Call of the Trumpet (5 page)

Following his master’s gaze, Ahmed watched the graceful ship, sails huffing, slowly enter the harbor. “This is the one we have come to meet? You are sure?”

“The
Sophia
is the only ship due in for the next three or four days. And this is the arrival date the young lady specified in her letter.”

“She will be surprised, I think, that you have come to meet her.”

“Perhaps.” Matthew pulled thoughtfully at his chin. “It’s lucky I had some horses to sell in Bayrut.” Though he probably would have come anyway, Matthew thought. The country was treacherous enough for a man traveling alone, much less a woman. Though he admired her spunk, her common sense left a great deal to be desired. More generously, he wondered if she was simply ignorant of the ways of the world. According to her letter, she had lived in her father’s home outside Paris since being brought there as an infant. Her father had been a wealthy man, and the girl had no doubt been sheltered. And spoiled. For the second time that day, Matthew had occasion to sigh.

What, after all, had he gotten himself into? A spoiled and naïve rich girl from Paris, come in search of her mother’s people and her foster father. Matthew shook his head.

But he could not deny her. In the first place, she had not given him time. By the time her letter had reached him, she was already on her way. Secondly, she was the daughter of his father’s great friend, Francois Villier. Matthew recalled the many times his father had spoken of Villier. It was Villier, in fact, who had inspired Andrew Blackmoore, for it was Villier’s horses his father had seen at the Paris exhibition. Villier who had planted the desert dreams in Andrew’s head. And if the elder Blackmoore’s tales of his exploits were true, Matthew mused further, Villier had been as much a man of the desert as his father himself. He had even wed a Rwalan, and it was their daughter who now awaited him aboard the
Sophia.
Matthew hoped she would not be too disappointed to learn that his father, to whom she had actually written the letter, had passed away some years before, and that his son now stood in his stead. Well, she had no choice. Neither did he.

At least, however, Badawin blood ran in her veins. Spoiled and wealthy she might be, but she was still a true child of the desert. Furthermore, he had to admit it took a great deal of courage, if not sense, to go from a château in France to a goat-hair tent in the desert. At the very least, this meeting might prove to be most interesting.

The
Sophia
had come to rest at last and lowered her massive anchor. Matthew turned to his servant. “It’ll be awhile before the captain organizes a boat to bring his passengers ashore. There’s no sense standing here and waiting when the best coffee in Bayrut is right around the corner.”

As they left the harbor behind, Matthew glanced over his shoulder at the gently rocking ship. Yes, the next few days were going to prove very interesting, indeed.

Cecile leaned against the rail and gazed out over the harbor. Small, single-sailed boats dotted the water. Ashore, the cluttered, sand-colored city climbed haphazardly into the foothills, building crowded upon building. The cry of a
muzzein
came faintly to her ears, and a shudder of excitement gripped her.

Bayrut. The end of one journey, the beginning of another. She was impatient to go ashore and continue on her way to Damascus. She uttered a quick, silent prayer that Andrew Blackmoore had received her letter and awaited her. Then would the true adventure begin.

A slight commotion disturbed Cecile’s contemplation of the future, and she turned her attention to its cause. Two disreputable looking sailors seemed to be haggling with a third man over the disposition of her single, modest trunk. In an instant the captain appeared.

“What’s the meaning of this?” he demanded.

The large, slack-lipped man backed off immediately, an ingratiating smile directed at his superior. “Beggin’ your pardon, cap’n. Rowdy an’ me was just tryin’ t’help Sam here get the lady’s things loaded on the short-boat. Then Rowdy an’ me, we’ll be glad t’take her ashore. Yes-sir, glad to.”

Captain Winterthorpe looked for a moment as if he might argue, then abruptly waved the man away. “All right, get on with it, Sam, never mind. Go below and see how you can help the Brownings.” He turned to Cecile. “Well, it seems the time has come to bid you
adieu,
Mademoiselle Villier. It has been a pleasure to have you aboard, and I apologize once again for …”

“Please don’t give it another thought, Captain Winterthorpe. I certainly haven’t,” Cecile replied, honestly. Not only had she long ago become inured to the narrow-minded behavior of people such as the Brownings, but the incident had actually strengthened her purpose and resolve. “I thank you for a very pleasant voyage,” she concluded.

The captain bowed slightly from the waist.
“Bonne chance,
my dear.”

Cecile acknowledged his good wishes with a smile, then turned to Jali. “Are you ready?”

“Indeed,
halaila
.”

Once in the smaller boat, Cecile looked back only once to see the captain gazing after her somewhat sadly. Then she turned her attention to the distant shore, her future. She was aware of nothing but the swiftly approaching city and the excited pounding of her heart. As they neared the dock, and became lost among the many small fishing boats headed home, the sudden hand over her mouth took her completely by surprise. A scream died in her throat as bright pain blossomed in her head, and she knew no more.

The nightmare was endless. He was at the bottom of a deep, dark hole and could not breathe. Pain gripped his head like a vice, and with each agonized moment he went without air, his skull seemed to balloon until he was sure it must explode. Then, just as he felt himself slipping deeper into the abyss where nothing at all, even pain, existed, light burst all around him, and Jali was able to fill his lungs with a great gasp of air.

An old man, bent and slow, guiding his boat toward the shore beyond the docks, was the first to see the man flailing in the water. Having lived a long life, and having seen much, he neither flinched nor wondered at the blood flowing freely from the drowning man’s head. He simply maneuvered his craft to the man’s side and pulled him aboard. He paid no attention to the man’s ravings about a girl, two sailors, and a kidnapping. He continued toward shore, gesturing for the injured stranger to get out when the tiny craft had run up on the beach.

Nearly sobbing with frustration, Jali leapt from the boat, then stood and looked about him helplessly. Only once before had he been in Bayrut, many, many years ago, and even then he had barely glimpsed the city. Shortly after entering Bayrut, he had at once boarded a ship with his heartbroken master, who had wanted nothing more than to leave the harsh soil of the country that had taken the life of his young and adored wife. Was it the final irony that this cursed land would take Villier’s daughter, as well, before she had even had a chance to live?

Mounting rage and despair drove away all awareness of pain. Blood streaming still from the gash behind his left temple, Jali moved from the beach toward the crowded dock. He had no idea what to do, where to turn for help. He only knew he must find some way to aid his mistress. As urgency built within him, Jali started to run, and as he ran, he shouted, begging someone, anyone, to hear him and help.

Ahmed was the first to notice the gathering crowd as he and his master strode back to the docks. He lightly touched Matthew’s arm and nodded in the direction of the growing commotion. “Over there,
ya ammi.
Shall I see what causes this disturbance?”

“Go ahead. I’ll walk out on the dock.” Matthew made his way along the quay, eyes fixed on the ship resting at anchor, alert for signs of a boat putting off from her gleaming wood-planked sides. Seconds later, he felt Ahmed’s hand on his arm once more, this time with a sense of urgency.

“There is a problem,
ya ammi,
which I think concerns you.”

“Take care of it for me, Ahmed. I don’t want to miss the young lady.”

“But I fear you already have, master.”

Matthew’s dark brows drew together over his eyes. He looked from his servant over to the small crowd, now reluctantly dispersing. As the onlookers moved aside, a small, dark man was revealed, blood from a head wound drying on his cheek. His clothes were wringing wet, and there was a look of terrible desperation in his sad brown eyes. Matthew glanced back at Ahmed.

“It is the young lady’s servant,
ya ammi,”
the ebony-skinned giant continued. “The sailors who were bringing them ashore set upon them. The man was injured, as you see, although he was no doubt intended to die. The girl … the girl and the sailors … are gone.”

Matthew and his servant exchanged glances. There was no need for words. Both knew only too well what had undoubtedly transpired. Matthew took a deep breath.

“I was afraid of something like this.” He sighed. “It’s the real reason I came to Bayrut, Ahmed. You could very well have delivered those horses to Adeeb yourself. I just didn’t think anything would happen … so quickly.” Matthew scrubbed at the stubble on his chin and raised his eyes to the small, bedraggled man who now slowly approached.

“This is going to be a hard one, Ahmed. But we’re going to have to try.”

Jali had come close enough to catch Matthew’s final words. He pressed his palms together, raised them to his forehead, and briefly closed his eyes. “Allah bless you, master.”

“Allah bless your mistress,” Matthew muttered. “She’s going to need it. Now come along, hurry.” He put his long-legged stride into motion, speaking over his shoulder as he went. “And don’t call me ‘master.’ My name’s Blackmoore. Can you ride?”

Jali halted, momentarily stunned. Could it be? Had he actually found the man intended to meet and aid them? The only one who might truly have a chance of finding and rescuing his mistress?

Neither the Englishman nor his servant paid Jali any heed, and he hurried to catch up with them. “Y-yes, I can ride,” he stuttered at last.

“Good. Ahmed, get the horses and hire or buy one more, I don’t care which. We’ll meet you by the marketplace.” Matthew stopped and turned finally to Jali. “We ride to Damascus tonight. I’ve got a hunch. Do you think you can make it?”

Jali nodded, setting his head to throbbing. He ignored the pain. “Thank you,” he said simply.

“Thank me when … if … we find your mistress.”

Jali once more briefly closed his eyes and sent his prayers to his god. “We will find her, master,” he murmured. “We will find her. Allah is with us. He has shown me the sign.”

Matthew smiled grimly and bit back his reply. If he was correct about what might have become of the little man’s mistress, they would certainly need Allah with them. Every step of the way. “Come. Time grows short.”

C
ECILE AWOKE ABRUPTLY BUT DID NOT MOVE
. Her head throbbed miserably, and almost every inch of her body ached, even her ears, from which diamond studs had been torn. Suddenly fearful, she groped inside her bodice for the velvet pouch that had once contained the now-lost earrings, but that now held the precious Arabic will, proof of her heritage and insurance for her future. It was still there. With a sigh, Cecile turned her head slowly and glanced about the room, her prison.