Daughter of the God-King (24 page)

After conferring with the British soldiers, Drummond’s associate approached Hattie and quietly drew her aside. “I’m afraid I must depart straightaway and I insist that you accompany me, madam—I have learned to my dismay that you cannot be trusted to do as you are asked.”

“Unfair,” Hattie pointed out. “It all depends upon who is doing the trusting.”

She could see he was amused, despite himself, and his gaze rested on her cheek, which should sport quite a bruise by now. “I am sorry you were injured—du Pays will answer for it, believe me.”

Prudently, Hattie made no rejoinder, thinking here was another man who had best be careful lest he incite Dimitry’s hair-trigger jealousy.

Hard on this thought, Dimitry himself joined them, shaking his head in chagrin. “I cannot find
le
baron
—perhaps it would be best if the young lady was safely delivered to the British consul’s office; in this way she would remain under your safekeeping and none need know of your role.”

But the associate disagreed as he looked toward the valley’s entrance where the British reinforcements would soon appear. “I’m afraid I cannot allow such a course—she may reveal too much and my mission would be compromised.”

“I am not going to compromise your tedious mission,” Hattie retorted, thinking she should work toward whatever Dimitry’s end was. “I ask only to be left unassaulted for a space of ten minutes at a time.”

The associate gently took Hattie’s arm and guided her further away from the others. He motioned to Dimitry. “My horse, please—quietly.”

Uneasy, Hattie waited for instruction from Dimitry but he was fetching the associate’s horse without demur. Should she protest? Surely she should not simply allow the enemy to spirit her away. Hattie pulled her elbow from his hand, “I will go nowhere with you—I demand to be returned to the
Priapus
immediately.”

The associate placed a propelling hand at her back, polite but firm as they melted away in the darkness, Dimitry following with the horse. “I must disappoint you, I’m afraid, but I can assure you there will be no more ill treatment—there is a transport ship leaving tomorrow and you will be very comfortable.”

Wishing she had some direction from her exasperating better half, Hattie asked him coldly, “Leaving? Leaving for where?”

“The Cote d’Azur.”

Although Hattie was unfamiliar with this destination, it sounded dauntingly French. “I am going nowhere without my husband,” she declared, hoping said husband would feel free to contribute at any time.

As the associate watched Dimitry tighten his horse’s cinch, he addressed her in a serious tone. “I am afraid I have grave doubts about your new husband, and until I can make some inquiries it would be for the best if you are away from the area, as was requested.” He placed a faint emphasis on the last words.

Hattie responded with equal impatience. “You must see that I have no reason to trust you more than I trust my husband.”

Taking the proffered reins from Dimitry, he attempted to assure her. “I give you my word you shall come to no harm, madam—but I cannot allow you to remain here. I would rather not bind you to the saddle, but I shall take whatever measures are necessary.”

As he gestured to her, Hattie glanced to Dimitry and saw him shake his head slightly.

Responding to the instruction, she backed away from the associate. “You do not dare lay hands upon me.”

“With all due respect, I must.” With some determination he advanced on her.

Holding him at bay with the sword, she pulled Bing’s pistol from her pocket and leveled it at him. “Stand back.”

The associate paused in surprise, then changed tack, his manner now conciliatory as he spoke in a gentle tone. “Be reasonable, madam—I sincerely believe your so-called husband is duping you for his own purposes; you will soon see.”

Hattie did not falter. “You will come no closer.”

The man spread his hands in a disarming gesture. “Come—I will prove to you that no true marriage took place.”

“You would not succeed,” said Dimitry.

The associate paused for a long moment, then turned to face Dimitry, and the two men took the measure of each other. Then with a lightning-quick movement the associate pulled a knife from his belt, but Dimitry was faster and leapt to grasp the other’s arm with both hands, staying the descent of the knife. The associate’s free hand clutched at Dimitry’s, the scar plainly visible, and the two strained for an advantage, their hands locked together.

“Step back,” Dimitry said softly, and Hattie realized he was speaking to her. She obeyed, but continued to hold the sword and the pistol before her. If things did not look well for Dimitry she would shoot, needed information or not.

Such a strategy was unnecessary, however. The associate’s arm began to tremble with exertion and then the knife fell from his hand and clattered to the ground where Dimitry kicked it aside. The two men broke apart and squared off, circling, but with no hurried or overt movements. It was a strange and subdued form of fighting, as though each knew what the other would do and so all inefficient movements were not even attempted. Occasionally, one or the other would make a quick strike that was always parried by his adversary, their actions quick and deft. Soon it became apparent that the associate was on the defensive, his face wet with perspiration and his jaw set in an attitude of endurance—on an elemental level Hattie knew Dimitry was enjoying this demonstration of his mastery over the other man while she watched.

Finally, with a quick movement Dimitry successfully closed on his adversary and the two grappled until Dimitry secured his throat in the crook of his arm, squeezing while the associate gasped for breath and his face empurpled. After a few seconds he dropped to the ground, unconscious.

Her husband roughly turned the man over and pulled his arms behind his back. “I will need your sash.”

“You should be better prepared,” she chided. “I am running out of ribbon.”

“If you had more ribbon I would use it to bind you to me,” was the mild reply as he quickly secured the man’s hands.

“I am sorry, Dimitry—I couldn’t stay there, truly.”

He was philosophical as he gagged the man with a length of linen torn from his
gallibaya
. “It is of no moment—you did well to have us out before the soldiers come.”

“Will you kill him?”

He glanced up at her, amused. “Perhaps not; we shall see.” He said a quiet word in his own language and his cohort from the tomb materialized at his side. Hattie realized her heroics with the weapons had been unnecessary—nothing had been left to chance. After hearing an instruction the man nodded, then hoisted the associate over his sturdy shoulder to disappear into the darkness.

Dimitry placed a gentle hand under her chin to examine her cut lip. “Are you all right?”

“A few cuts and bruises,” she admitted. “I will recover.”

“Come with me and we shall recover together.” He took the sword from her and slid it through his corded belt, then turned to fetch the horse.

“Truly? I can come with you?” This seemed too good to be true.

Lifting her at the waist, he placed her atop a large rock. “Quickly, now.” He mounted the horse and held out his hand to her so that she stepped onto his stirruped foot and was launched up behind him, her petticoats bunched up so that her lower legs were exposed. She clutched at his waist while he wheeled the animal around and urged it forward, kicking it into a gallop so that the gravel flew and Hattie held on for dear life. “Where do we go?” she gasped in his ear.

“Hold on,” was his only response.

Hoping he could see the road well enough in the moonlight, she decided she’d rather not watch and instead closed her eyes, clinging to him with her cheek pressed against his back. She gauged that they headed toward the entrance to the valley at what seemed to be an impressive clip for a few breathless minutes. Then he placed a hand over both of hers at his waist to hold her secure as the horse suddenly bounded up a hill on the side of the road near the entrance. Gritting her teeth so that she didn’t cry out in alarm, Hattie hung on until the lunging animal reached the crest and then—finally—their headlong dash appeared to be stayed for a moment. The horse’s sides heaved as it caught its breath, and Hattie peered out from behind Dimitry to view the desolate valley stretching out below them. With his gaze fixed upon the narrow entrance, he absently picked up one of her hands to kiss it.

Into the silence Hattie said, “Bing knew—she knew all along.”

He was unsurprised. “Her brother was no fool; I imagine he told her.” His hand caressed hers at his waist. “It did not matter to her, Hattie. Do you see?”

“No, it did not matter,” she agreed with her newfound confidence. “But it makes me wince, nevertheless—it is too new a wound, I suppose.”

“A wound that will heal,
dorogoy
.”

She sighed. “Do you truly think so? I have my doubts—such a secret is bound to come out—there will never be an end to it.”

He tilted his head, his gaze upon the road. “Then you must mount a defense; when anyone hints at it, you must arch those brows of yours and pretend to be flattered and amused by such a report. You must neither deny nor confirm.”

She thought about it. “I suppose it is my only choice, other than to drum my heels and howl.”

“If any offers you insult, I will introduce them to my blade,” he promised.

She was all admiration, thinking of the slain man in the tomb. “You are indeed handy with your blade.”

“
Bestard
; no one shall threaten you and live.” One of his hands moved to clasp her hand at his waist again.

Smiling, she brushed her cheek against his back, pleased to have inspired such devotion, however bloodthirsty—and equally pleased that he had reverted to his own accent, which she viewed as a high compliment. “I made use of the wretched sword, did you see?”

“I did. I will remove a gold ferrule from the grip so that your wedding ring can be fashioned from it.”

“An interesting conceit,” she acknowledged with amusement.

“It is only fitting—I am wed to the daughter of the god-king.”

She laughed so that he had to warn her to hush as he maintained his vigil. I will come about, she thought as she squeezed him in affection; now that I’ve remembered who I am.

Hattie knew when Dimitry spotted the approaching British troops by the sudden tension in his torso, and tried to hide her apprehension. “Is there to be more racing?”

“Hold on very tightly,” he instructed. “You have done well.”

She realized he was waiting until they were spotted, outlined at the top of the hill in the moonlight; apparently he meant to lead the soldiers away from wherever the associate was being transferred. “Robbie will be frantic,” she pointed out with some concern. “He will not realize it is only you.”

“That is to be hoped,” he replied, unsympathetic.

“Dimitry,” she gently rebuked him, “I cannot do this to him.”

“It cannot be helped.” He gathered up the reins. “Too much is at stake.”

“Surely Robbie can be trusted with the truth?”

Briefly, he laid a hand on hers at his waist. “He comes with Drummond—and the others. How can one be told without the other? I cannot chance another situation where a weapon is held to you.”

Reluctantly, she saw his point; she was indeed a powerful bargaining chip—and for either side in this battle behind the scenes. “And you are not certain of Drummond?”

“I do not believe he is aware of the truth,” he conceded. “But I will not take that chance.”

Subsiding, she waited in tense silence. A party of perhaps fifteen mounted men filed into the valley, then made haste toward the tomb. They were almost past them when a rider pulled up his mount in surprise, and Hattie fancied she could recognize Robbie. A faint shout, “Hattie?” confirmed her surmise, but Dimitry had already wheeled around, urging his horse down the other side of the rocky hill. Burying her face in his back, Hattie concentrated on hanging on while the horse slid in a mad scramble down the slope, its haunches tucked beneath it and stones skittering away to either side. Once away, they rode in a straight line to another cliff, and Hattie realized there was a tomb entrance at the base, sloping downward into the recesses of the hill. Almost before they were stopped, Dimitry wrapped an arm around her and swung her down just before he leapt off.

“Stay quiet, please,” he warned in a low voice, and led her quickly into the entry. The horse balked for a moment, its ears forward and its eyes wide at having to confront the narrow, dark tunnel, but Dimitry spoke to it in his language and tugged on the bridle until suddenly the resistance was gone. They stood packed together in the tunnel, waiting—the scent of overheated horse mingling with the now-familiar musty scent of the ancient tomb. In a few minutes their pursuers could be heard over the sound of the horse’s breathing, the rocks and gravel clattering as they rode in haste up the valley floor.

“Quickly, now,” said Dimitry, and led her outside to mount up again. This time he circled around the base of the hill, heading toward the valley’s entrance. Despite the darkness and the uneven ground, only once did Hattie fear they would go down—but the horse regained its footing and they continued on. They slowed once the cliffs rose up on either side, signaling their proximity to the cleft in the rocks that provided entry to the Valley of the Kings. Dimitry shifted in the saddle and whispered, “They will have left a guard, as there is only the one way out. I will indicate you are injured—you must say nothing and stay at a distance.”

She nodded, and he dismounted and led the horse a few hundred yards toward the entrance. As he had predicted, a single mounted guard watched their approach, his pistol trained on Dimitry. “Halt,” the man called. “Come no closer.”

In response, Dimitry raised his arms to show he held no weapon, then jerked his head toward Hattie and spoke at length in Arabic.

“Are you injured, miss?” the man called out. “I cannot understand what this fellow is saying.”

Mentally apologizing for the deception, Hattie only bowed her head. Dimitry continued to speak volubly in Arabic, and the soldier sheathed his pistol and held up a palm to him, indicating quiet. “All right, all right—let me see.” He kicked his horse toward Hattie, but as he passed Dimitry he was suddenly seized by his right hand and pulled off the horse with a quick movement. After a brief scuffle, the soldier found himself looking into the barrel of his own pistol while Dimitry instructed him to raise his hands. Dimitry then backed toward the soldier’s horse and removed its bridle, slinging it over his shoulder as he came back to mount up before Hattie.

The soldier watched him from the ground, his hands raised, and Hattie could see him calculating his opportunity to make a rush to save her. As she could not allow him to be injured in such an endeavor, she said calmly, “Pray do not be concerned. I am in no danger.”

His face lifted to hers in surprise, the soldier replied, “Very well, miss.”

Watching behind her, Hattie could see him continue to stare after them as they slipped through the opening, then she faced forward again as Dimitry once again urged the horse into a gallop.

After a few minutes of hard riding, they left the main road and headed toward the river, their pace slowing in keeping with the terrain that was getting softer as they came closer to the Nile. Finally, in a field of melons, Dimitry allowed the horse to walk for a bit and Hattie found herself taking a deep breath, relieved the mad flight appeared to be over.

“We will get off and walk, now.”

“I have lost a shoe,” Hattie confessed.

He chuckled. “No matter, I will carry you so we leave but one set of footprints. Don’t lose the other one—we must leave no clues.”

Once he dismounted, she slid off the horse and onto his back, wrapping her legs around his waist. She had been carried many a time in such a manner by Robbie, but deemed it prudent not to give voice to this bit of nostalgia. Dimitry placed a hand on the horse’s nose in an appreciative gesture, spoke to it for a moment in his own language, then slapped it on its way.

“A good soldier,” she commented, watching it trot away into the fields.

“Two good soldiers,” he said, hoisting her up higher on his back. “I love you.”

She kissed his neck as a reward for this sentiment—up to this point he had been all business.

“I wish your dress was not white.”

“I beg your pardon,” she said, kissing his ear. “I should have worn something more appropriate for an abduction.”

He tilted his head as they trudged along because he liked what she was doing to his ear. “I would give you my tunic to wear, but then I would have naught but a white shirt.”

“No matter,” she said generously. “What is it we fear, searchers?”

“There will be searchers,” he said with certainty.

This was of interest, and no doubt he referred to the murderous Monsieur Chauvelin and the other French soldiers—the ones who had stared at her because they knew. Of course they would search; both she and the associate were now missing under inexplicable circumstances, and no one would look forward to making such a report to the prisoner.

After a few more minutes they came to the water’s edge, and Dimitry began to walk in the shallow water, splashing occasionally when the step was unexpectedly deep. This continued for several hundred yards, until they came across a dirt embankment with several fishing boats hauled onshore.

Making a sound of satisfaction, Dimitry instructed her to slide off onto the floorboards of one such vessel, then he procured a pole and pushed her out into the river shallows. Leaping into the narrow wooden boat, he then began to pole the vessel along the shore. In a quiet tone he directed, “You must lie on the floor and not speak; the sound will travel across the water.”

Hattie obligingly curled up on the floorboard of the boat while Dimitry silently maneuvered the small vessel through the bulrushes. She watched that portion of the shoreline she could see from her position and after a short period of time, imagined she could hear horses and voices in the distance, although she had no point of reference and could not guess where they were. Silently, Dimity maneuvered the boat so that they were well hidden among the bulrushes that grew thick along the shoreline. Crouching down to his hands and knees, he then lay atop her, covering her white dress with his dark-clad body. As though nothing unusual were happening, he said in a low voice, “We shall wait a bit, now.”

She nodded, trying to match his calm manner, and they lay thus for some tense minutes. Straining, she could hear nothing but the river insects. To calm her, he kissed the side of her face, whispering in her ear, “I am sorry I put you in the sarcophagus.” He wound his arms around hers and interlaced their fingers, laying his cheek to her face as he rested the length of his long body over hers.

She whispered in return, “Then we are all even; I am sorry I disrupted your plan.” As the water lapped on the hull beneath her head, she smiled, thinking the situation very satisfactory despite the perilous events of the day. It felt as though they were alone in the world with the thick, close darkness enveloping the small boat. “I do admire your beard,” she whispered. “You are handsome and rather sinister, which is appealing in its own way.”

“You didn’t know me.” He said it in a mock-accusatory manner.

“No—I’m afraid I was too busy dodging blows from the wicked baron.”

“
Mudak
,” he said succinctly, and she decided it was best not to seek a translation for that particular word. Instead, she whispered, “Is ‘
Sokol’
our family name?”

“No.”

“What does it mean?”

He thought about the translation. “Falcon.”

“What is our family name? Can you say?”

There was the slightest pause. “Khilkov, but you must not tell anyone; not as yet.”

She repeated it, trying to become familiar with the unfamiliar pronunciation. “Is it Russian?”

“Yes.” He kissed her again.

She smiled, feeling the whiskers of his false beard against her face. “It is a good name, Dimitry—and I must admit to relief; I would not have made a very good countess.”

He made no response, and into the silence she sighed. “Best tell me the whole, husband.”

She could feel his breath against her ear. “You are indeed a countess, and the House of Khilkov is fortunate to add your bloodstock to theirs.” The words were firmly said, and his fingers tightened around hers. “I will hear no more of it.”

“Yes, my lord,” she teased, her tone light. There was no longer any point to being missish about her birth; she may already carry the heir to the House of Khilkov—may as well get on with it. Thinking of such things, she giggled. “Is that the mighty Glory of Kings I feel?”

Laughing softly, he pressed his hips suggestively against her. “I cannot help myself, Hattie—you feel so good against me.”

“Well, I cannot be any more bedraggled than I already am,” she said in an invitation, moving his hands to her breasts.

“Quiet; we cannot give our position away,” he warned, but he was already turning her over beneath him and hiking up her skirts with an impatience that belied his caution.

Twining her arms around his neck, she kissed the hollow of his throat, below the beard. “I will be as silent as the stupid sarcophagus.”

“I am sorry to have done it to you,” he said again as his mouth trailed along her throat and he pulled at the drawstring on his trousers. “But it seemed the best course.”

“I lasted for all of five minutes—which was a major accomplishment, I think.”

“This may not last much longer,” he admitted, his voice husky in her neck.

And so her husband made quiet and efficient love to Hattie in the bottom of a wooden fishing boat while the crickets resonated and the eternal stars of Egypt burned overhead. It is truly not such a terrible place, she thought, arching against him and biting her lip to keep from crying out; one need only meet the right people.