be arrested at once. With such unassailable evidence of his theft, thefts from Sir Robert’s home itself, he will not be released for a very long time.”

“Good.” Harry nodded.

“This is a dangerous game you play, Harry.”

“The alternative is untenable. I won’t wait for Maurice to decide he’ll strike at me through Dizzy. Someday he would.” He heard Dizzy laugh, a rich sound of enjoyment. His lips answered with a smile even as his heart contracted painfully.

“You are a fool,” Magi said quietly.

“Seems to be the popular consensus.”

“I mean it, Harry Braxton. I never thought to say the like to you, who has always seemed a resourceful and level-headed young man, but I must. You are a fool.”

“Third time’s the charm.”

“Fool.”

“You know there’s a popular myth in England concerning modest, silent Eastern women—”

“This is not the time for your glibness. Do you want Desdemona to marry Lord Ravenscroft?”

“No.” The word rang out, harsh and clear, an answer from his heart, his very soul. “She won’t marry Blake.”

“She will,” Magi stated grimly, “because
he
has no fear. Unlike you.”

“I’m not afraid of—”

“—anything but that Desdemona will pity you, not love you.”

He looked away, unable to form a reply. Magi touched his arm, compelling him to meet her serious gaze.

“For years I have watched you mask your desire. She is drawn to you and you know this and you want this and you will not allow yourself to have it. You will not let her fall in love with you without telling her the truth about yourself, yet you cannot let her go.” Magi’s voice dropped.

“So you keep her like this, month after month, year after year … making her love you, making her distrust you … each day falling more in love with her yourself. Telling her to go away while you make her stay. Afraid of what she will do, what she will say, when she discovers the real Harry Braxton. Not a silly child’s hero, not this Prince of Jackals she likes to call you, but simply a man who cannot read.”

He heard his own heart’s beat, smelled the ancient dust of the surrounding artifacts, the must of antique leather, the perfume of decay. “How did you know?” he asked without surprise.

“All of Cairo knows, Harry,” Magi said softly.

He nodded. What did it matter? Cairo knew his secret and he’d still achieved success, wealth, some respect. He’d achieved everything … except Dizzy’s heart.

Magi opened her palms in exasperation, seeking an explanation. “I do not understand. Why don’t you tell her?”

“She wants to leave,” he said simply. “Every day she plots and plans and strategizes how she will
leave Egypt. Why tell her what I am? What purpose would it serve other than provoke her pity?”

Magi shook her head. “She should stay here.”

Should she?
Harry rubbed his hand across his eyes. He didn’t know how to untangle his desire for her to stay from his desire for her happiness. He didn’t even know where to begin.

“She deserves more than a crumbling Mameluke palace with a chorus of starving dogs singing her to sleep each night. She wants England.”

“England. Bah!” Magi said. “She has made herself homesick for a fantasy, because no one has offered her reality. I remember when Desdemona came to us. Though grieving for her parents, in this new country her dreams were fresh and sweet and newly possible. She even found a hero …who laughed at her.”

“If he hadn’t laughed, he’d have sobbed with wanting her.” He did not flinch from the condemnation in Magi’s eyes. In this, at least, he was certain. “She was too innocent. Too young;. And he … was too afraid.”

“Ah, yes. Fear again. Is it any wonder that Desdemona is enraptured of the dauntless, suffering viscount? Even his pain recommends him to her. How better to engage Desdemona’s soft heart than to need her? You, Harry, have never needed anyone. Or anything.”

God, what lies he’d enacted.

“Tomorrow is her birth date,” Magi continued. “Lord Ravenscroft will give her pretty things, useless things, things for her enjoyment. He is unique
among her acquaintance. Here, at last, is a man who does not care that she can read a dozen languages, decipher hieroglyphics, balance a ledger.” Her finger flew out, pointing at him in a scornful gesture. “He doesn’t care what she
does
. He does not want the scholar, he wants the pretty, adoring young girl used to making do with little. The perfect wife for an impoverished viscount. He wants—”

“
I
want her.” Harry broke in tersely. “Never doubt it.”

“Then tell her. Tell her the truth.”

Magi didn’t know what she was asking. He wasn’t the boy who’d damped untold pages with his tears of frustration, or the young man who’d arrived in Egypt certain his life would always be dictated by his inability to make sense of written words. He didn’t want to remember those incarnations. He wanted them dead.

“You call her a romantic and sneer at her fantasies but you only offer her more of the same.” Magi’s finger jabbed the air, punctuating each sentence. “You withhold and reveal as you see fit. It is not fair. It is cowardly. Anything less than the truth is just more make-believe. Desdemona needs a lover who is not a chimera, no matter whose creation, yours or her own.”

D
esdemona paused outside the door to the library and adjusted her bodice.

She hadn’t seen Harry all day. Yesterday after Blake had left, she’d gone to visit the invalid only to be met in the hall by Magi. Face like a thundercloud, Magi had grabbed her arm and spun her around, advising her to “leave that stupid man alone.” Desdemona had heeded the advice.

But now she wanted to see Harry’s expression when he saw her transformation from dowdy girl to exotic woman. Magi’s deft needlework had achieved wonders on her old champagne-colored dress. The petticoat had been refitted with new tiers of tallow-colored taffeta. The delicate muslin had been separated in front and draped back, exposing the gleaming ruffles. Magi had used the excess material in back to create a cascading train made brilliant with amber beading.

Magi had refashioned the bodice, too, patterning
more tiny amber beads on the muslin that crisscrossed low over Desdemona’s breasts. So much breast, thought Desdemona, staring down at a seemingly endless expanse of flesh beneath her collar bone.
Courage
, she thought.

She took a deep breath and pushed the door open. “The Turkish police just left,” she said.

“Did they?” Harry, sprawled indolently in the chair, did not look up from peeling an orange. A snifter of brandy stood on the windowsill. He must have sent Duraid to his house for it. The Carlisle budget didn’t provide for brandy.

Desdemona stepped fully into the room, adjusting the sweeping skirts. “They say that they found one of Grandfather’s own
shabtis
at this fellow Shappeis’s house. Perhaps that is why he captured you, Harry, to give himself time to rob us. He must be an amazingly cunning thief. I’m sure Grandfather wasn’t even aware anything was missing.”

“Fancy.” Harry popped a section of orange into his mouth, licking the juice from his lips. Lord, she thought irrelevantly, he had the most sensually fashioned mouth.

“The police were tipped off as to his criminal activities. Apparently he’s suspected in a number of crimes but they’ve never caught him red-handed before.” When
would
Harry look at her? Until he was giving her—and her appearance—his full attention, she refused to tell him the most interesting part of her story: that the fellow had escaped while being taken into custody.

“I can’t say I’m surprised. Maurice is—” He
glanced up and whatever he’d been about to say died on his lips. His gaze slued over her. “You’re going somewhere.”

“Why, yes.” She preened, fluffing out the layers of ruffle and lace like an exotic bird. “Blake is escorting me to a concert and then to dinner.”

Carefully Harry set the orange on the ground beside his chair and stood. He’d washed his hair. The late-afternoon sunlight glistened on his damp head. He moved closer, his face a careful study of pleasantness. No appreciation. Simply friendly interest.
Damn
.

“I see,” he said. “A birthday celebration, is it?”

This close she could smell the sharp, bay tang of his soap. “Lord Ravenscroft is very kind.”

“How is it a kindness to win an evening with a beautiful woman?” he asked gently.

She grinned at his teasing. He
did
like the dress. “Magi did it.”

“Magi did what?” he asked.

“Made the dress. Well, really remade the dress. Isn’t it lovely?” She twirled around.

“Exquisite.” He hadn’t moved a foot nearer, but with that single, low utterance she felt as if he’d suddenly surrounded her. Her heartbeat answered the odd, unnerving sensation by accelerating, her lips parted. He leaned forward and checked, drawing his head back and clearing his throat.

“Well,” he murmured, his eyes never leaving her face, “now would seem as good a time as any to offer my gift.”

“Gift?”

“Your birthday gift.” He crossed the room and picked up a parcel wrapped in plain brown paper tied with a string. He held it out, the gesture oddly uncertain. “Happy birthday, Desdemona.”

Eagerly she accepted and unwrapped the package. Inside lay a mirror that was—unless she knew nothing about antiquities and her grandfather’s tutelage had been wasted effort—three thousand years old. Square in shape, its rounded corners were studded with tiny, colored stones. The surface, though pitted and uneven, gleamed with a recent oiling.

A woman, a noble Egyptian lady, had once gazed into this mirror. Perhaps it had been a love token from her spouse or her lover.

Delighted, Desdemona looked into the shimmering depth. Her reflection wavered, dim and unrecognizable, over the ancient surface.

“Do you see yourself?” Harry asked.

“Not really.” She looked up and smiled. “Harry, it’s lovely.”

“Here,” he said. “You must see yourself.” His hands cupped her shoulders. They were warm and strong and for just an instant his touch seemed to linger. Then he turned her so that the sun caught the mirror’s surface. Her image appeared from the dark, oiled depths of the metal as if conjured with a spell, exotic and glowing. Behind her, she felt the heat Harry radiated, scented the unique, warm masculinity that was his own.

Instinctively she verged back against the protective shield of his body. Her reaction alarmed her and she dropped her head in confusion, pretending to
study the mirror more closely. She turned it over in her hand. The back was patterned with a lotus motif, little scratches between the stylized flowers marring the otherwise pristine surface.